by Mesu Andrews
With every step toward the burning city, Hosea felt Yahweh’s sorrow—and His growing wrath. This carnage was prophesied, a declaration of Yahweh, but in response to the acts of men. Menahem’s choice to slaughter. Tiphsah’s choice to rebel. Israel’s choice to worship idols. Everyone had a choice to hear or silence the whisper of Yahweh. These men silenced Him and acted on the evil in their hearts.
Menahem’s encampment created a giant yoke around Tiphsah. Crude soldiers’ tents dotted the countryside, nothing more than sackcloth lifted by center sticks. No royal goat’s-hair dwelling for the king and his advisors. Menahem slept among his men—now a king, forever a soldier.
Hosea walked through the rows of tents, waiting for a guard to stop him, ready to be shackled as he neared the city. But the camp was deserted. All of them must be looting.
Hosea approached the city, hearing screams and smelling the unmistakable stench of death—blood, urine, smoke. He paused near one of the war machines that had pummeled the gates. Abandoned. Scarred. Used up. It had served its purpose. Charred gates hung on broken iron hinges. The screaming continued—screams of terror. Odd, no grieving wails. Hosea stood frozen, listening, staring at the broken bodies strewn near the charred gates.
Yahweh commanded, Press on.
A few screams remained.
Then only one.
Then silence.
Hosea stepped inside the city, expecting bedlam, finding instead shocked horror. Consuming silence descended like a shroud. Soldiers stood over their savagery, dazed. Swords dripping. Seemingly stunned at the sight before them. Many dropped their swords and fell to their knees. The silence was broken—as broken as the warriors who had committed unspeakable barbarism. No one dared wail. None were worthy to grieve. Only shameful sobs escaped covered faces.
Hosea stepped away from the city wall where he’d been hidden by afternoon shadows and walked resolutely toward the central city well. He was cautiously tiptoeing over death and misery when a war cry erupted behind him.
“In the name of King Jeroboam and King Zechariah, you will die!”
Footsteps ran at him from behind, and Hosea turned an extended hand toward his attacker. “In the name of Yahweh, you will be silent before me!”
Menahem held his sword in striking position and skidded to a halt a mere camel’s length from Hosea’s hand.
“King Menahem, return to Yahweh or face destruction,” Hosea panted, heart racing. “Israel has chosen kings Yahweh did not approve and princes He did not know. But you are now Israel’s king, and you must lead God’s people. King Menahem, will you acknowledge Yahweh as Israel’s Elohim?”
Menahem’s arms trembled from his striking pose. A moment of decision crossed his face, and he lowered his sword. “I remember you,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You were the prophet that threatened Jeroboam at the temple sacrifice in Samaria.” His expression almost held a measure of amusement. “And you married that harlot.”
“That harlot and I have a son named Jezreel—named by Yahweh to foretell Zechariah’s assassination in the valley of Jezreel.”
“You knew of the conspiracy and didn’t send a warning?” All amusement fled, and Menahem adjusted his grip on his sword.
“Yahweh speaks truth to me, but He seldom reveals timing.” Hosea stepped forward, now a cubit from the new king’s imposing form. He swallowed hard, reminding himself that obedience to the Lord must outweigh fear of man. “Sound the ram’s horn, Menahem. Assyria will swoop down on you like an eagle. The people of Israel have rejected Yahweh’s promises and rebelled against His teachings.”
“We have not rejected El!” He closed the gap between them and shrieked in Hosea’s face, his fury sudden and unchecked. “You prophets and priests spout your legends while warriors bathe in blood. Look around you, Prophet. A king deals with real life—traitors and rebellions.”
“Real life is Yahweh, King Menahem.” Hosea spoke with a calmness he didn’t yet feel. “If you will acknowledge Him, He will give you the wisdom and power to rule. But you must seek Him sincerely.”
Menahem’s rage grew like a living thing, crimson climbing up his neck and consuming his face. He looked to the heavens, shaking his fist. “I acknowledge You, Elohim! What more do You want from me?” His sword clattered to the ground, and he drew his dagger. “Blood? Do You want more blood?”
Hosea gasped, closing his eyes and bracing himself, certain he would feel the searing slice of the king’s blade.
Instead, Menahem’s tortured cries continued. “Let mighty Baal arise, the rider of the clouds. Speak on your servant’s behalf to the benign one, our El. Protect us from Assyria’s eagle god, Nisroch, and bless our grain and new wine.”
Hosea opened his eyes to see Israel’s king cutting his own arms and legs. “No!” he shouted as others unsheathed their daggers. “No, stop!” He watched in horror, soldiers all around them following their king’s example, and Hosea remembered Yahweh’s words: They don’t pray to Me sincerely. They cry out and make cuts on their bodies.
Numbly, Hosea walked away from the frenzied worshipers, his heart twisting in his chest. The whisper of Yahweh’s Spirit drew him out of the city. They have rejected what is good. Now the enemy will persecute them.
As he was almost to the city gate, a giant shadow fell across Hosea’s path. “Keep your distance, Prophet. King Menahem has given me freedom to assess and attack any threat to his throne.”
Hosea looked up to meet the menacing grin of Eitan, the soldier he remembered from Samaria—the man who had beaten Gomer nearly to death. “I am no threat, Eitan.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Should I be honored you remembered my name, or should I have you arrested as a spy?”
“Neither. I remember the name of the man who almost killed my wife.”
A smirk replaced the curiosity. “Forgive me if I do not remember your wife—or her name.” Then pointing to a crumpled mound a camel’s length away, he said, “Women are of little concern to me.” He shoved Hosea as he walked past him into the bedlam of pagan worship.
When Hosea regained his footing, he focused on the bloody mound Eitan had pointed to with his sword. A pregnant woman whose child had been torn from her womb. Yahweh, Lord in heaven! How could anyone . . .
He turned away. Gomer. His wife’s face, her swollen belly flashed in his mind. The woman on the ground was someone’s wife, the child someone’s babe. He fell to his hands and knees and retched.
He began to tremble with unanswered questions. Why was he here? What good had his prophecies done? Yahweh, must I continue to speak to people who refuse to hear? A sob escaped, and he remained on his knees. Waiting. Was it a coincidence he’d encountered Eitan? Seen the savagery of the maimed woman?
He wiped his face and stood, lifting his voice to heaven. “I haven’t heard Your direct command, but I feel You leading me back to Tekoa, Lord.” Again he waited. Silence. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “I’ll move toward home until I hear You tell me differently.”
And then he ran.
Gomer rinsed the last clay bowl, dried it with an old cloth, and stacked it with the other dishes on the shelf above the worktable. Her eyelids felt heavy, bones weary. Jezzy and Rahmy had been especially rambunctious tonight, difficult to settle onto their sleeping mat in the bedchamber. Aya didn’t run and play with them as much since she was expecting her first little one, but she still loved Gomer’s children as if they were her own. And Aya did most of the cooking since Gomer had returned to work at the shop. Amoz had forgiven Gomer’s coercive tactics and seemed eager to help her develop her pottery skills.
Life had settled into a comfortable routine again.
It was time to think about leaving.
She emptied her silver out of the small pitcher and counted it again, hoping it had miraculously multiplied. It hadn’t.
Unable to imagine life without her children, she’d hoped Amoz might help her start a new life in another city. Her skill at the kick wheel had improved, and she’d
thrown her first amphora today. His pride in her work was tempered by her interest in Lachish.
“Have you forgotten what it’s like to be a woman alone on the streets?” he’d whispered, glancing left and right to be sure no one overheard. “Don’t be a fool, Gomer. You wouldn’t make it to the next town without being sold into slavery—you and your children. Don’t decide something when you’re warm and dry that could make you cold and destitute.”
When she asked if he’d share sales profits on her pieces, he’d unequivocally refused, saying he didn’t want to encourage her nonsense.
She scooped her meager silver pieces back into the pitcher and picked up Sampson. She snuggled into the soft fur, bracing herself against the hard truth. If she was ever going to escape Tekoa, she’d have to resume her harlotry. Yuval’s dear face came to mind, and her heart ached. Her friend had been gone a lot recently, traveling with Amos to help with trading, she’d said. But Yuval was hiding something.
Gomer chuckled quietly. “Yuval is hiding something.” The irony didn’t escape her. She was planning to leave her friend without a word, and yet she was concerned that Yuval was spending time away with her husband. Ridiculous, Gomer.
Perhaps after she and the children left Tekoa and were settled somewhere, she could get word to Yuval. No. Too dangerous. Hosea would undoubtedly search for Jezzy. She might need to go to Egypt or Aram in order to escape beyond her husband’s reach. That means more silver. She squeezed her eyes shut and wiped her weary face, determining to cultivate a wealthier clientele. She didn’t have time to see more men.
A knock on the door interrupted her planning. “Who could that be?” she asked the cat. Sampson answered with his normal purr and wiggled out of her arms.
She opened the door and found Hananiah filling the space. “Commander?” Her heart leapt to her throat. “Is it Hosea?”
“I’m here to deliver a message from your husband.” He bowed slightly, a hint of a smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late. I hope I didn’t wake you or the children.” His focus was behind her, inspecting her house.
“The children are sleeping. Would you like to come in?”
He stepped over the threshold before her invitation was complete, his shoulders wider than the door, bowing his head to enter. “Hosea sent a message, and I thought you might be anxious to hear from him.” His eyes roamed her face as if measuring her reaction. Whatever game he was playing, she was too tired to care.
“Actually, I’m not anxious to hear from him at all, Commander.” She went to the worktable and reached for the grinding wheel. I might as well grind barley for tomorrow’s bread if he’s going to talk. She ladled a cup of grain into the furrow, smoothed it with her fingers. “What’s the message? Does he want me out of the house before he returns?” She was partly jesting. As long as Hosea let her keep her children, she’d gladly leave. She turned to lay the grinder on the worktable and was startled to see the commander standing so near.
He stepped closer. Loomed over her. Gazed down at her. Hungry.
Her mind reeled. What was he doing here? Did he really have a message from Hosea? Should she be afraid? The kitchen knife on the other side of the table came to mind. “I’m suddenly anxious to hear whatever you have to say, Commander Hananiah.” She kept her voice low, seductive.
He stepped to within a handbreadth, leaning over her, whispering, “Your husband has sent word through King Uzziah’s spies. He’ll be returning before next Sabbath.”
Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Hosea’s news or Hananiah’s nearness.
The commander traced a line from her shoulder to her fingertips, then bent and kissed her shoulder. His large hand came to rest on her kitchen knife. “You won’t need that tonight—or ever—with me, Gomer. Though I have wanted you since the moment I saw you, I will never force myself on you.” He placed both hands on her waist, felt the curves of her form. “It’s a crime that your husband leaves you alone for so long. Such a fine piece of pottery is worth a high price. I will pay you well if you are willing to be discreet. Tell no one of our visits. I’ll come at night, while your children sleep.” He bent to kiss her, hesitantly at first, teasing her. He smiled and pulled away, but she captured his face with her hands and kissed him thoroughly.
When was Hosea coming home?
Hosea’s heart pounded in his ears, and even Micah was breathing heavily. They’d pushed themselves hard on the final hike from Bethlehem to Tekoa. Hosea needed to see Gomer, and they both needed to talk with Jonah. The gruesome images of Tiphsah still haunted Hosea. When he’d returned to the hideaway in Shiloh and recounted the atrocities to Micah, they’d gathered their supplies and sent word through Uzziah’s spies of their imminent return home.
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?” Micah asked, picking up speed on the way down a rocky incline.
A wash of sadness paused Hosea’s answer.
The young man looked back. “I’m sorry, Hosea. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s hard to plan when I don’t know what or who awaits me.” He’d considered the possibility that Gomer would be gone—even that she would have taken the children. “But I’m trying hard to trust that I’m not too late here as well.” That terrible feeling of helplessness revisited him. If he’d gotten to Tiphsah a little sooner, could he have stopped the carnage?
Micah waited for him on the trail at the crest of the next hill. Almost as tall as Hosea, the young man settled his hand on his teacher’s shoulder. “An eerily white old man once told me that Yahweh’s timing is perfect, and we should never live in a state of regret for things we cannot control.”
The comment earned a smile and lightened Hosea’s heart. “What old coot told you that?” Both chuckled and hurried toward camp, eager to see their old teacher. Lord, let him be alive.
Jogging now that the camp was in sight, Micah pointed at the small stone structures situated north of Amos’s walled compound. “Should we stop and report to King Uzziah before we go home?”
Hosea was huffing, feeling older than his twenty-four years. “I say we shout a promise to return after we say hello to our households.” Micah laughed, and Hosea added, “He can send his guards to collect us if he feels it’s a matter of national security.”
The jovial mood helped dull Hosea’s angst, but once he was inside the camp’s gate, emotion overwhelmed him. They passed Amos’s house and then hesitated at Hosea’s courtyard gate. Micah patted his shoulder and stopped at Jonah’s gate next door. They shared a glance, nodded, and stepped into their unknown circumstances.
Hosea noted the stable—clean and neatly kept, the animals calm and peaceful. The sun had begun its descent over the western hills. Hmm. Isaiah did the chores early.
He stopped at the front door, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached for the latch three times before finally pushing it open. Jezzy was toddling after the cat, and a baby was swaddled on the worktable. Gomer looked up. Her hands stilled, full of barley dough.
“Hosea?”
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His breathing grew more ragged, his knees suddenly weak. He leaned on his walking stick, stumbling to a goatskin rug.
“Are you hurt?” Gomer grabbed the baby and laid her on the rug beside him, then lifted his chin to search his face. “Are you hurt?” she asked again.
He stared into her beautiful hazel eyes with flecks of green, gold, and brown. Tears choked him. “You’re safe.” It was all he could think of to say. Somewhere in his soul, he had feared she’d be maimed or beaten—or gone.
“Hosea, are you all right?” She reached out to brush his beard with her fingers. “What happened? What’s wrong with you?”
“Ima?” Jezzy came to her for comfort, laying his head on her chest.
Hosea’s heart fluttered. Their son adored her, it was clear. He choked back sobs, his words garbled amid the emotions that tore at his heart and strangled his voice. “Tiphsah . . . families . . . Eitan s
aid . . .”
Fear etched her features as she stroked his cheeks. “I can’t understand what you’re saying, Hosea.”
He shook his head, fell silent. How could he tell her he’d been too late? He glimpsed the baby girl on the rug beside him and whispered, “Lo-Ruhamah.”
“Rahmy.” Gomer’s voice grew cold.
Defeated, he let his head fall forward. “I can’t fight with you now, Gomer.” Hesitating, he pleaded, “Please be the little girl at Bethel. Be my Gomer.” He closed his eyes, spent.
She held Jezzy in one arm and slid her other arm around his shoulders, rocking them both. “You’re home, Hosea. Rest now. You’re home.” Her strength soaked into him, reviving, restoring.
He lost track of time, but when Jezzy’s tummy rumbled, Gomer sat him on Hosea’s lap. “I need to fix our meal.”
Hosea halted her and reached for the swaddled bundle beside him. “May I hold Rahmy while you cook?”
She hesitated, glancing between Hosea and Jezzy, seemingly cautious to trust him with her newest treasure. She nodded once but kept a watchful eye on all three. Hosea lifted the little bundle into his arms, studying her pink cheeks, wrinkled fingers, tiny nose. “She’s beautiful, Gomer.” Tears came again, this time grateful offerings to the One who plants the seeds of love. Thank You, Yahweh, for this baby—for changing my heart to call her Rahmy, not Lo-Ruhamah.
He lay down on the goatskin rug, placing the babe on his chest. Jezzy resumed his pursuit of Sampson, too wiggly to cuddle for long. Throughout the night, Hosea marveled at Gomer’s tenderness toward the children, the richness with which she loved them.
“Tell your abba good night,” she said, holding Jezzy’s hand, guiding him toward Hosea. He received the sweet kiss from his son’s rosebud lips and listened to Gomer sing a bedtime tune. Yahweh, thank You for bringing me home.
“Hosea.” His wife stood over him in the dim light of a single oil lamp. She reached down, inviting him. “I’m no longer the girl from Bethel.” Her eyes were filled with compassion. “I can’t bear to see you in torment. Let me comfort you.”
