by Mesu Andrews
And then she realized what Hosea was saying.
“Yahweh spoke to you?” When she lifted her gaze, the eyes that had adored her moments ago now floated in unshed tears.
“Yahweh is going to punish the family of Jehu—King Jeroboam’s ancestor—for the people Jehu slaughtered at the valley of Jezreel. Our son’s name will forever symbolize God’s wrath against Jeroboam and his clan.” His tears spilled over, coursing down his cheeks. He reached out as if to touch Jezreel’s soft black curls but pulled his hand away. “I leave tomorrow to proclaim Yahweh’s message to Israel.”
Gomer couldn’t breathe. Exhaustion strangled her. Why had she dared to hope? Why go on living when men always left? But when she gazed at the precious babe beside her, the thought of his future revived her will to fight.
“Look at this innocent child, Hosea. Look at your son.” She ripped the blanket away from his tiny body, revealing his perfect toes, his pink skin. “You’re going to let Yahweh mark our baby with an abominable name. Then you’re going to leave your family to travel through Israel and threaten powerful people who would rather kill you than spit on you?” Tears leapt over her bottom lashes. She was trembling in silence.
Hosea swallowed hard as he choked out the words. “I want to gather you both in my arms and never let you go.”
She allowed herself a whimper, her brows lifted, pleading. It was as close to begging as Gomer would allow herself. Let Hosea choose now—this invisible god who demanded a bridegroom to abandon his bride and an abba to abandon his newborn son, or Gomer and Jezreel, a family who could love him here, now, forever.
Hosea lunged toward the bed and cradled both her and Jezreel in his arms, breaking Yahweh’s laws of uncleanness.
Sobbing, she choked out the words, “I love you, Hosea. I love you.” Relief washed over her like a flood.
He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and finally her lips. They cried together, cradling Jezreel between them. When Hosea released her, he cupped her face and held her gaze. “I love you with all my heart, Wife.” He hesitated a moment—long enough for Gomer to see determination etched in the windows of his soul. “I must obey Yahweh and leave for Israel at sunrise. I will return to you and Jezreel as soon as the Lord allows it.”
Gomer felt as if a dagger had been thrust into her chest. “But you made yourself unclean for me . . .”
“I made myself unclean because I believe the essence of Yahweh’s Law is to protect, not to punish. It would have been punishment to part without demonstrating my love. I will abide by the Law and wash my robe, making myself clean again by morning.”
He leaned in to kiss her again, but she used her remaining strength to push him away. “Get out.” Her voice was controlled fury, his expression shocked confusion.
“What? But I don’t need to leave until morning.”
Something inside her shifted, and she saw the man in her bed like so many others who’d lingered after she’d had her fill of them. She hugged Jezreel close, brushing her lips against his downy head. “I don’t need you anymore, Hosea. Now I have someone who will love me—and won’t abandon me.”
“You look awful,” Isaiah said, waiting at Hosea’s courtyard gate just before dawn. He picked a piece of straw from Hosea’s beard. “Did you sleep in the stable? Ohh, Gomer must have taken the news badly.”
Yuval’s rooster crowed, giving Hosea a moment to gather his thoughts. “I haven’t seen that deadness in her eyes since we found her in Samaria.” Cold fear had kept him awake, making his woolen blanket useless against the night chill. He noticed his friend’s bulging shoulder bag, and his heart felt lighter. “So, you’re coming with me?” A slender ray of hope dawned with morning’s light.
“Perhaps my abba and Aya can comfort Gomer. Neither of them was happy about Yahweh’s timing either. I can’t understand why Aya would get her headpiece in a twist because I might be late for our wedding.” He bit back a chuckle, and Hosea shoved him, sending him into the scrub bushes along the path.
“And why did your abba protest?” Hosea regretted the question when he saw his friend’s expression dim.
“Who knows,” he said, whacking his walking stick at the bushes. “Abba has words for everyone but me. I got a grunt and an ‘utter foolishness.’ I guess I’m supposed to figure out what that means.”
“I’m sorry, Isaiah.” Hosea let the silence speak the comfort he couldn’t express.
They approached King Uzziah’s encampment and saw the familiar shadow in the doorway of the rented house.
“Can we stop for a few moments?” Isaiah asked. “He’s always been more of an abba to me than my abba Amoz anyway.” Not waiting for an answer, Isaiah hurried his pace, and Hosea let him rush ahead.
Though his friend had an earthly abba, he’d had less security and consistency than Hosea had gotten from Jonah. It seemed Isaiah was always rushing from Amoz to Uzziah, yearning for one of them to be that strong and loving abba every boy needs. Unfortunately, neither seemed to embrace the role, and Isaiah had developed a brash outer shell to hide the insecure boy inside.
“Unclean! Unclean!” Uzziah’s voice rang out, and Hosea wondered if the king ever slept. His sores continued to worsen, and the priests now examined him as more of a courtesy than a hope that he would return to his throne. Rumors were circulating in camp that Prince Jotham might soon be named coregent in order to squelch doubts of Judah’s leadership that might tempt foreign nations to aggression.
“It’s better this way, my son.” Hosea arrived at the audience tapestry in time to hear Uzziah’s words to Isaiah. “Much preferable to spend time away from Aya before you’re wed than to leave your new bride—” The king’s face grew even paler. “Forgive me, Hosea. I meant no disrespect.”
“Before our friendship was strengthened, my lord, I might have been offended.” He nodded at the king, and Uzziah returned the gesture. “But I’ve seen your heart changed by suffering, and somehow I believe you now understand the hardships of my calling.”
“I’m learning, Hosea,” the king said. “I’m learning that we must hold loosely all that Yahweh gives us on this earth. Even our very lives.”
Silence.
“You are a good man, King Uzziah.” Hosea longed to say more, to command this righteous king to destroy the high places and obey the Law completely. But he’d already spoken Yahweh’s words to Uzziah—and even added some of his own nagging. The choice was in the king’s hands. “May the Lord bless you and keep you, my lord, until we return and see you again.”
Hosea felt Isaiah’s hand on his shoulder.
“Come, my friend. The quicker you proclaim Yahweh’s message, the sooner I can marry Aya and you can return to your wife and son.”
21
• LEVITICUS 12:3 •
The boy must be circumcised when he is eight days old.
Jezreel had been screaming all night, and Gomer’s nerves were as frayed as ten-year-old sandals. How dare they mutilate her son? He was only eight days old. She tried to reason with Jonah and the other prophets, explaining that many of the men in Israel no longer adopted the archaic tradition of circumcision. But would they listen to her? No, I’m just the child’s ima! She’d had no voice in naming him. Why would she have a say in any decision concerning her child?
A knock at the door raised the baby’s cries to fevered pitch. She rocked Jezreel in the sling over her shoulder and stomped toward the door. “What!” she shouted, flinging it open.
Yuval jumped, both feet leaving the ground. “Oh dear! I heard him crying through the night. What can I do to help?” She lifted Jezreel out of the sling, bouncing and rocking in a rhythm that his mournful cries soon adopted.
Gomer stretched her aching arms and then covered her ears, exploding at her friend. “You can tell the men who did this that they can come over and comfort my baby through the night, feed him, cradle him—” Suddenly her breasts tightened and released a flood of milk. “Ohh! This is humiliating! How can I go anywhere or do anything when ev
ery moment is full of feeding a child and changing dirty loincloths?” She wilted, all bluster spent, rivers of tears flowing down her cheeks and breast milk soaking her robe.
Yuval offered a compassionate smile. “Well, it would appear you have an ample supply of milk, so at least the boy isn’t hungry.” She continued bouncing.
Gomer was not comforted. She felt fat, ugly, and alone. She knew nothing about raising a child, nor did she care to learn. Where was this innate maternal instinct Yuval had promised would come? “I can’t do this, Yuval. I just can’t.” She looked at the door and then at her child. I’m not fit to raise him. He’d be better off without me.
“Gomer, look at me.” She heard Yuval’s voice as if in a dream. “Gomer!”
Startled from her stupor, she met her friend’s gaze.
“I will send Aya to help you with Jezreel.”
“No! I don’t want—”
“Enough!” Yuval’s hand went up, stifling both Gomer’s words and Jezreel’s cries. The old woman continued bouncing and spoke calmly, Jezreel whimpering. “I know you had a rough start with Aya, but she’s the oldest of seven children and has helped raise her last three siblings.” Yuval pinned her with a hard stare. “Don’t look at that door like you plan to flee.”
Gomer felt her cheeks burn, ashamed that her thoughts had been written on her face.
“You’re going to be all right.” Yuval tilted Gomer’s chin and met her gaze. “Every new ima struggles with her emotions. It’s harder for you because—well, you’re trying to do this alone.”
The familiar anger bubbled inside her. “I must do this alone. I was given no choice.”
“We have few choices in life. Make important ones wisely, Daughter.” Jezzy’s fussing resumed, and Yuval bounced and danced. “The first important choice is to let Aya help you with cooking and caring for Jezreel. The fig harvest is upon us, and I’m not as free to help you.”
Gomer clenched her teeth and bit back a reply, moving to the pile of goatskin rugs. She pulled one out and positioned her back against the wall, ready to nurse her babe. “Thank you, Yuval. I’ll take him now.”
She received the whimpering bundle, inhaling his sweet scent, and Yuval nestled close beside them. “Tell me the real reason you don’t want Aya to help you. Is it payment? Because we will see that Aya is compensated until Hosea returns, and then I’m sure his portion of property and income is sufficient to provide for a nursemaid.”
“I would never ask you and Amos to pay for my nursemaid,” she said, mortified. “And I know nothing about Hosea’s holding, but I’m sure Aya would never agree to come since she’s so coddled by the old hens in camp. They might peck her to death if she enters the harlot’s house.” She dare not tell Yuval that just days before Jezreel’s birth, Hosea nearly begged Gomer to ask for Aya’s help.
Yuval smoothed a stray curl off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear—just like Merav used to do. Gomer’s throat tightened, but she swallowed down the emotion.
“You are no longer a harlot, Daughter, and I think you’ve misjudged Aya. It’s true that she was raised in camp, so she’s well acquainted with the old hens, but she’s not one of them.” With a gentle pat on her cheek, Yuval groaned and rocked to her knees and finally to her feet. “These old bones don’t work like they used to.” She scratched Sampson between the ears and walked toward the door.
Gomer released a sigh. “Are you coming back?”
“Amos is leaving for another merchant’s trip today. I’ll be back after I feed him, and I’ll bring Aya with me.”
Gomer nodded but remained silent. It was no use arguing. Yuval would have her way.
“Wait!” she shouted before Yuval closed the door. The old woman peeked her head back inside. “Hosea said that if Aya helped me, I would be free to work in the pottery shop again.” It was as much a question as a declaration. Had he told anyone else his generous plan?
“If your husband said it, no one in camp can argue with it.” The twinkle in Yuval’s eyes returned as she pulled the door closed behind her.
The thought of working the clay bolstered her spirits. She whispered to her precious babe, “I love you, Jezzy, but I wasn’t made to be an ima.”
And then, as if the mother goddess herself spoke from beneath the mattress in her bedchamber, Gomer knew what she must do. She stroked Jezzy’s cheek, watching this miracle of life draw nourishment from her. His little hand wrapped around her finger, and she gasped. How precious he was, an undeniable gift. Could she give up the joy of nursing her child in order to keep him with her forever? A tear made its way down her cheek.
“Hear me, Lady Asherah,” she whispered, her heart breaking. “If I sacrifice this time with Jezzy in order to learn the pottery trade, please endow a wet nurse with your life-giving nectar when I bind my breasts to dry the milk.” Her heart raced at the plan forming in her mind. “And please, Mother Goddess, help your servant to learn well from the master potter Amoz, so I might earn enough silver to take my son from this prison of Yahweh’s prophets.”
Gomer’s right hand cramped with every quick stroke of the smooth stone across the leather-hard vase. Burnishing pottery at precisely the right stage of dryness ensured the stunning gleam she’d noticed at her first visit to Jerusalem. Amoz had begun trusting her with more intricate tasks as she’d proven her talent with the clay. “You were born for it,” he’d told her one day after she’d burnished a vase to a glimmering shine. She smiled at the memory, glancing over her shoulder at the old potter. The man of few words had become quite dear to her.
After five moon cycles in the pottery workshop, she felt more like a real person again. Her figure had returned, causing the shepherds, fig pickers, and carpenters to stop their work and stare—much to the old hens’ delight and despair. Delight because it provided endless gossip fodder. Despair because some of those staring were their husbands.
Gomer, however, was interested in only one man. He visited the pottery workshop each evening before sunset—wrapped in a blanket, carried in Aya’s arms. Jezzy greeted Amoz and Gomer with a wide, one-toothed grin.
“How’s ima’s little man?” Gomer asked.
Aya giggled and relinquished her charge. Jezzy’s feet kicked, and he squealed with delight during the transfer. Gomer’s heart took flight.
“He loves his ima,” Amoz said, giving his potter’s wheel another kick. Gomer saw his eyes glisten in the torchlight that framed his workspace.
Aya caressed Jezzy’s downy black curls and exchanged a caring smile with Gomer. “He’s been a little fussy today. I think he’s trying to get a second tooth. He’s been sucking on this.” She fingered a smooth stone with a hole in its middle, tied to his wrist.
Gomer grinned and lifted an eyebrow. “A gift from Savta Yuval?”
Aya nodded. “It came with two days’ supply of fig paste for sweetening.” She handed Gomer the clay cup with the hollow reed that Jezzy used to drink his breast milk.
Gomer set it aside and kissed Jezzy’s nose. “Your savta spoils you, little one!” She held him close, feeling the blessed warmth of this precious gift of life. Thank you, Mother Goddess, for answering my prayer.
Aya meandered over to Amoz and knelt beside his kick wheel. “What is this beautiful piece?” she asked, pointing to the amphora he’d been working on all day.
“It’s dust and ashes compared to you, sweet girl.” The master potter grinned and winked at his soon-to-be daughter-in-law. This girl had cast a spell on both the men in Gomer’s life. Jezzy was well cared for and loved, and Amoz spoke more words to Aya in a few moments than he spoke all day.
Gomer had been wrong to label the girl as one of the camp’s brood of gossiping, self-righteous hens. In those first days of Aya’s service, she had proven somewhat agreeable—even likable—and Gomer had to swallow her pride and apologize.
“It’s all right,” Aya had said. “I deserved your hate. I should never have spoken of your past that morning at the workshop, but I didn’t know what
to say to you.” Sincerity spilled from her wide eyes. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Yuval had laughed out loud when Gomer relayed the girl’s compliment. “Maybe our Aya is more of a conniver than I thought. Are you sure she wasn’t fattening you up for a slaughter?”
Gomer grinned at the memory, her heart aching at the thought of Yuval. She wouldn’t have survived without her help—or Aya’s. It had been several days since she’d seen Yuval. The main fig harvest had begun, and the woman was in constant motion.
“Gomer?” Aya spoke from across the small potter’s loft. “Are you all right?”
She wiped a tear. “I’m fine.” Gomer waved away her concern and propped Jezzy on her hip. “I always miss Yuval when fig season starts.”
“Do you want me to keep Jezzy a little longer tonight?”
“Could you? I’ll try to find her at the fig barn when I leave here.”
Aya laid a hand on Amoz’s shoulder, leaning over to arrest his attention from his work. “Will you be finished in time to share a meal with me, or are you working late tonight?”
He placed both feet on the wheel, slowing its rotation. “I never refuse a meal with my daughter.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek. A slow, sweet smile formed on his face—much like the clay forming beneath his hands. Aya walked toward Gomer and Jezzy, opening her arms wide.
The image would be burned into Gomer’s mind forever. Open arms. Open heart. Innocence embodied. The love Aya radiated was unfathomable. It was a living, breathing entity that consumed everyone within her reach. It was inviting . . . and terrifying. How could Gomer save enough silver to leave this place if she let herself be loved by Aya and Yuval?
She fairly shoved Jezzy into the girl’s arms. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Tell Yuval I said shalom!”
Gomer heard Aya’s words as she descended the loft stairs, and she waved overhead to acknowledge, not trusting her voice to hide the emotions threatening to drown her. She charged through the curtained door and into the sweltering heat of Tekoa’s late summer, keeping her head down and legs churning. She was halfway to the fig barn before she realized, Will Aya remember Jezzy’s clay cup? Jezzy needed it for his morning and bedtime meals, and Gomer always fed him during those hours. Aya wouldn’t think about the cup.
