Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  “Gomer, talk to me.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “Please.”

  She ignored him. Moments lingered, and the desert silence screamed her defiance.

  Finally, he lay beside her, curling his body around her, his breath warm on her ear. “I’m sorry, my wife. Everything that makes me a man wants to satisfy my desire for you. In Samaria, I thought I’d go mad. And tonight, well . . .” His grip on her shoulder tightened, and he nuzzled her neck. “I feel desperate for you. But I need to know my wife, and I want my wife to know me. The Gomer I knew as a six-year-old girl holds my heart with fond memories. The woman I married has given me no reason to hope that she could ever speak a civil word to me, let alone grow to love me someday. And I’m guessing you have similar questions about the ten-year-old boy you once knew in Bethel.”

  He let his hand trace the length of her arm and whispered against her cheek, “And I want to teach you about Yahweh. Not just His rules, but the ways He loves and blesses His people. There is so much more to love than you realize.” He paused and kissed her cheek lightly. “Sleep now. Dawn will come too quickly, but our journey will be worth the effort. Tomorrow we cross Mount Gerizim and walk the beautiful hill country of Ephraim. By the second day, we’ll all feel somewhat revived, and hopefully, when we reach Tekoa on the third day . . .” He let his hands wander the length of her and kissed her cheek again—this time lingering, then reluctantly pulling away. “You will know Yahweh and your husband better by the time we reach our new home. Perhaps then we can enjoy each other’s presence.” He turned over and lay with his back toward her. “Good night, Gomer.”

  Good night? She wanted to scream at him but didn’t know where to begin. Her mind reeled, and her emotions were in knots. How could she sleep when the only man on earth to deny her lay a handbreadth away? Good night, indeed. He was wrong about it being good and wrong about dawn too—it would not come too quickly for Gomer.

  “There it is, Wife. Jerusalem. Isn’t it beautiful?” Hosea crested the hill north of Judah’s capital city and released the handles of the two-wheeled cart. He wiped his brow and waited for Jonah and Isaiah to join them.

  “It’s smaller than I imagined,” Gomer said, shading her eyes, “but Solomon’s palace and temple are spectacular. Even from this distance, the gold gleams in the sun.” She giggled and clapped her hands like the little girl he’d known in Bethel. “Can we visit the market before we continue to Tekoa?”

  Feeling torn, Hosea wanted to please her but felt a sense of urgency to return to Amos’s farm. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist. His heart nearly burst when she didn’t recoil. “We’ll spend equal time in Jerusalem’s market and in Yahweh’s temple.”

  Her smile dimmed immediately. “But what is there to do at Yahweh’s temple? From what you’ve told me, there are no prostitutes, so why would anyone worship there?”

  Jonah sputtered a chuckle. “Your wife asks a valid question, my son. I can’t wait to hear your answer.”

  Isaiah rolled his eyes and began walking the busy path toward Jerusalem’s north gate.

  “Wait for me, young Isaiah!” Jonah’s walking sticks raised the dust on his way toward the city.

  Hosea grabbed the two-wheeled cart handles and resumed his march. Gomer fell in step beside him. “Worship isn’t about what we receive. It’s about what we give from our grateful and obedient hearts.” He noticed wrinkles appear on her forehead as they often did when he talked of Yahweh or the prophets’ camp. “I plan to use the last of our silver to purchase a lamb and loaves of bread in the market. We’ll offer the loaves and sacrifice the lamb to Yahweh as a thank offering and then share a fellowship meal in His presence.”

  “Why waste your silver on a sacrifice when I could buy a kinder god in the market?”

  The venom in her tone startled him, and he wondered why she felt such contempt for Yahweh. Before he could form his question, Gomer covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, seemingly terrified.

  Hosea dropped the cart handles, glanced right and left, ready for a fight. His heart twisted when he recognized the enemy.

  They’d approached the pagan high place. An Asherah pole stood mocking—on the hill overlooking Yahweh’s temple.

  Gomer turned to meet his gaze, arching an accusing brow. “Why do you pronounce Yahweh’s judgment on Israel when I see the same goddess on Judah’s hill?”

  It was a question he’d asked himself, a question he’d asked Jonah. “Yahweh commanded me to warn Israel. If—or when—He instructs me to condemn Judah, I will obey. It is my calling to speak God’s words, not to question His ways.” The words sounded trite, tasted bitter. They were true but hard to swallow—even for Yahweh’s prophet.

  Gomer’s expression turned to stone. “What did you mean when you said we would share a fellowship meal at Yahweh’s temple?”

  “As an expression of thanks for our safe and successful journey, we’ll offer various loaves of bread and an unblemished yearling lamb according to the Law of Moses. The priests will sacrifice the lamb and arrange the burnt offering on the altar and then return the prescribed portions to Jonah, Isaiah, you, and me so we can eat a fellowship meal in Yahweh’s presence.”

  She began to tremble, slowly at first and then violently. “I don’t want to eat the meal,” she whispered, her wide, hazel eyes reminding him of the frightened girl he’d known in Bethel. “What if I break a law without knowing it? Your god sounds arbitrary and angry. What if He strikes me dead, or the priests discover I worship Asherah and try to kill me like they did Uzziah’s abba?”

  Hosea gathered her into his arms, but she stood as stiff as the pagan pole that hovered above them. Isaiah said he’d told her about his uncle and the conspiracy of the zealots. How could Hosea now convince her that Yahweh wanted her love, but He was indeed a God to be feared? They’d grown so much closer in the three days since leaving Samaria, but her heart had remained a sealed scroll. Now that she’d finally trusted him with a small piece of it, how could he prove trustworthy to his wife and to Yahweh?

  She pushed him away. “Don’t coddle me. Tell me if I must go to the temple, and I’ll abide by your decision.” She stood there, waiting, eyes fastened on her sandals.

  Hosea longed to make things easier for her. She was tough as granite yet fragile as a rose. Yahweh, give me wisdom to love this woman. “We will go together to the temple. And it’s good to be a little afraid of Yahweh. King Solomon said to fear Him is the beginning of knowing Him.” He tilted her chin, but she closed her eyes. Chuckling at her stubbornness, he kissed her nose and drew disapproving stares from passing travelers.

  Gomer noticed the glances too. “You’d better stop that, or they’ll think you married a harlot.” She tried to smile.

  He loved her humor but was saddened by her self-branding. She had no idea how precious she’d become to him. “My wife is not a harlot. I married the little girl who was my best friend, and we’re getting to know each other again.”

  11

  • 2 CHRONICLES 26:16 •

  But when [Uzziah] became powerful, his pride destroyed him. . . . He went into Yahweh’s temple to burn incense on the incense altar.

  Hosea waved good-bye to Jonah and Isaiah at Jerusalem’s northernmost gate after making plans to meet them at the temple later. Gomer was already focused on Jerusalem’s busy market. Its main street lined on both sides with booths, the market overflowed with everything practical and exotic. The finest goods from all over the world—spices from Sheba, ivory and gold from Africa, silk and pottery from the East—glistened, clanged, and filled the air with all the excitement Samaria offered and more.

  “Look at this vase, Hosea!” she said, lifting an intricately designed clay vase from its silver pedestal. “I’ve been in the finest homes in Samaria and never seen anything like this.” The moment the words escaped, she regretted them. Her husband needed no reminders of her past lovers.

  “I see nothing in this market as
beautiful as my wife.” His eyes seemed consumed by her.

  She turned away, replaced the vase, and moved on, unwilling to let Hosea have any more of her heart. Why had the gods given him back to her? Or was it really this Yahweh god of whom he spoke? Why would Yahweh care about her? But she could almost believe it after hearing Hosea’s stories during their journey from Samaria. Almost. The thought of trusting only one god seemed completely . . . well, irresponsible. How could the rest of the nations be wrong?

  “That vase was made at Amos’s farm.” Hosea’s voice startled her from her thoughts, and she jumped. “Are you nervous in this crowd?” he asked, concern shadowing his features.

  “No, I enjoy the city, and I love walking through the marketplace.” Then the import of his earlier statement settled in, and she stopped abruptly. “Did you say that vase came from Amos’s farm? So Isaiah’s abba made it?”

  Hosea chuckled and clasped his hands behind his back, strolling through the market as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “Yes, Amoz runs the pottery workshop on Amos’s farm. He makes all the finest pieces.”

  Gomer squinted and tried to make the distinction. “Amoz, Amos—doesn’t that get confusing? How do you tell them apart?”

  Hosea laughed and whistled through his teeth. “You wouldn’t have to ask that if you’d met the two men. You remember Amos the prophet? He came to Bethel when we were children and prophesied in the temple.”

  Gomer’s stomach tightened at the memory. “He’s sort of burly and rough-looking, isn’t he?” She was being polite. According to her six-year-old memory, his long, unkempt hair and beard seemed as wild as the sheep and goats he herded.

  “Amos can be abrasive, but he’s got a kind heart. He’s a farmer and a merchant, so he’s always with people. Isaiah’s abba, Amoz, is very quiet, withdrawn. He’s tall and handsome like Isaiah, but he keeps to himself and works long hours at the pottery shop.”

  Gomer remembered Isaiah’s sad countenance when he talked about his childhood and Amoz’s absence. “Why doesn’t he spend more time with Isaiah?”

  Hosea pulled her under the canopy of a cloth dealer, drew her close, and brushed her cheek. “Now, that’s a question we should let Isaiah ask his abba—right?”

  She received the gentle caution with a begrudging smile and a raised brow. “I’ll try to be good. Tell me more about Amos’s farm.” She turned to inspect the bolts of cloth lying in neat rows. Scarlet, blue, yellow, and white. Lovely wool and linen weaves.

  “The farm produces a huge sycamore fig crop twice a year. Plus we raise sheep, cattle, goats—even chickens. There are a hundred ways you can choose to earn our wages at the camp.”

  Gomer’s throat went dry. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of fig crops, goats, and earning our wages?” She kept her back to him and pretended interest in one of the bolts of cloth.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought everyone on Amos’s farm was a prophet.” She rubbed the airy cloth between her fingers, realizing it must be the famed gauze from Gaza. Not the kind of thing I’ll wear if I’m herding goats.

  “Most of the men are Yahweh’s messengers,” Hosea was saying, “but there are other families at the camp too—shepherds, farmers, and potters—who help generate income. All the women work to produce salable goods so that Yahweh’s prophets aren’t susceptible to bribes from royal officials. Those who call themselves prophets in Israel live like kings because they tell Jeroboam what pleases him.” Hosea paused. The silence became awkward. “Does earning wages bother you?”

  She spun around, driving him back a step. “Why would I be bothered that you sit and talk with your prophet friends all day while I work at some mundane task so that someone else can buy that beautiful vase back there?”

  He smiled down at her with his infuriating grin. “You left out the part about feeding me grapes and fanning me with ostrich feathers.”

  “Oh!” She stomped her foot.

  He leaned close, backing her up a step. “What had you imagined you’d be doing?” His tone was light but serious. When she tried to turn away again, he gently embraced her shoulders. “Tell me, Gomer. What did you think a prophet’s wife would do?”

  “Well, I . . .” How could she explain that she’d anticipated complete boredom? “I didn’t know what to expect.” She had wanted to escape her life at the brothel, but she hadn’t considered what kind of life she’d want instead.

  Hosea released her shoulders and nodded at the cloth merchant, who had become interested in their conversation. “Come, let’s walk.”

  Gomer grudgingly complied, falling in step beside him. Hosea reached for her hand hidden beneath the folds of her robe. “We’ll try to make sure whatever task you’re assigned on Amos’s farm will be something you enjoy, something Yahweh has gifted you for. Just as I know He created me to be His prophet.”

  If Yahweh had created Hosea to be a prophet, had Hosea’s god created her to be a harlot? Instinctively, she pulled her hand away and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Tell me the jobs I might do at Amos’s farm.”

  “Well, Amos oversees the livestock when he’s not traveling to sell goods for the camp. If you like animals, we could find something for you to do in the barns or meadows.”

  Gomer wrinkled her nose.

  He grinned and continued. “His wife, Yuval, is in charge of the sycamore fig crops. She’s a kind woman and manages everything from planting and harvesting to the cooking and even the medicinal uses of the figs.”

  “I helped my friend Merav with herbs and midwifery at the brothel. Maybe I could help Yuval with my knowledge of herbs.” She relaxed her arms, feeling for the first time that she might have a purpose in her new life.

  Hosea found her hand again, bolstering her spirits with his approving smile as they continued through the market. “There are many women and children, so a midwife’s skills are always welcome. But you could also learn something new—maybe how to make a vase like the one we saw a few moments ago.”

  “A potter? Really?” She halted abruptly, causing several market-goers to stumble into them. “I don’t know anything about pottery, Hosea, and who would take the time to teach a harlot such a valuable skill?” She shook her head to dislodge the foolishness, and they resumed their walk through the market. Cooking, grinding, spinning—these were the skills she would be forced to learn, not the fanciful dream of a harlot creating beautiful vases. “I’ll do whatever I must.”

  Hosea laid his arm around her shoulders and leaned close to whisper through her veil, “The Creator made you creative, my wife. You’ve always been good at designing things. If you’d like to work with Amoz, I’ll see if he needs an apprentice.”

  Gomer’s heart raced, but she refused to give in to false hope. She still wasn’t sure she could trust her husband—or his god—but at least Hosea had proven reliable so far.

  “Jonah!” He waved at the fish prophet, and Gomer recognized the peak of Solomon’s golden temple straight ahead. Too quickly they arrived at the corrals where the sacrificial animals awaited purchase.

  “Do you want to purchase the lamb, or should I?” Isaiah asked Hosea, motioning to the sheepfold where two priests sat at a table waiting to receive payment from temple worshipers.

  Before Hosea could answer, an uprising on the temple stairway stole everyone’s attention. Shouting turned to screams when a small circle of priests hurried down the stairs with a prisoner in their midst. When they reached street level, their circle opened to reveal not a captive but a king. Dressed in royal garments and a gold crown, the man Gomer assumed to be Judah’s king appeared deathly pale with terrible-looking sores on his face.

  “Yahweh, what has happened to King Uzziah?” Hosea’s prayer was spoken aloud and expressed the heart of every onlooker.

  The crowd parted, every man, woman, and child running from the approaching regent. Everyone except Jonah and Isaiah. The old prophet’s sticks clicked on the cobblestone walkway, and Isaiah ran with him toward the p
anic-stricken king.

  “My lord,” Jonah shouted, “what has happened?” Isaiah seemed ready to embrace the king, but the old prophet held him back and chastened him with a cautious stare. “King Uzziah, how can we help you?”

  Hosea squeezed Gomer’s shoulders and held her gaze. “I need to help Jonah with Isaiah. Don’t approach the king or priests until I know what’s happened.”

  Gomer watched her traveling partners bow to Uzziah, though they remained ten cubits from him. The priests directing Uzziah now hurried toward the prophets to speak privately, while the king stood alone—a spectacle for the gawking, frightened Judeans.

  She knew the humiliation of forced display. It’s why she had learned to perform, to take charge of a crowd, to denigrate before others could demean. King Uzziah had no such luxury. He was imprisoned by decorum to await the priests’ verdict. Gomer was bound by no such captor, nor was she intimidated by his title. Uzziah was a man like any other, and she knew her talents could soothe him. Compelled by his pain and fear, she felt her feet move of their own accord.

  She knelt, bowed her head, and said in a voice smooth as butter, “My lord Uzziah, I am Gomer, Hosea’s wife, and I am honored to meet you.” She looked up to offer a kind smile.

  Seemingly bewildered, the king glanced from the priests to Hosea and back to Gomer again. She rose and reached out her hand.

  “No!” Hosea rushed to her side, and Uzziah stepped back, as startled as Gomer. With a penitent bow to the king, Hosea wrapped Gomer’s hand in his own. “Forgive me, my lord. My wife doesn’t know the laws about becoming unclean by touching someone with a skin disease. We meant no disrespect.”

  The pain Gomer saw on Uzziah’s face was all too familiar. Unclean. She might not know any laws about such a word, but she knew what the king was feeling at this moment. She set her jaw and withdrew her hand from Hosea’s grasp. “If the king needs care for his wounds, I am willing to become unclean to help him.”

  Before Hosea replied, a deep, resonant voice said, “Thank you, lovely Gomer, but I believe one of my physicians will accompany me outside the city.” He looked at Jonah, adding, “As I’m sure the priests have reported, this is Yahweh’s judgment for my arrogance while offering incense. I must find a place to dwell outside the city until His mercy relieves me of these sores. Do you think Amos would allow me to stay at the camp in Tekoa?”