by Mesu Andrews
Hosea chuckled. “I do remember! Yahweh gives His prophets the ability to hear and remember His words exactly. But first I must ask you a question. Do you know what work you’d like to do when you become a man?”
The boy glanced at Isaiah, silently questioning.
“Tell your abba,” Isaiah coaxed.
Jezzy kept his head bowed, peeking out from a fringe of curly bangs. “I told Isaiah yesterday, but I was afraid you’d be disappointed. I want to be a farmer like Saba Amos, working the soil and tending the groves.”
Hosea barely held back tears. “I’m not disappointed at all, and I think you’ll realize Yahweh hears your prayers when you hear His message about you: ‘On that day I will answer your prayers,’ Yahweh declared. ‘I will speak to the sky, and it will speak to the earth, and the earth will produce grain, new wine, and olive oil. You will produce many crops, Jezreel. I will plant My people in the land.’”
“Yahweh said that about me?” The boy’s eyes filled with wonder.
Hosea tousled his curly, black hair. “Yes, He did. So tell those mean shepherd boys that you have roots, Jezreel, and pray for your ima. Yahweh will answer your prayers. She’s coming home someday.”
47
• ISAIAH 64:8–9 •
But now, Yahweh, you are our Ab. We are the clay, and you are our potter. We are the work of your hands. . . . Don’t remember our sin forever.
Gomer sat staring at the clay vessels lined up on the natural shelf in her cave. One for each day she’d been in this wretched hole in the mountain—seven. Eight, actually. Yesterday had been the Sabbath, so Hosea hadn’t come. He’d brought enough provisions to last through his day of rest. When will I get to rest from this monotonous boredom?
She hadn’t even counted the first four days, when they’d wandered to find the “right” cave, waiting on Yahweh’s approval. When the fickle deity had finally made up His mind, Hosea had gone back to Tekoa and left her to spend the longest night of her life in the cold, dark cavern. No dagger. No food. A single blanket and water skin. When Hosea returned the next day, the sun was overhead, and she was overwrought.
“Where have you been?” she shouted through tears. “I thought you weren’t coming! I can’t do this, Hosea. I’m leaving. Give me whatever supplies you’ve brought. I’ll make my way west, toward the Great Sea, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
He gathered her into his arms and held her as she cried. That’s when Sampson emerged from Hosea’s shoulder pack, licked her hand, and scared her. She jumped back and almost fell over the nearby cliff.
The little beast purred in her arms, and she was thankful for his companionship—though even he was becoming bored in this ridiculous cave. They’d left the cave yesterday to do some exploring, but Yahweh’s wind stirred the desert dust, chasing them back inside. What was she? His prisoner?
The silent accusation pricked her heart. She’d done nothing but accuse Yahweh all her life. What if Hosea was right? What if human choices—hers and others—had been the source of her wounds, and Yahweh had been her protector, not the instigator of all wrongs?
“Shalom the cave!” Hosea chuckled, thinking his amended greeting witty.
Gomer thought it annoying, but she was thankful to hear any human voice. She stood, waiting for his strong silhouette in the cave entrance.
“Good morning, my love.” His gentle voice squeezed her heart, but she couldn’t let go of her anger.
“Is it still morning? I thought it was evening. I was afraid I’d have to eat Sampson.”
He entered the cave with slow, deliberate steps. Five oil lamps illuminated his handsome features. His robe, wet with perspiration, clung to his well-muscled form, and his hair hung in wet ringlets around his face. This was her Hosea, all of him, every sight and smell and sound of him.
She realized it then—she loved him. In spite of the annoyances, in spite of their past failures—with all her heart, she loved him.
He stopped a camel’s length from her, and she ached to hold him. “I’ve brought another clay vessel for your collection.” He opened his pack, withdrawing the supplies first. Bread, cheese, olives, and dates. “Amoz said he’d teach you how to make this type of pitcher when you return to camp—if you’d like to learn.” He pulled out a burnished water pitcher the height of a woman’s forearm, as slender as a gourd.
She gasped. “It’s lovely.” Then, suspicion rising, she glanced at the simple clay pieces lined up on her shelf—two bowls, two plates, a jug, and two cups. “Why are you giving me such a fine piece today?”
He sighed, shoulders slumped. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know when I have bad news.”
She grabbed the pitcher from his hands and stalked over to the shelf to set it with the rest of her collection. “I assume you have bad news, and I haven’t been surprised yet.”
The silence told her she’d hurt him. She squeezed her eyes shut. Why must her tongue be so sharp?
“I can’t stay long today. It’s fig harvest, and Yuval relies on my help since Amos is bedfast.” She heard him sigh again. “I’m sorry, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Gomer whirled around, and he stepped back, looking startled. “Yuval relies on you? Israel relies on you? What about me, Hosea? When can I rely on you?”
She grabbed the new burnished pitcher and hurled it at his head. He ducked, and the vessel crashed against the cave wall, breaking into a dozen pieces. She gasped, hands over her mouth. “What have I done?”
Hosea said nothing, simply bowed and began picking up the pieces while Gomer stood in humiliated silence.
When he’d placed all the pieces in his shoulder pack, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll ask Amoz if I can bring you a project to keep you busy. It seems you have some pent-up energy to expend.”
She nodded, holding back her sobs until he disappeared outside the cave, and then melted to the floor. How could she have been so foolish? She imagined Amoz sitting at the kick wheel, his steady hands gliding up the sides of that pitcher, shaping the clay into submissive beauty. Now it was beyond repair.
A gentle wind lifted the hair from her shoulders. I am the potter. You are the clay. You have been broken.
“I know! I know!” she screamed. “And shards are worthless! Aaahhhh!” She shrieked like a madwoman, slamming her fists into her lap, spending her anger, her energy, her soul.
Lying against the cave wall, she could only whisper now, “If I’m broken, why don’t You leave me alone? Why do You still work with broken shards?”
Silence. No voice. No wind.
Gomer closed her eyes, but even in the darkness, she realized—she was not alone. Her question had not been why Yahweh left, but why He still worked. Though Yahweh remained silent, she knew He had not abandoned her. Just as Hosea had gone back to camp and she knew he would return tomorrow. Yahweh was as real to her in that moment as Hosea.
She opened her eyes and stared at the clay vessels on the shelf—bowls, plates, cups—and she laughed. Actually laughed. The Asherah she’d hidden beneath her mattress was as dead and worthless as those clay dishes. How could she have been so blind? When had Asherah stirred the wind? When had the mother goddess saved her from danger? Had a pagan ritual ever filled her with the peace she felt in this moment?
“You are the one true God.” It was a whisper that resounded like a shout.
Fresh tears wet her cheeks, this time tears of joy. Sampson emerged from beneath a cushion, where he’d been hiding from her wrath. He curled into her lap, his presence adding to her peace. Her heartbeat slowed, her breathing deepened. Sleep wrapped her like a warm blanket on a cool night.
Hosea returned to camp and went straight to the pottery shop to request a burnishing project for Gomer. How could she hear Yahweh speak when she was completely overwrought?
“Amoz, my friend,” he said, sprinting up the loft stairs, “how many pots can you give me for Gomer to work on in that cave?”
Isai
ah sat across from his abba while Amoz hunched over his kick wheel, wetting the piece of clay, pulling at its sides to build its height. The potter continued in silence while Isaiah exposed his friend’s heart. “Why would you distract Gomer with pottery when the Lord has placed her in a cave to remove her from all distractions?”
Hosea was glad the shop was empty. Keeping Gomer’s return from the camp gossips had been difficult. “I can’t stand it, Isaiah. She’s terrified in that cave, and though I know Yahweh has promised to protect her, I lay in bed at night, praying for her, thinking about her, missing her.”
“And so you’ve decided to rescue her from Yahweh’s plan.” Isaiah crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m not rescuing her. I’m . . . I’m . . .”
Isaiah lifted one eyebrow and waited.
“She’s bored, but she hasn’t yet experienced Yahweh at a deep level—in a way that changes her perspective on life and love and the world around her. So what’s the harm in giving her something to do while she waits?”
“What if giving her a distraction is like bandaging an infected wound?”
Amoz removed his hands from the clay and lifted a single eyebrow, looking remarkably like his son. “I experienced Yahweh through years of living with Isaiah and Aya, seeing Him lived out in their lives. Do you expect Gomer to shed a harlot’s skin like a desert cobra, becoming a quiet, submissive wife?” He chuckled. “I think she may be in that cave forever.”
Isaiah’s eyes were as round as his abba’s kick wheel, glancing first at Hosea and then at his suddenly eloquent abba. “I think that’s more than you’ve ever said in a single conversation.” He chuckled, and his abba offered a wry grin. “And you raise a good point.” Then he asked Hosea, “What changes do you expect? How will you know when she’s ready to come home?”
Hosea watched the potter return to his project. “Uh, I don’t know. I just know it hasn’t happened yet.”
Amoz pointed a sloppy hand to a drying rack nearby. “Give her one of those pots to burnish and one of those smooth stones over there. It won’t take a full day, but it’ll give her a purpose.” He looked up again. “What did she think of the pitcher?”
Hosea squinted, having dreaded this moment all the way home. “She loved it—right up to the moment she threw it at me.”
“What?” Amoz dragged his feet, slowing the wheel, all traces of good humor halting with it. “What did you do to make her angry?”
“Why is it my fault?” Hosea feigned offense. “She’s the one who threw the vase.”
“It was a pitcher.”
“Regardless—I was wondering . . . ,” Hosea stammered, hesitant now that Amoz seemed perturbed. He pulled the broken pieces from his pack. “Is there a way you could fix it?”
Amoz studied the broken shards, and a spark of excitement lit his eyes. “Maybe we could do it,” he whispered.
“So, that’s a yes? You can fix the vas—I mean the pitcher?”
“Hosea, I think we can fix the workshop!” He exchanged a glance with Isaiah.
“What’s wrong with the workshop?” Hosea asked, surprised at the concern he saw on both men’s faces.
Amoz sobered and peeked over the loft railing, ensuring they were alone. “Since Isaiah’s prophecy at Uzziah’s burial, the palace has discontinued its pottery orders. At first I thought it merely a family squabble—Jotham holding a grudge—but when even sales in Jerusalem’s market dwindled to half, I realized it was persecution from many in Judah for my son’s message from Yahweh.”
Anger sparked in Hosea’s gut. “I had no idea King Jotham was leading the people away from the Lord.”
“Jotham remains obedient to the Lord’s commands,” Isaiah added quickly. “He’s as faithful as his abba Uzziah, with the same unfortunate weakness—he still refuses to tear down the high places.” His features grew dark. “And I’ve heard rumors that Prince Ahaz is becoming more outspoken in his rebellion against Yahweh worship. He will most likely remain obedient as long as Jotham reigns, but we must prepare for a day when Ahaz takes the throne.”
“You two can discuss Judah’s political woes another time,” Amoz said, waving away their concerns. “Right now we must focus on how to keep this shop producing pottery even though we have few markets that sell what we produce.” Pointing a clay-covered finger at Hosea, he added, “And I believe your wife’s tantrum may have provided our answer.”
Hosea studied the shards and then glimpsed Amoz’s satisfied smile. “You think a broken pitcher will help the shop’s trading struggle?”
The potter offered a confident nod. “When I owned the kiln in Lachish, my fiercest competitor had started experimenting with a new bonding process to mend broken pottery. By boiling a mixture of animal blood, tree sap, and egg whites, he glued the pieces together, let them dry, and then refired the vessel with a short, intense blast of heat. The results left the restored vessel sturdy, though not waterproof, and the residual scarring of the cracks added a new dimension to its beauty.”
Hosea’s heart began to race as Amoz described the process, and Yahweh’s warmth surged through him.
“I think we could create a unique business of restoring broken vessels. I’ve never heard of another craftsman doing it, and perhaps we could establish a new trade in Jerusalem.”
“Yes, Amoz, yes.” Hosea was overwhelmed again by the wonder of Yahweh’s plan and provision. He stood to go.
“Wait, Hosea!” Amoz pointed to the row of leather-hardened pots waiting for burnishing. “Don’t forget to take a pot and burnishing stone to Gomer. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
Hosea returned and held out his hand. Amoz lifted his brows and showed him both hands full of muddy clay. When Hosea persisted, Amoz laughed and locked wrists with his friend—mud and all.
“You have been more helpful than you can imagine,” Hosea said. “Yahweh has used you mightily tonight.” He left a shocked and happy Amoz to ponder his words.
“Where are you going?” Isaiah shouted as he hurried out the door.
“To check on Amos and help Yuval with the figs. Then I’ll gather my children and thank your wife.” He turned before disappearing through the curtained door. “I must make all my visits now because when my wife returns home, you won’t see us for many moons!”
He left to the sound of his friends’ joyful laughter.
Let her come home soon, Yahweh. Soon.
Gomer stared at the sputtering flame of the last glowing lamp, her heart pounding. Hosea had forgotten to bring more oil today. He was home by now, enjoying a relaxing evening with the children. Or perhaps they were visiting Yuval and Amos. Maybe they’d shared their meal with Amoz, Isaiah, and Aya.
The flame flickered—and died. Utter darkness. Thick. Heavy. Stealing her breath.
“Yahweh, help me!” she screamed, the echo bouncing off the walls all around her. Help me, help me, help me. She listened to the silence, felt Sampson cuddled next to her, counted his steady heartbeat. One, two, three, four . . . He began to purr. Her breathing slowed.
I am here.
It wasn’t a voice. It was an understanding. A mere thought, perhaps.
You are Mine.
It was more than a thought—Gomer knew it was Yahweh’s Spirit speaking to her inner being. How did she know? She gasped, breaking the silence. She had no idea how she knew. But she was certain of it.
She closed her eyes, saw the same darkness. So she opened them again and spoke aloud. “Why didn’t You save me from the pain?”
Silence.
“Why did You call Hosea to abandon me after Jezzy was born?”
Abandon you?
Her heart twisted within her, and she remembered Yuval’s rebuke for Gomer’s frivolous use of the word. “I always come back,” Hosea had told her repeatedly. And he was right. He always found her.
“But why did You let Hosea forget the oil for my lamps?” It was a silly complaint, but while she was asking, she might as well know. Peace settled over her, t
he darkness suddenly like a glorious pillow stuffed with the softest of wool.
And that was her answer. Only in utter darkness could she hear His quietest voice.
“I still don’t like the darkness,” she said, moving her hand across the cold, stone floor. She found her blanket and lamb’s-wool pillow, lay down, and stroked Sampson’s soft fur. “But I do like hearing Your voice.” She closed her eyes, and in what seemed like a moment, she woke to birdsong and the glimmer of dawn’s new day. “Thank You, Yahweh, for the darkness—and the light.”
48
• HOSEA 14:5, 8 •
I will be like dew to the people of Israel. . . . The people of Ephraim will have nothing more to do with idols. I will answer them and take care of them.
Hosea woke to his son’s face in the moonlight. “Jezzy?”
“Abba, I want to see Ima.” He nestled into bed beside Hosea. “She needs us—now.” The other children were asleep on their mattresses in the adjoining room he’d added.
Hosea gathered him into his arms, thoughts racing. Gomer had seemed more peaceful since the broken pitcher incident but refused to share whatever changes were occurring in her heart. He couldn’t let her back into the children’s lives until her heart was open to Yahweh.
“What makes you think Ima needs us now?”
“I had a dream. She was in a cave, praying Yahweh would bring her family back.” He began to tremble. “We need to wake up Rahmy and Ammi and go find her. Is she lost, Abba? Is she out there with the lions and desert cobras?”
Hosea hugged his son to his chest. Awed. Overwhelmed. His heart raced. Yahweh, is Gomer really in danger, or did You make this dream vivid to speak indelibly to my son?
No wind. No voice. But an overwhelming sense of peace and a reminder of Yahweh’s promise. I will make an arrangement with the wild animals . . .
“I believe Ima is safe, Jezzy, but I believe Yahweh spoke to you in your dream.”
He was still trembling. “I’d rather have the wind like you get.”
