Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  “And you forget whose nation you serve.”

  The two exchanged stares while the silence lingered.

  Uzziah was the first to speak. “I see no harm in allowing frightened worshipers to offer sacrifices to Yahweh on a hill rather than in a temple.”

  “You see no harm?” Hosea repeated the words, unable to believe them. How could a son of David forget Yahweh’s edict to worship the Lord only in His temple?

  But before Hosea resorted to human argument, Yahweh’s words filled his spirit. He closed his eyes and spoke from Yahweh’s heart. “The Lord says to you, King Uzziah, ‘I cut you down by sending the prophets. I killed you with the words from My mouth. My judgments shined on you like light. I want your loyalty, not your sacrifices. I want you to know Me, not to give Me burnt offerings.’”

  When Hosea opened his eyes, Uzziah’s jaw was set like stone. “It seems you and I are at an impasse, Prophet.”

  “You and I aren’t at an impasse, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet. “My role is to deliver Yahweh’s messages. I have done so faithfully. You will answer to Yahweh on your decision to let the nation worship at the high places.” He stepped closer, drawing as near as the Law allowed. “My advice remains unchanged, King Uzziah. Seek the Lord with all your heart. Seek to know Him. He cares nothing about your sacrifices. He wants your heart.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the tapestry and stared down at Isaiah. “My friend, there are two great loves in my life. The first must be Yahweh. The second is Gomer. I’m obeying the first and trusting He’ll care for the second.”

  Isaiah’s eyes misted. “I’ll watch over her until you return.”

  A pang of dread pricked Hosea’s heart. He knew Isaiah loved Aya, knew he’d never betray their friendship . . . but Gomer was beautiful—so beautiful.

  He bent and kissed Jonah’s gray head. “Thank you, my friend, for being God’s hand on my shoulder. I’ll tell you about His faithfulness when we return.” The old man nodded but didn’t even look up. Hosea saw his shoulders shaking. Why did it feel like a last good-bye?

  “Come, Micah.” He turned and heard the boy’s sandals crunching on the rocky path behind him. “Did Jonah tell you anything else I should know about our journey?”

  “He said I should do the cooking or we’ll starve.”

  Hosea chuckled, feeling somehow relieved. Yahweh’s prophet. I’m Yahweh’s prophet. Regardless of his heart’s heaviness, Hosea was determined to believe that obedience to the Lord’s calling would set all things in order.

  A gentle breeze stirred the sycamores and escorted them out of Tekoa.

  18

  • HOSEA 5:8, 12 •

  Blow the ram’s horn in Gibeah. Blow the trumpet in Ramah. Sound the alarm at Beth Aven, you descendants of Benjamin. . . . I will destroy Ephraim as a moth destroys clothing. I will destroy the nation of Judah as rot destroys wood.

  Gomer hugged the ceramic bowl to her chest and wished the gods would strike her dead. How many times could a woman vomit in a single morning? She’d felt this way with her previous pregnancies, but she’d been sickest just prior to Merav’s dosage of rue tea. The day after, Gomer had experienced excruciating abdominal pain and bleeding and was delirious for several days. She vaguely recalled Tamir screaming at Merav that if Gomer died, the old midwife would be out on the street. After that, Merav made all the girls eat pomegranate rinds in the morning and drink water with wild carrot seeds at night.

  But Merav was gone, and Asherah had answered Gomer’s prayers.

  Surely Hosea would be pleased—if he ever returned from Israel. Those in camp had celebrated two new moon festivals without any word from her wandering husband. She and Yuval attended the public feast but excused themselves when the women divided into hens’ nests, as Yuval called them. Isaiah’s betrothed, Aya, had made a few attempts to apologize for her thoughtless remark at the workshop, but Gomer saw no reason to encourage a friendship that could never last. Aya had her little cluster of friends that she’d known since childhood days.

  For some reason, Yuval, the camp’s matriarch, seemed above the idle gossip and had taken Gomer under her protective wing. She was so much like Merav. Of course, Yuval was a respectable prophet’s wife, not a brothel midwife, but everything about her appearance—even her mannerisms—were so familiar.

  Yuval seemed pleased to have a friend too, since Amos was gone so often. Gomer knew the life of traveling merchants, but she’d never tell Yuval that her husband was probably sleeping with harlots in every town he visited. All the traders did it, but Yuval—like all women—undoubtedly thought her husband was different. At least Gomer had no such delusions. She just hoped Hosea had the sense to lie with women from reputable brothels. Lowly street harlots could spread disease or steal his purse—or worse.

  Gomer heard the donkey bray and knew Isaiah must be busy with chores in their stable. He’d become one of the bright spots in her tedious days. Yuval still provided cooking lessons when the fig crop allowed her time to do so, and Gomer enjoyed every menial task Amoz taught her at the pottery shop. But her daily lessons with Jonah were unbearable—endless rules from the Law of Moses, numbers and dates and dos and don’ts. No wonder people found it difficult to abide by Yahweh’s Law. How did they remember all those details?

  She set aside her bowl, sipped a little water, and took another bite of bread. Sampson rubbed against her legs, never too far away. She donned her blue veil, stepping outside to breathe the chilly desert-morning air.

  “Shalom, Gomer.” The deep, male voice was balm to her soul.

  “Shalom, Isaiah.” She spoke as smooth as silk despite her unsettled stomach.

  He glanced up, his eyes locking with hers but a moment. He offered an awkward smile and resumed scooping grain into the feed buckets.

  Odd. Isaiah’s never at a loss for words. She smiled, taking a few steps closer. “Did Uzziah mention I’ve been visiting him? The priests examine him every seven days, and they keep finding raw flesh in the sores. I know the Law says he’s unclean and infectious, but no one else has contracted a rash or skin lesions.”

  “Uh-huh.” His eyes were on his work as he fed the chickens, collected the eggs, and forked hay into the manger.

  Something was wrong. “He says your abba Amoz never visits him. Why is that? Is he afraid he’ll be infected, or is there some disagreement between them?”

  He kept to his work, ignoring her question—or had he decided to ignore her completely? She decided to try another subject.

  “Amoz is teaching me to wedge the clay—you know, get the air bubbles out and—”

  “That’s great, Gomer,” he said, hanging the pitchfork between two wooden pegs. “I’ll come back before the evening meal to bed down the animals.” He lifted his eyes for a moment, barely long enough for her to see . . . was it guilt?

  “Isaiah, stop!”

  His long strides had carried him halfway to the courtyard gate, but he stilled at her plea. Slowly he turned. “Classes will begin shortly. I should go.”

  Her stomach rumbled; she steadied her nerves. “Have I done something to upset you?” Tears threatened—again. She seemed to be a never-ending fountain since she was with child.

  “No, Gomer. I’m not upset with you.” He tried to hold her gaze but looked away.

  Silence.

  “Tell me!” She stomped her foot, and the tears overflowed.

  “Don’t cry.” Isaiah sighed and combed both hands through his hair, then ambled toward her, arms outstretched as if an embrace would erase her confusion.

  “No! Tell me what’s wrong.” But there was no time for a reply before she emptied her morning meal in the space between them.

  Isaiah stopped short of the eruption, his eyes as wide as a camel’s.

  She felt a measure of satisfaction at his discomfort, unable to resist a little barb. “Had I known throwing up would have gotten you to look at me, I might have tried it earlier.”

  “That’s not funny!�
� he said, concern etched on his brow. “Are you sick? Should I get Yuval?”

  “I’ll feel better in about seven full moons.” She watched confusion give way to understanding.

  He stepped over the mess and reached out to cradle her elbow—but stopped. He withdrew his hand as if Gomer wore an invisible shield.

  “What is wrong with you, Isaiah? You’re acting as if I’m unclean like . . .” The thought robbed her of breath. “Is that it? You think I’ve touched Uzziah, and you’re unwilling—”

  “No. No!” he said before she could finish. “It has nothing to do with Uzziah’s leprosy. He’s told me you’re careful to remain on the audience tapestry when you visit, and your friendship is very important to him. It’s not about Uzziah. It’s about . . . I can’t . . . It’s just not . . .”

  She watched his cheeks color. “What? Why do you treat me like a leper if you admit I’m not unclean?”

  Isaiah searched the windows of her soul and spoke softly, deliberately. “I am your friend, Gomer. You know that, don’t you?”

  A cold chill crept up her spine. I know if you must say it, you plan to test it. She wanted to say the words, but they lodged in her tightened throat.

  “You’re a married woman,” he said, “and I’m betrothed to Aya. Hosea is my best friend, and though I promised to protect you while he was gone, we must avoid any appearance of wrongdoing.”

  “Wrongdoing? Have we appeared to do something wrong?”

  He squeezed the back of his neck and sighed again. “It’s just that Aya is uncomfortable with our friendship—”

  “Aya is uncomfortable?” She laughed—joyless, dry, weary. “Well, we wouldn’t want Aya or her family or her dozens of friends in camp to feel uncomfortable that you’ve been talking to the town harlot.” She turned toward the house before she lost the rest of her breakfast and called over her shoulder, “I’ll take care of the stable chores from now on, Isaiah. You need not return.”

  He caught her arm, spinning her to face him. “It’s not just the stable chores. The whole camp is wondering why you visit my cousin Uzziah every day. It seems odd for a beautiful woman—who has no family or provisions of her own—to spend time with a leprous king.”

  Gomer’s breath left her. Gasping, she could barely whisper. “And who else do I have to spend time with?” She twisted away, squaring her shoulders. After two calming breaths, she bored a gaze into his uncaring soul. “Why is it odd that one outcast would find solace in the presence of another outcast, Isaiah?” She saw that her words had hit their mark. “Jonah has taught me your ridiculous laws of uncleanness, so I don’t touch King Uzziah. But I will not abandon him because a few camp gossips think it odd that a harlot has a heart. Go back to your perfect Aya. Tell her you won’t be tending Hosea’s goats or his wife anymore—friend.”

  Hosea awoke to the smell of sizzling meat. Sleep slowly gave way to consciousness, and his first thought was the same as it had been for too many days. Where are we this morning? He and Micah had traveled all over Israel, visiting every small town and village from Joppa on the northwest coast to Lo-Debar on the border of Aram. The Lord had begun directing them south, and each day Hosea hoped for instruction to go home.

  He opened one eye and saw Micah bent over the fire, holding what appeared to be a small bird on a stick. “What’s the occasion?” he said, rolling onto his back, trying to work out the stiffness the cold ground induced.

  “It’s sort of a long story.”

  A long story? In the three new moons since leaving Tekoa, Micah had barely spoken three sentences.

  Hosea grabbed his blanket and crawled to the fire. He wrapped himself in the woolen warmth, settling beside his young friend. “I think we’re far enough from Bethel, out of danger from Israel’s troops. We deserve a morning’s rest.” They’d been relentlessly pursued by Jeroboam’s soldiers, run out of every town where they’d proclaimed God’s impending judgment. Hosea nodded at their breakfast on the stick. “Can we eat that while you’re telling me the long story? We haven’t had fresh meat in more than a full moon.”

  Micah smiled and checked a piece of the quail to be sure it was cooked thoroughly. Fingers dancing on the scorching meat, he picked and prodded to prepare the morning feast. “Aren’t you curious how I caught the quail, Master Hosea?” he asked, one eyebrow arched in uncharacteristic mischief.

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .” Hosea chuckled, glancing around their campsite for a makeshift fowler’s snare or net. Nothing. He returned his attention to Micah, who seemed bursting to explain. “All right, tell me how you caught the quail.”

  “Oh, Master Hosea! It was marvelous! I heard Yahweh’s voice!” The young man’s words gained momentum as they tumbled out. “He called me by name, and at first I thought it was you, but when I looked over, you were still sleeping. When I realized it must be Yahweh, I got up, and He told me to look behind that tree for a quail whose wing had been broken. I found the bird, and He said, ‘Kill and eat. You will need strength for your journey back to Judah. You will speak for Me as does My servant Hosea.’ So what do you think He meant, Master Hosea?”

  Hosea drew a breath, but the boy rattled on. “When do we return to Tekoa? Today? Tonight? Tomorrow? And when do I begin to prophesy? I don’t know what to say. How do you know what to say?”

  Hosea could only smile, words lodged in his throat. It was a bittersweet moment. The joy and pride he felt now must have been like Jonah’s when Hosea had returned from his wilderness fast with the directive to prophesy to Israel. But how would Isaiah take the news? Had he received a call from Yahweh while back in Tekoa? Or would young Micah’s calling make Isaiah’s impatience that much harder to bear?

  Micah looked at him with wide, expectant eyes.

  Yahweh, give me wisdom to teach this young man, and give Isaiah grace to accept Your plan for us all!

  “The first thing we must do is finish our quail,” he said, squeezing Micah’s shoulder. “And then we will continue to the three cities Yahweh told us to speak to today. Beth Aven, Ramah, and Gibeah are in perfect order—north to south—for the journey back to Judah.”

  “But when will I get to prophesy?” Micah sounded like a spoiled child, and Hosea remembered his own complaints to Jonah sounding much the same.

  “You will prophesy when it breaks your heart, Micah.” He pinned the young man with a stare. “You will speak unimaginable pain to real people. They are breaking God’s heart. Their leaders are perverting justice, mistreating the poor, and worshiping idols of metal, wood, and stone. When your heart can’t bear to proclaim the judgment God has determined for them, then—and only then—are you ready to speak for Yahweh.”

  Micah’s eyes welled with tears. “Do you know what Yahweh has declared for the three cities we’ll visit today?”

  Hosea breathed deeply and closed his eyes, allowing the Lord’s words to fill him. “Sound the alarm in Gibeah, Ramah, and Beth Aven. You descendants of Benjamin won’t escape the punishment coming to all of Israel. Ephraim will become a wasteland when the time for punishment comes. I’m telling you the truth—all the tribes of Israel face His wrath. And now judgment begins with the leaders of Judah as well. Judgment for Ephraim will start slow, as a moth destroys clothing. The same for Judah, as rot destroys wood.”

  When Hosea opened his eyes, tears streamed down Micah’s cheeks into the tender fuzz of beard just forming, and he knew he was witnessing the birth of a prophet.

  Yuval wound the last long strip of cloth around Gomer’s hand, covering the red, swollen blisters with the fig poultice she’d prepared.

  “My hands feel as if they’re on fire. Why didn’t anyone tell me to wear gloves for the fig harvest?”

  Her friend’s voice was full of compassion. “Oh, my little Gomer, I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy preparing for the harvest, I forgot that you wouldn’t know fig sap irritates the skin. Everyone else in camp has been through the harvest twice a year for ages.” Tears formed on her bottom lashes. “Can you forgi
ve me?”

  Gomer’s heart was in her throat. She hadn’t meant to blame Yuval. The poor woman ran the entire fig operation—everything from planting and pinching to harvesting and processing. “There’s nothing to forgive, Yuval. I should have seen the others and noticed. I’m just irritable and nauseous, and now my hands are bandaged and I can’t even dress myself.” Sampson jumped into her lap and purred. She tried petting him with one of her bandaged stubs. “I can’t even care for the cat.” Tears began to flow, and she cursed herself. “And why am I still crying all the time? Uhh!” In her frustration, she poked her eye with a bandaged hand and sobbed all the more.

  She heard Yuval giggle and glanced in her direction, shocked and a little hurt. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Gomer, my daughter, all pregnant women cry. And when the baby comes, you’ll cry some more.” She patted her bandaged hands. “Don’t worry about Sampson. I’ll take care of him when I come over each morning to help you with your robe and tunic.”

  Gomer could do nothing but shake her head, her throat closed by anger and self-pity. When she could speak, her words were clipped. “I’ll manage by myself. I’ve always gotten by on my own. I refuse to need anyone now.”

  “Well, I’d like to be needed.” A deep voice resonated from the darkened front door.

  Hosea!

  He must have slipped in while she and Yuval were talking. How much did you hear? She wanted to crawl in a hole—or better yet, order him to crawl back to Israel!

  19

  • HOSEA 1:3–4 •

  So Hosea married Gomer. . . . She became pregnant and had a son. Yahweh told Hosea, “Name him Jezreel.”

  Gomer kept her eyes on the oven’s glow but felt Hosea’s gaze on her. How could she feel cold when she sat a cubit from the fire?

  Yuval rushed to greet Hosea at the door, chattering like a sparrow. “When did you get back? Does Amos know you’re home? Oh, the fig harvest is almost finished, and we needed extra help, so your sweet little wife came to our aid, and, well . . . she’s never worked with figs before and didn’t realize the sap would blister her hands and—”