Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  Hananiah’s cool façade never wavered. “I’ve assigned as many men as I can spare to scout for pagan altars. I don’t have enough soldiers to patrol religious zealots when my primary duty is to protect the nation.” His final words were aimed like arrows at Hosea.

  “You will have no soldiers—and no nation to protect—if the so-called religious zealots aren’t stopped.” Hosea shifted his gaze to the king. “Ultimately, King Uzziah, it is not Judah’s commander Yahweh holds responsible for the nation’s obedience.”

  The sun was sinking on the horizon, and Hosea knew Uzziah could pronounce the beginning of Sabbath at any moment, ending their meeting.

  “You must destroy the high places, Cousin.” Isaiah’s voice was kind but firm, and Uzziah seemed suddenly overwhelmed.

  “You prophets must be reasonable. Yes, some of the high places have become pagan sites, but many Judeans worship Yahweh on the high places because they’re too frightened to enter the temple. If I destroy the high places, where will the people worship Yahweh? They’re horrified at the Lord’s wrath on me! Even my own son Jotham won’t enter the temple to sacrifice! Don’t you see? If I take away their high places, they’ll turn away from the Lord completely!”

  “That’s a lie!” Isaiah’s venom erupted without warning. “Has Hananiah told you that, or has it been whispered to your soul by the false gods that deceive your nation?”

  Hosea saw the king’s wounded expression and quieted his friend, whispering, “Unless you receive a specific word from the Lord, don’t make this your fight, Isaiah. Let your relationship with Uzziah remain unbroken.”

  The fire in his friend’s eyes still burned, but he nodded his understanding and pressed his lips into a thin, straight line.

  “Demonstrate your love for Yahweh,” Hosea said, returning his attention to Judah’s king. “Show the nation your respect for His holiness, and stop condoning their spiritual adultery by leaving the high places intact.”

  Uzziah appeared to be wrestling with some unspoken inner turmoil. Hosea quieted his spirit, pleading with Yahweh for more words—different words—that might convince Judah’s king to relent.

  Unfaithful. Unfaithful. Unfaithful.

  Hosea remembered the shrine prostitutes emerging from the tents after they’d heard his shouting. His heart had twisted at the thought of Gomer in such a life. He pushed himself to stand before offering a final plea. “Imagine one of your family members worshiping the goddess Asherah. Imagine how your heart would ache at such betrayal.”

  The two men leaned on each other and turned toward camp, hearing the quiet sobs of Judah’s king welcoming the Sabbath.

  23

  • HOSEA 2:8 •

  She doesn’t believe that I gave her grain, new wine, and olive oil. I gave her plenty of silver and gold, but she used it to make statues of Baal.

  Silence hung heavily between Hosea and Isaiah as they concentrated on their final steps toward home. Dusk settled, they entered the camp’s gates, and Isaiah sighed. “Has Yahweh told you what awaits you at home?”

  Hosea shook his head, too exhausted—too frightened—to speak. They stopped at Hosea’s courtyard gate.

  “Do you want me to go in with you?” Isaiah asked.

  Hosea nodded, thankful beyond words for a friend like Isaiah. He glanced at the neat row of stone houses. Amos, his northern neighbor, and Jonah, the next home south. Familiar. Unchanged. They passed through Hosea’s courtyard gate, and he inhaled deeply. Home. The figs. The desert breeze. Even his small stable. It was good to be home.

  Isaiah hesitated at the door, letting Hosea open it when he was ready. A low humming sound rose from the other side, and they exchanged a puzzled glance.

  Then Hosea’s heart stopped beating.

  It was the same chanting they’d heard in Asherah’s grove. This time Gomer’s voice droned the song. Isaiah must have realized it at the same time. Hosea watched his head fall forward, defeat written in his stance. Exactly what Hosea felt.

  “Go home, my friend.”

  Isaiah looked up, his eyes full of tears. “Are you sure you want to face this alone?”

  Gomer’s chanting stopped. She must have heard us. Hosea’s heart beat faster, emotions swirling within. Just as he was ready to beg for Isaiah’s help, a chilly breeze lifted the hair from his shoulders, and peace flowed into his spirit. Yahweh.

  Isaiah recognized the Lord’s presence and smiled.

  Hosea chuckled. “I’m not alone. I’ll know what to say when I see her.”

  Isaiah placed a supportive hand on his shoulder and then was gone. Hosea breathed in God’s presence and opened the door.

  No one was in the main room, but he noticed several changes. A bucket for Jezreel’s soiled loincloths sat by the front door, and several wooden toys littered the floor near a large goatskin. The baby must be crawling. The thought sent a pang of regret through him.

  He shrugged off his shoulder bag, letting it fall to the floor. “Gomer?”

  No answer.

  He tiptoed toward their bedchamber, more an effort to avoid the toys than avoid being heard. “Gomer?”

  She was seated on their mattress, holding the Asherah in plain view. “I won’t hide it anymore.” Her eyes sparked with the same challenge that was in her voice. “You need to know the truth, Hosea. I prayed to Asherah the night Jezzy was conceived. Asherah was hidden under this mattress and blessed our union each night. And it is Asherah to whom I will always offer my sacrifices.”

  Each mention of Asherah was like a dagger to his soul. “Where did you get that? I know you didn’t bring it from Samaria.”

  She shot off the bed like an arrow from a bow, leaning into him, daring him to object. “I purchased it in Jerusalem—with your silver—after I saw how your god punished a righteous king. This was the so-called gift I hid in my pocket alongside your dagger in Jerusalem!”

  Holy fury kindled inside Hosea. Had anything they’d shared been true? He stepped forward, moving Gomer back. “If you choose to worship a lie, so be it, but you will not steal Yahweh’s glory and give it to a piece of stone. Look around you, woman. Count the baskets of grain, the skins of wine, the pitchers of oil. It is not your pathetic idol that provided your bread and robes and shelter. It. Was. Yahweh!” he thundered. “And yet you take the silver the Lord provided and squander it on this powerless Asherah.” Hosea secured her wrist with one hand and snatched the goddess away with the other.

  “No!” she screamed. “Give her back to me!”

  “If she is god, let her strike me down and jump back into your hand.”

  Gomer gasped. “How dare you blaspheme the mother godde—”

  “How dare you lie to me with every breath.” His voice broke. Unfaithful. Yahweh’s message had been for him and for Judah.

  Uzziah had refused to destroy the high places, but Hosea would not make the same mistake. He hurled the Asherah at their bedchamber’s stone wall. The satisfying crash was followed by Gomer’s wail. He watched her kneel beside the broken pieces, mourning shattered stone, while his tattered heart bled alone.

  “Where is my son?”

  No answer.

  “Where is Jezreel?” he shouted.

  “With Aya,” she said without looking up, then returned to her weeping, ignoring him. Would she always hate him? Forever defy his authority as her husband?

  Through the anger, Hosea remembered Yahweh’s words to Jeroboam. There is no faithfulness, no love, no acknowledgment of God in the land.

  Hosea sat on the cold, dirt-packed floor and wept—for Israel, for Judah, for Yahweh, for his wife. Lord, teach me to love as You love.

  Gomer rolled onto her side and felt Sampson’s prickly tongue licking her knuckles. She opened one eye, remembering the harsh reality of her new life. Hosea had been back since last Sabbath, and Gomer had chosen to spend her nights on the stack of goatskins in the main room. Her back ached, but at least she didn’t have to face Hosea morning and night. She hardly saw him at all.

&nbs
p; She sat up, listening for Jezzy’s morning gurgle. All was silent. She slipped on her robe, grabbed a piece of bread and hard cheese, wrapped them in a cloth, and shoved them into her pocket. Her midday meal. She sipped the remainder of last night’s goat’s milk. On the edge of sour. She stared at the cup of white liquid, considering whether to throw it out or save it for baking.

  Then she pondered a similar choice for her rancid existence—give up or salvage it? Oh, how she wished she had Lady Asherah to pray to. Perhaps Amoz could somehow purchase one for her—but could she use Hosea’s silver again?

  “Good morning.” Hosea’s gravelly voice startled her, and she sloshed goat’s milk all over the table.

  She growled and soaked it up with a nearby cloth, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

  “I’ve been home since last Sabbath, Gomer. You must talk to me sometime.”

  She slammed the cloth down. “Perhaps, but I will only talk to you when I must.” Sighing, she tried to steady her nerves. She couldn’t think when he looked at her that way.

  “Why are you going to the pottery shop so early this morning?” Hosea had insisted on maintaining their routine. Jezzy still slept on a goatskin in the bedchamber. Aya still cared for him daily. And Gomer still worked all day at the pottery workshop. “You usually wait until after you’ve given Jezzy a fresh cup of milk.”

  Gomer’s mind reeled to think of an excuse. She couldn’t tell him she hoped to find Amoz worshiping Asherah! “Isaiah and Aya’s wedding is less than two moons away, and Amoz asked me to help finish a special project he’s working on.”

  Hosea studied her. Could he see the lie written on her face? “I love you, Gomer.”

  A knot of emotion hardened into a boulder in her stomach. Love. What is love? “You’ll find a clean cup by the washbasin.” She grabbed her walking stick and fled before he could say more.

  Dawn’s light bathed the main path, and Gomer drew in a deep breath of morning air. She stirred the dusty path with her walking stick to alert sunbathing vipers of her presence. Tekoa. She hated it. Why didn’t she leave? Because I have nothing of my own—except Jezzy. The thought of leaving her son ripped her heart open. But fleeing Tekoa was a ridiculous dream anyway. She was trapped in this marriage as she’d been imprisoned at the brothel—the same hopelessness, different chains. She thought learning a trade would free her, but Amoz had made it clear he wouldn’t share profits. Like every other woman’s, Gomer’s options were few. She needed that new Asherah.

  She hurried her pace, noticing three men pulling a wagon full of leather-hard pots through the southern gates near the shop. “Shalom, and good morning,” she said, pretending gaiety. All three men were familiar—cave runners for Amoz’s drying procedure. She encouraged their hungry stares and slowed her walk, giving them a lingering view. “Has Master Amoz arrived yet?” She joined them beside the wagon, running her fingers along the edge of the rows of clay pots.

  The tallest of the workmen stepped forward, exchanging glances with his two friends. “I don’t believe Master Amoz is here. We go to the caves at sunrise to retrieve the pots so they’re waiting in the shop when he arrives.” He stepped closer, just a handbreadth away. He smelled like stale sweat and watered wine, but Gomer didn’t recoil. Smiling, he revealed yellowed teeth and kept his voice low. “Aren’t you the prophet’s wife from Israel?” His eyes roamed her. “The one they say used to be a harlot?”

  Gomer glanced left and right, motioning for the tall man to lean closer. “How do you feel about keeping Yahweh’s laws?” she asked, brushing his ear with her lips.

  “I’m not much of a religious man.” He chuckled and remained bent low.

  “I need to earn some silver,” she whispered, “but I would need to trust a man’s discretion before I could revisit my old profession.” Blowing on his ear, she added, “Would you or your two friends like to show me the caves where the pottery dries? Perhaps there I could show you my unique skills—for a price?”

  The man stood to his full height and swallowed hard. “The lady wants to see the caves where we dry the pottery,” he said to his friends. Their brows furrowed in confusion, so he lifted both eyebrows in a not-so-subtle explanation. “You two deliver this wagonload to the shop while the lady and I visit the last cave. Then each of you can take a turn—showing the lady the caves.”

  His companions glanced at him and then at Gomer, their eyes wide.

  Gomer’s heart raced, the familiar rush of excitement, the thrill of the forbidden. She licked her lips slowly. “Before we leave, I must have two things.” The men began nodding before she listed her requirements. “You must keep your mouths shut, and I want to see your silver before we go.”

  Two of them reached into their pockets to produce payment, but the third sounded panicked. “I keep my silver at home.”

  Gomer stepped over to the nervous little man. “Well, you’d better hurry home before your friend and I return then.” She glanced in the direction of Hosea’s house. “I’m finished offering my services for free.”

  24

  • 2 CHRONICLES 26:21 •

  King Uzziah had a skin disease until the day he died. . . . He lived in a separate house and was barred from Yahweh’s temple. His son Jotham was in charge of the royal palace and governed the country.

  Aya was beauty defined on her wedding day, and Isaiah couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her. Wedding preparations had taken entirely too long, according to the young groom, but the reward for his wait stood before him in fine white linen and a delicate golden-edged veil. Surrounded by what seemed the entire prophets’ camp, the bride and groom stood under their wedding canopy ten cubits from King Uzziah’s rented house. Hosea, friend of the bridegroom, read their betrothal agreement:

  On this, the eighth day of Chislev, in the city of Tekoa, Isaiah, son of Amoz, enters into this agreement with Aya, daughter of Enoch. Let Isaiah, with the help of heaven, honor, support, and maintain her . . .

  Hosea spoke to the audience, but his heart was set on one person alone. Gomer. She stood beside Amoz, her placement an honor, designating her as family. Today was a day for celebration—but she stood like granite. Emotionless. Heartless.

  Amoz reached into his robe and passed her a small, cloth-wrapped bundle hidden beneath his giant paw. Perhaps he’d made her a cup or a bowl. Maybe a toy for Jezzy. She shifted Jezzy to one hip and buried the treasure in her robe pocket.

  Hosea read the final words on the scroll: “Let this treaty seal Isaiah’s vow to marry Aya in no less than one year, when he will claim her as his wife according to the Law of Moses and Israel.” Hosea glanced up with a sheepish grin. “I’m thankful the agreement didn’t specify exactly a year, or I would have had to traipse around Israel without my best friend.” Good-natured chuckles rippled through the audience, giving the high priest a few moments to instruct the bride and groom on the next portion of the ceremony.

  Hosea rejoined Gomer, Jezzy, and Amoz. He cradled his wife’s elbow, leaned close. “May I see the gift Amoz gave you?”

  Her head snapped toward him. Was it fear or anger in those hazel eyes? “Can’t you wait until your best friend’s wedding is finished? It’s just a new cup for Jezzy.” Her whispered words spewed venom, and she returned her attention to the celebration before he could respond.

  If it was a clay cup, why was she trembling? Why so disturbed? Suspicion coiled around his heart like a viper, but then he glimpsed Amoz. Isaiah’s abba was a good man. Quiet and rather broken, but what could he give Gomer that would be offensive? Hosea squeezed the tight muscles at the back of his neck and sighed. Enjoy the celebration.

  “Thank you for joining our family to celebrate Isaiah and Aya’s special day.” King Uzziah’s voice rose, and Hosea watched Amoz tense. When the high priest concluded the service, it was customary for the groom’s abba to direct the guests. Evidently not so today. “We have prepared a wedding feast fit for a king!” Uzziah’s weak voice rose, and the audience cheered.

  Hananiah, w
ho stood beside him, raised his sword in the air, motioning for silence. “I have an announcement to add to this day’s celebrating.”

  Prince Jotham emerged from the rented house, and every sound stilled. “From this day forward,” Uzziah said, “my son Jotham reigns as coregent in Jerusalem!” He tried to shout the ending declaration, working to regain the crowd’s vigor. But a slow, forced applause that began with Commander Hananiah was the crowd’s only offering. Jotham looked as if he might run back into the house. Isaiah and Aya kept their heads bowed under the wedding canopy.

  Amoz cursed under his breath, and Gomer turned to Hosea. “Go talk to Uzziah.”

  The wedding guests began ambling toward the feasting tables, an uncomfortable pall settling over them. Jezzy leaned toward his father, arms extended, and Hosea’s heart melted. His son had grown quite fond of him in the full moon since he’d returned home. He reached for the boy and nuzzled that soft, sweaty place where his neck and shoulder met.

  Gomer followed Amoz without looking back.

  Hosea felt like a fish swimming upstream, walking toward the king when all others walked away. Hananiah and Jotham remained. Hosea stood beneath the wedding canopy since the audience tapestry had been replaced for the day. “Shalom, my lord,” he said to the king, and then nodded silent recognition to the others.

  “Isaiah married a beautiful bride.” Uzziah seemed eager to keep the conversation light.

  Hosea saw no need to. “I’m puzzled at the timing of your announcement, my king.”

  Uzziah hesitated, and Hosea sensed some inner turmoil. “Will you come closer so we might talk privately, my friend?”

  “You know the Law. I cannot.”

  “Do you love your son, Hosea?” Uzziah’s expression was unreadable, and a deep sense of foreboding shadowed Hosea’s spirit.

  “Of course. As you love Jotham.”

  “As King Jeroboam undoubtedly loved Zechariah, his son.” His eyes nearly pierced Hosea’s soul.