My last paid gig was at the Kimpton Brice in Savannah, GA, a boutique hotel with a kitchen that had more heart than haute cuisine. Walking in, I found a crew that wasn’t exactly Michelin-star ready, but they had spirit. My job? Turn up the food and service quality without burning the place to the ground, a balancing act somewhere between Gordon Ramsay and Mr. Rogers.

Now, I’ve got a personal rule when taking over a new kitchen: no changes until I’ve figured out what’s what. It’s like the French and their frogs (ugh the French) you know that old thing. If you toss a frog into boiling water, it jumps right out. But if you heat the water slowly, the frog doesn’t notice until it’s too late. People are the same. Ease them into the heat, and before they realize it, they’re thriving.

While observing, one guy stood out. He was technically the Sous Chef; management gave him the title but not the respect. They told him more than once he wasn’t a “real chef,” despite him running the place every time leadership pulled a disappearing act. He had talent, passion, and grit. What he didn’t have was someone to believe in him.

So, I pulled him aside and laid it out straight: “I’m giving you five years. In five years, you’ll either be a head chef somewhere, maybe even taking my job, or I’m firing you. You’ve got what it takes, and you need to use it. We’re going to sharpen that talent.”

I handed him the night crew. Their wins were his. Their failures? His too. Sink or swim. I pulled him into every new dish, every menu change. Every time I plated something, I’d hand it to him and ask, “Alright, how do we make this better?” By the time we were done, the menu didn’t just boost guest satisfaction, it got me published. But more importantly, it built him into a leader.

When I left the restaurant to pursue the ministry, I turned down a very large salary at a brand-new hotel. When I informed them, I would not be taking the job, I asked the management to give him a chance to interview. They did, and they loved him. The guy they said wasn’t a “real chef” is now running the place. Watching him thrive was better than any paycheck.

It wasn’t just about giving him a job. It was about giving him dignity. It was hospitality, the kind Boaz showed Ruth.

Picture this; Ruth wasn’t just poor… she was desperately poor. A foreign widow with no status and no security. In ancient Israel, widows were among the most vulnerable. Women couldn’t own property or work most jobs, and Ruth wasn’t even an Israelite, she was a Moabite, from a people that Israel wasn’t too fond of.

But Ruth stuck by her mother-in-law, Naomi, after both their husbands died. She could’ve gone home and started over with her own people, but she didn’t. She loved Naomi, and she loved Naomi’s God.

So, Ruth found herself gleaning, this was when the poor would pick up the scraps after the harvesters finished. This wasn’t an easy gig. It was backbreaking, humiliating work. But it was legal. God had commanded farmers to leave the edges of their fields for the poor, widows, and foreigners. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

That’s when Boaz entered the picture.

Boaz was a wealthy, respected landowner. He didn’t owe Ruth a thing. But the moment he saw her, he noticed something different. Maybe it was her work ethic. Maybe it was the quiet strength she carried. Either way, he didn’t see a poor foreign widow, he saw a woman worthy of kindness and protection.

Boaz didn’t just let Ruth glean in his field; he made sure she was safe. He told his workers, “Don’t touch her. Don’t mess with her.” In a world where women like Ruth were easy targets, this was huge. Boaz used his influence to shield her.

But he didn’t stop there. He invited Ruth to drink from the same water jars as his workers, an unheard-of privilege for a foreigner. Then he told his workers to leave extra grain behind for her. He didn’t just help her survive, he set her up to thrive.

Let’s break that down:

Protection: Boaz ensured Ruth wasn’t harassed or harmed.

Provision: He gave her access to more than what was legally required, water and extra grain.

Personal Invitation: He didn’t just tolerate her presence, he invited her to share in his workers’ provisions, treating her like one of his own.

This wasn’t charity. This was dignity.

Boaz wasn’t following the law, he was following his heart, showing a level of compassion that went beyond duty. He treated Ruth not as a burden, but as a person worthy of respect.

How Do We Apply This Today?

Let’s face it, we live in a world that’s quick to slap labels on people. Too old. Too young. Too inexperienced. Not talented enough. People get stuck in boxes, and those boxes get taped shut.

Boaz reminds us to look closer.

Who in your life needs a little extra grain left behind?

Maybe it’s the new hire at work who’s drowning but too scared to ask for help. Maybe it’s the single mom juggling two jobs who hasn’t had a hot meal in weeks. Maybe it’s that quiet neighbor who never talks to anyone but lights up when you say hello.

Hospitality isn’t just about inviting someone to dinner. It’s about inviting them into your life.

It’s about saying, “Hey, you matter. I see you.”

It’s leaving a little extra grain behind, even if it means more work for you.

And if you’re the one who feels like Ruth, stuck in a field, scraping by, wondering if anyone notices? Remember this: Boaz didn’t show up by accident. God placed him there, right when Ruth needed him most.

God sees you too. And maybe, just maybe, He’s preparing a Boaz to cross your path, or calling you to be a Boaz for someone else.

At the end of the day, hospitality isn’t about food, comfort, or even generosity, those are just the surface-level expressions. True hospitality is about recognizing the worth in someone else, especially when the world doesn’t. It’s about seeing beyond the labels, the circumstances, and the assumptions to the human being underneath; someone who carries hopes, pain, potential, and a soul that matters deeply to God.

Boaz didn’t have to help Ruth. He wasn’t obligated to offer her protection, provision, or kindness. But he did…not because of what she could offer him, but because he saw her for who she was: a person worthy of dignity. He didn’t just give her a handout. He gave her a chance to reclaim her life.

That’s the heart of godly hospitality. It’s not about throwing open our doors, it’s about opening our hearts. It’s about saying, “You belong here. You matter.”

In the same way, that young sous chef at the Kimpton Brice didn’t need another boss barking orders at him. He needed someone to see his worth, to believe in him, to invest in him, to give him the space to grow into who he was meant to be. And when he was given that chance, he didn’t just rise to the occasion, he soared.

The truth is, we all have the power to be a Boaz for someone. To create a space where they feel safe, seen, and supported. Whether it’s in a kitchen, a workplace, a church, or around our dinner table, we can choose to leave extra grain behind; a little more patience, a little more encouragement, a little more love, so someone else can stand a little taller.

Because hospitality isn’t just about filling stomachs. It’s about filling hearts. It’s about restoring dignity to those who feel invisible. It’s about showing the kind of radical, unexpected, undeserved kindness that points people to the heart of God; the same way Boaz pointed Ruth toward a future she never could have imagined.

So, as you go about your life, in your home, your workplace, your community, ask yourself: Who’s in my field?

Who’s been overlooked, dismissed, or undervalued?

What extra grain can I leave behind to make their life a little lighter and their world a little brighter?

Because when we extend that kind of hospitality …the Boaz kind; we’re not just changing someone else’s life. We’re reflecting the very heart of Christ, who welcomed us in when we were outsiders, too.

And that, my friends, is what true hospitality looks like.

So… who’s in your field today? And what extra grain can you leave behind?

Stay Salty.