by Mesu Andrews
The physician reached for Gomer’s arm. Hosea hugged her close and shoved the man away. “You’ll not touch her again.”
“The wound needs dressed,” he said, motioning to the bandages in his hand. “I must pack it with herbs to stop the bleeding.”
Hosea nodded permission and laid Gomer back on the mat. While the physician worked, Hosea leaned over her and whispered, “When we were children, I let you lead in our adventures, and we often found ourselves in trouble for it.” He smiled, hoping her spirit would lighten with the memory. When she didn’t respond, he leaned closer. “This time I can’t let you lead, Gomer. I must obey Yahweh, and you must obey me.” He saw a spark in her eye—a little rebellion that told him the fiery Gomer he once knew still lived behind those beautiful hazel eyes. “I command you to live, Gomer, and I plan to make you my wife tonight.”
She closed her eye, squeezing out another tear, and released a long sigh. At least she didn’t refuse.
He planted a kiss on her forehead and turned to Tamir. “I will give you a fair bride-price, but I will not haggle. I realize the drought has hit Israel hard, so I will give you fifteen pieces of silver plus the equivalent in barley. It is my one and final offer.”
He noticed perspiration forming on the woman’s top lip. “But what about—”
Hosea lifted a hand to silence her negotiation. “It is my one and final offer.” He turned to the physician, noting Gomer’s arm had been tended and bandaged. “I will pay you a fair price for your service today, but you will never touch my wife again. She will be under my care from now on.”
“I require five shekels for the care she received today.”
Hosea raised one eyebrow. “You’ll get three shekels and realize that we are generous but not fools.”
Both greedy Israelites sputtered their discontent, suggesting counteroffers and arguments for more and better terms. Hosea’s stubborn silence won out, and the physician packed his supplies, muttering curses under his breath. He stormed from the room without an escort—evidently familiar with the brothel’s winding hallways.
Tamir hovered behind Hosea and then leaned over his shoulder. Gomer opened her left eye, seeming to sense her owner’s presence. Tamir spoke to Hosea but aimed her sharp tone at Gomer. “I will accept your offer, but I do not want to know anything about her. When she leaves my gates, she is dead to me.”
Gomer closed her eye and turned away.
Tamir straightened, standing over them both. “Are we agreed?”
Hosea nodded, a cold chill racing up his spine. “Agreed.” He glanced down at Gomer, and seeing another tear roll from the corner of her eye, he felt renewed pity. Has anyone ever loved you, Gomer?
Tamir turned to leave, but Jonah stopped her at the door. “We’ll need to stay in Samaria until Gomer is recovered enough to travel. Would you be so kind as to send someone to sit with Gomer while Hosea and I search for a house to rent?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I would not be so kind. Everyone in this house works for their living.” Tamir pushed past him toward the door.
“What about the girl—” Hosea began, but Jonah cast silent daggers at him before he mentioned Jarah’s name.
Tamir stopped, turned slowly, like a predator luring prey. “And what girl would you suggest, Prophet?”
Hosea’s mind reeled to protect Jarah. “Uh . . . perhaps the girl you offered me when you thought I was one of Gomer’s paying customers?”
Her eyes narrowed as she measured his answer. “If you’d like to pay for another girl’s services, I don’t care what you do with her. Otherwise, Gomer waits alone.” Tamir stormed from the room, and both Jonah and Hosea released a simultaneous sigh.
“I will go alone,” Jonah whispered. “I’ll use our blanket to signal Isaiah at the tombs as we had planned. This is about the time of day we told him to be watching.” The old prophet laid a comforting hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “The circumstances are different than we imagined, but Isaiah will still get to serve as friend of the bridegroom while I recite your wedding blessing. Yahweh is faithful, my son.” He nodded his farewell and slipped from the room, closing the curtain behind him.
“You should have gone with him.” Gomer’s voice was low and scratchy. “An old man alone isn’t safe in this city.” She kept her good eye closed so she didn’t have to look at Hosea. She couldn’t look at him.
“Jonah traveled alone to Nineveh and back. I think he can manage Samaria’s streets.”
She heard mocking in his voice, and it made her furious. She opened her eye as far as the swelling allowed, gritting her teeth against the burst of pain. “Why are you doing this? Just let me die.”
The emotion on his face was unreadable. He’d been kneeling, awkwardly hovering, but now he sat back. Perhaps he’d finally given up.
She bit back a small gasp when he repositioned and lay beside her, pulling her closer. “What are you doing?” Her body was dead weight, numb and motionless. “You heard the physician. What if I never regain the use of my arms or legs? I can’t be a wife, Hosea.”
He propped himself up on an elbow, leaning over, breathing his promise on her cheek. “I won’t let you die because as soon as Jonah returns with the bride-price, you will be my wife.” His lips brushed her ear lightly. “Yahweh has spoken to me, Gomer. He told me to go to Israel, to marry a pros—” Hesitating, he stumbled over the word.
“How do you expect to marry me when you can’t even say the word?” Emotion seized her, but she forced the words past her lips. “You don’t know what I am—what I’ve done!” Her stomach churned; bile choked her. She cursed her lifeless limbs, wishing she could run far and fast from this godly man who couldn’t fathom what a woman must do to survive.
The caress of his long, slow sigh against her neck was both excruciating and enticing. He leaned down and whispered, “Yahweh said, ‘Marry a prostitute, and have children with that prostitute.’ I believe the Lord plans to heal you and give us a houseful of children, Gomer. From this moment forward, I will love you—as Yahweh loves Israel.” He leaned back, searching her face, his yearning so innocent it pierced her. “Do you understand what that kind of love means?”
“I understand that you’ve been swindled.” Her voice was becoming stronger, perhaps fueled by anger born of hopelessness. “You paid a bride-price for a harlot who will never feel your touch or satisfy your desire. How dare you appear from the great beyond after leaving me in Bethel at the mercy of my abba? Do you expect me to trust you now, Hosea? If you’re lucky, I’ll die before Jonah returns with the bride-price, and you can go back to your holy prophets in Judah, marry a boring wife, and raise fat babies!” Her final words escaped on a torrent of sobs.
Hosea’s arms consumed her, and her useless arms couldn’t even push him away. Oh, the utter humiliation of being at the mercy of another! When would she make the decisions? When would she have a choice?
With a voice as stony as her heart, she said, “Get off me.”
Startled, Hosea held her at arm’s length. She must have appeared quite a paradox with her granite countenance and tear-streaked face. Hosea’s confused expression brought her a measure of satisfaction.
“You asked if I understood a marriage relationship. The answer is yes. I’m a harlot, not an imbecile.”
She saw the first walls erected around his heart. He sat up, leaving his intimate repose. Good. Maybe he’s not as slow-witted as I feared. She averted her gaze, not trusting her emotions if his compassion should return.
“I’m sorry, Gomer,” he said, his voice controlled, “but you misunderstood my question. I said nothing of a marriage relationship. I asked if you understood the kind of love Yahweh feels for Israel.”
Oh, by the gods, was this to be her life? A tedious treatise on Hosea’s tiresome god? “I’m familiar with the marriage of the gods,” she said, hoping to cut short his explanation. “I was trained in the temple of Asherah at age ten when Abba Diblaim sold me. I know that when El married Asherah, they respecte
d one another but maintained their independence.” Guilt nibbled at the edges of her heart. “I realize I may have been less than respectful to you . . .” Her words trailed off into silence. Finally, wondering why her talkative companion had gone mute, she was more than a little surprised to see a storm gathering on his features.
“Independence?” Hosea said, his voice bearing subtle remnants of his adolescent squeak. “You think this holy relationship is about independence?”
“And respect,” she added.
“No!” he said before she could spout any more nonsense about her silly gods. “You have no idea what Yahweh’s love entails. He adores Israel and calls her His treasure. He wants nothing more than to be the object of her singular love and devotion. His heart breaks when she runs after other gods or is deceived by false priests and prophets into believing that other gods can offer the same blessing He longs to pour out on His people.”
Gomer closed her good eye, curving her lips into a mocking grin. “If your Yahweh loves Israel so much, why did I hear you tell Amaziah that He is going to destroy us all? Face the truth, Hosea. Sometimes people have wandered too far to return.” Her wry smile died on that beautiful, bruised face. “Sometimes people don’t deserve to be loved.”
In that moment, God’s voice resounded like a ram’s horn in Hosea’s spirit: The wicked things My people have done keep them from returning to their Elohim. And he knew Gomer’s callousness was the armor of a warrior who thought herself too scarred from life’s battles to ever be loved. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, all fury melting away.
Gomer recoiled, but this time he wasn’t angry. “Rest now,” he said. “When Jonah returns, I want to make you my wife.”
She didn’t respond.
He lay down beside her again but didn’t hold her. Instead, he tucked a blanket around her and kissed her cheek. “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Gomer woke to the sound of men’s voices in her room, dim lamplight, and chilly night air. The coppery taste of blood lingered in her mouth, and her head still throbbed—now a dull ache rather than clanging cymbals. Someone was dabbing a cold cloth on her forehead.
“Hosea?”
“No, it’s me,” came a little girl’s squeak.
She tried to open her eyes and discovered both were in working order. Jarah, the kitchen maid, knelt beside her, washed and dressed in her finest robe and tunic.
“What . . .” But before Gomer questioned the girl, Hosea knelt at her left side.
“You look better. The swelling is down and both eyes are open.”
“Who is that?” Her gaze motioned to the handsome young man standing with the fish prophet.
Hosea seemed to understand and swept the hair off her forehead. “Jonah brought my friend Isaiah back from the tombs. We’ve paid Tamir the agreed price, and Jonah rented a small house on the other side of town.” He paused, gazed into her eyes with some undecipherable emotion. “Everything is in place to perform a simple wedding ceremony. Isaiah will serve as friend of the bridegroom. Jonah will pronounce the blessing, and Jarah”—he motioned to the girl kneeling a cubit from them—“will be your virgin attendant.” He leaned close, a wry smile creasing his lips. “We had a little trouble finding a maiden among your . . . associates . . . who qualified for the honor.”
Gomer smiled in spite of herself and noted Jarah’s pink cheeks. “I’m glad you chose her. She’s my favorite.”
The girl stifled a small gasp. “Thank you, Mistress Gomer.”
She returned her attention to Hosea, noticing his smile had fled.
“I believe Yahweh has chosen you to be my wife, Gomer, but I will not force you to marry me.” He lifted his voice for all to hear. “Before Yahweh and these witnesses, do you choose to be my wife?”
Gomer’s heart thundered in her chest, its beat resounding in her ears like the drums at the temple this morning. She had lamented her lack of choices, demanded her opportunity to decide. How did Hosea know what she needed—when she needed it? Suddenly, a strange calm swept over her, as it often had when they were children. Hosea used to take her hand in his and strum her fingers like a harp. Just like he was doing now . . .
“Hosea!” She lifted her head and looked at her lifeless hand lying at her side. He had indeed been strumming her fingers. “I felt your touch! Strum my fingers again!”
He laughed and cried and strummed her fingers, rejoicing with her at the hope of recovery. While the others celebrated, Hosea lifted her into his arms and kissed her. Not the friendly peck of a ten-year-old boy, but the sweet passion of a bridegroom longing for his bride.
Breathless, she whispered, “Yes, I will marry you.”
7
• ISAIAH 2:1 •
This is the message which Isaiah, son of Amoz, saw about Judah and Jerusalem.
Gomer sat in the narrow shade of their small rented house on Samaria’s northeast side, listening to the birdsong—and to Jonah’s snoring. The fish prophet said he’d seen seventy summers. Gomer felt certain he’d slept through fifty.
“You must cinch it tighter, Hosea. Here, let me do it.” Isaiah snatched the leather strap from his friend’s hand, and Gomer’s slow boil rose to full steam.
The bossy young messenger had taken over the two-wheeled cart project that Hosea was building and Gomer designed. Her injuries had healed nicely in the past three Sabbaths, but she still wasn’t strong enough to saw or tie or lift. So Hosea let Isaiah “help.”
“Hosea was doing just fine,” she shouted across the courtyard. “If you make the strap too tight, the baskets won’t flex as a back support, and the strap will break.”
Jonah expelled an enormous snort and startled himself on his teetering stool. Hosea chuckled, but Isaiah leveled a challenging stare at Gomer. “If you think you can do better . . .” He stepped back and invited her with a sweep of his hand.
She refused to be cowed and grabbed one of Jonah’s walking sticks to push herself to stand. Hosea rushed to help, but she shoved him away. “Leave me alone.” She hardly noticed the hurt in his eyes anymore. What did he expect? A street harlot one day, a loving wife the next?
A few excruciating steps, and she was face-to-face with her husband’s handsome friend who despised her. “Say what you wish to say to me, and then I see no need for us to speak again.” She lifted her chin, pleased at his shocked expression.
“Isaiah . . .” Hosea stood between them, sweat beading his brow. “She is my wife.”
“She is a prostitute.” The word spewed from his mouth like vomit. “She is a symbol of everything Yahweh despises in Israel, and yet you treat her as if she is fine pottery from Egypt.” He turned his mocking smile on Gomer. “I am grateful to you for one thing. Your black heart has shown me all that my lovely Aya is not. I will marry a pure and holy maiden when we return to Tekoa, a woman whose heart is right with her God and who knows how to love.”
Gomer had no words. She began to tremble and knew she must escape or lose all control in front of this child who had peeled away layers of carefully placed armor. A nod was her reply.
She turned and started for the house. Jonah stood at the door, his eyes full of tears. No! I don’t want your pity! she wanted to scream. And then she felt Hosea’s hand on her arm. “No! Don’t touch me!” He obeyed, stopping in the courtyard while she retreated into the lone private chamber of their rented house.
Was life as a prophet’s wife supposed to be better? At least as a harlot she had the respect of her peers. She knew she didn’t deserve love, but had she given up all hope of friendship as well?
“How could you, Isaiah?” Hosea asked when Gomer disappeared into the house. He spun on his heel and rushed at him, grabbed the collar of Isaiah’s robe, and lifted him off the ground. “How could you say those things?” he screamed.
“I am a prophet, and we’ve been taught that prophets must say hard things sometimes.”
Hosea released him, breathless, wordless. He felt Jonah’s hand on his
shoulder, pulling him aside.
“How did Yahweh’s voice manifest to you, Isaiah?” the old man asked. “What proof did Yahweh’s Spirit give you that you could grasp when others questioned your motives—like we’re doing right now?”
Isaiah’s face shaded deep crimson. “I didn’t hear Yahweh’s voice word for word, but—”
“That was not prophecy, Isaiah,” Jonah’s voice thundered. “It was your jealousy speaking, wishing you’d been given a prophetic mission before Hosea.”
“I’m not jealous of him. Why would I want to marry a prostitute?”
Hosea’s heart shattered into smaller pieces.
Jonah paused, allowing silence to stress his words. “You’ve made your disdain for Gomer clear. Your childish tantrum and inability to comprehend Yahweh’s heart has revealed your immaturity. You’re not ready for Yahweh’s call, Isaiah.”
All color drained from Isaiah’s face. He and Hosea watched Jonah hobble to the house with one walking stick. Hosea folded his legs and sat, too numb to fight.
His humbled friend sat beside him. “‘I’m sorry’ hardly seems enough—but it’s where I’ll start.”
Hosea nodded but couldn’t yet bring himself to accept Isaiah’s apology. How would he ever unsay the hurtful things Gomer had heard? “You were wrong. She’s not the symbol of all Yahweh despises in Israel. She’s all that He seeks to redeem—the brokenness, the confusion, the lost lamb that needs a shepherd.” Isaiah rubbed his face and sighed deeply, nodding his head in what Hosea hoped was a vow to see her afresh. “But you were also right about Gomer. She doesn’t yet know how to love. I think Yahweh wants me to teach her.”
Isaiah cocked his head, furrowed his brow. “It seems you’ve already started. Please don’t misinterpret what I’m about to say, but . . . she hasn’t said a civil word to you since we moved her from that brothel. Yet you seem to care for her. How can that be?”
