Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  Hosea shook his head, a slow smile forming. He looked at his reckless young friend and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I must have a soft spot for people who need forgiveness.”

  Gomer glanced at the wool and spindle lying on her sleeping mat and then cursed the lumpy thread beside it. What was Hosea thinking? A harlot didn’t spin wool. If he’d like her to paint his nails with henna or line his eyes with kohl, she’d be happy to oblige.

  Today marked her fourth day in the private chamber, and she’d be content to die there. If she ever saw Isaiah again, it would be too soon. How could he describe her so accurately after knowing her for only three Sabbaths? She was everything this Yahweh god despised, if all Hosea had said at Jeroboam’s sacrifice was true. But when Isaiah exposed her utter inability to love—that was the dagger to her heart. Her black heart.

  “Gomer?” Isaiah’s voice sliced through her from the other side of the curtained doorway.

  She said nothing, hoping he would think she’d died.

  “Gomer, please. I need to talk to you. I want to apologize.”

  Her heart pounded. If she allowed him in, where could she escape? This was her sanctuary, her only retreat. He drew back the curtain, and indignation replaced her fear. “I did not give you permission to enter!”

  “I know, but—”

  “Who do you think you are—a king? I am no longer a harl—”

  “No, but I’m the cousin of Judah’s king.”

  Her mouth went dry, and words failed her. She hated the satisfied grin on his face but didn’t dare heap more condemnation on her already long list of offenses. If Isaiah was royalty, she would undoubtedly be executed the minute they arrived in Jerusalem.

  He walked in and seated himself across from her. “Hosea loves you.” A slight pause. “And I love Hosea like a brother. I see that the way I’ve treated you hurts both of you—and I’m sorry, Gomer.”

  She tried not to roll her eyes but evidently failed at hiding her disdain.

  “Why do you do that?” Mounting frustration tightened his jaw.

  Cousin to the king, cousin to the king. She must try to be respectful. It hadn’t been long since she’d played the harlot with many men. This would be no different. She softened her tone, painted on a smile, demurred. “Please forgive me, my lord. I have not been myself since the beating. I ask your patience and will make a better effort in the future.” She kept her head bowed to hide her unmasked anger.

  Silence stretched into awkwardness. Finally, Isaiah’s voice quivered as he spoke. “That’s why you frighten me.”

  Gomer snapped to attention, finding the young royal staring at her—as if she were Mot from the underworld. “I frighten you?” she asked, mocking. “You’re the righteous one, raised in the security of your perfect prophets’ world.”

  But Isaiah didn’t draw his verbal sword this time. His expression seemed almost . . . vulnerable. “You so easily deceive, and I’ve witnessed the destruction that deceit and idolatry bring to a nation—to a family.”

  “What would a royal Yahweh student know of idolatry?”

  “King Uzziah is my cousin, my abba’s nephew. But because their ages are similar, they grew up more like brothers. Abba Amoz hated deceit and palace politics, so he moved to Lachish and learned the pottery trade. When Uzziah’s abba, King Amaziah, turned to idolatry, conspirators in Jerusalem sought to take his life, so he fled to Lachish for Abba’s shelter. Assassins followed Amaziah there and killed him. Abba has always felt responsible.”

  “But he wasn’t responsible,” Gomer protested. “It was the zealots—those men who wouldn’t allow King Amaziah to worship other gods.”

  “No, Gomer. Uncle Amaziah was responsible. Each one of us must choose whom—or what—we worship.”

  Gomer’s blood ran cold. “How can you be so narrow-minded? So certain Yahweh is the only god?”

  “Because He proves Himself to each one of us—if we are willing to set aside the distractions and desires that draw us away from Him. That’s why Uzziah commanded Abba Amoz to move closer to Jerusalem. He feared Abba would succumb to Lachish’s idolatry while mourning my ima’s death—she died while giving me life.”

  “I’m sorry, Isaiah.” Gomer’s sympathy was stirred, but she wasn’t yet ready for a truce. Besides, some of his story didn’t make sense. “If King Uzziah commanded your abba to move to Jerusalem, why were you raised with Hosea at the prophets’ camp?”

  A slight grin began but died before it reached his eyes. “Yahweh had blessed Uzziah’s reign in both military and building campaigns. He purchased land in the foothills around Jerusalem and then began building towers and cisterns in the wilderness to fortify the nation of Judah. He’d spent some time in the Tekoan wilderness and knew there was plenty of clay soil to supply a workshop. Knowing Abba hated politics, Uzziah asked the prophet Amos if he could build a pottery workshop on his farm. An agreement was struck, and I grew up at the camp.” A sad smile creased his lips, and Gomer saw a thousand unspoken words behind his eyes.

  “I’m sorry you never knew your ima, but it sounds like a pretty perfect life to me, Isaiah.”

  He held her gaze, pondering, and then he stood, holding out his hand. She accepted, feeling somewhat better about Hosea’s hostile friend.

  He reached for the curtain, pulled it aside, but stopped just before they left her self-imposed prison. “I have a good life, Gomer. But at least you knew why your abba gave you away. Mine lives in the same camp, but he let others raise me—and I have no idea why.”

  8

  • HOSEA 6:3 •

  Let’s learn about Yahweh. Let’s get to know Yahweh. He will come to us as sure as the morning comes.

  Hosea glanced behind him to ensure he wasn’t being followed before entering their courtyard. They had lived in Samaria undetected for two full moon cycles. Tomorrow they’d leave for Judah. After closing and locking the gate, he took a single step . . .

  Crash!

  He flinched, glancing down at the clay pitcher that now lay in shards at his feet, thankful he’d leaned right to latch the gate instead of left. The familiar verbal battle raged between his wife and best friend.

  “You will not treat me like a stupid cow!” Gomer’s fists were balled on her hips, her face as red as her hair. “You’re a year younger than me, and you have no right to instruct or command me.”

  “I have every right to instruct you in the ways of Yahweh,” Isaiah fired back. “And I’ll stop treating you like a stupid cow when you stop acting like a—”

  “Enough!” Hosea barked from where he stood, causing both combatants to fume in silence. “Isaiah, you will speak respectfully to my wife.” He saw the look of triumph she cast in Isaiah’s direction. “And Gomer, that’s the second pitcher you’ve broken since last Sabbath. We can’t afford your little tantrums.” Her triumph turned to seething, and she aimed her anger at him.

  “I might not indulge these little tantrums if I hadn’t been held captive for two full moons.”

  Hosea recognized the pain beneath her anger. When her injuries were still severe, she’d been satisfied to sit in the courtyard, enjoying the spring sunshine. Now that she was almost recovered, she was as restless as a lion on the prowl.

  “I know it’s difficult to remain hidden, but you know if any of Jeroboam’s men recognize you, we could all be arrested—or worse.”

  Her expression remained like granite, unmoved by logic or reason. He reached into his shoulder bag and drew out the sky-blue piece of linen he’d purchased at the market. It was the length of two camels, finely woven, as smooth as silk from the east—but much more practical for daily wear.

  Her lips softened into a begrudging grin. “It must have cost you dearly. Who is it for?”

  He laughed, but felt a twinge of sadness when Isaiah slipped into the house. Hosea would talk with him later about his relationship with Gomer. He had asked Isaiah to teach her Yahweh’s Law since Gomer was still wary of Jonah. Even after these long Sabbaths in the sam
e house, she still referred to the old man as “the fish prophet.” He’d hoped Isaiah’s chats with her would spark a friendship between them. His hopes had been in vain.

  “Are you saving that veil for your next wife?” Gomer’s question drew him back to the moment.

  He closed the distance between them, and she stepped back. Still afraid I’ll force myself on you? The thought pierced him. He’d promised himself—and Yahweh—he wouldn’t lie with her until she invited him. “I bought the veil for you to wear in the market. You’re a married woman now,” he said with a slight grin. “You must never appear in public without a veil.”

  “More rules,” she muttered.

  Anger stirred, his patience wearing thin. “This rule might cover your hair and hide your appearance enough to visit the market before we go back to Tekoa tomorrow. But if you don’t feel like wearing the veil . . .” He let the words hang, waiting with wicked delight as his stubborn wife submitted to the reality of her circumstance.

  She grabbed the cloth from his hand and limped resolutely toward their courtyard gate. “I’m going to the market alone,” she said. “Don’t you dare follow me.”

  Hosea caught her arm and whirled her to face him. She winced in pain and stumbled, but he scooped her into his arms and curled her into his chest. “Are you all right?” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  She shoved him away, and he nearly dropped her. “Put me down!”

  He gently placed her feet on the ground, and he saw her wince. His heart twisted. Her legs and hips hadn’t fully recovered after the beating. Yahweh, remind me that she’s fragile.

  The commotion must have summoned Jonah and Isaiah. They stood at the doorway of the house, watching.

  “I’m going to the market alone,” Gomer said, staring at each of the male faces before her. “I have done everything you’ve asked of me for eight Sabbaths. You can at least give me an afternoon to say good-bye to the city I called home.”

  Gomer fought with the silly blue veil Hosea had purchased for her, wrapping it to hide her copper curls and distinctive features. She wondered if her regular customers would recognize her. The bruises were gone, but she no longer wore paints on her eyes, cheeks, and lips. No more bangles or bells, and her dowdy brown robe covered the long scar on her forearm from the physician’s blade. Hosea said she was still . . . Well, he always said she was beautiful, but who could trust a man’s opinion?

  Hosea. What did he want from her? Didn’t he expect what all men took from their wives? So why hadn’t he forced her? He wasn’t shy. Each time they were together, he stood too close, touched her cheek, whispered on her neck.

  “Watch where you’re going!” A grousing old crone shoved Gomer aside and interrupted her brooding.

  Gomer stepped over the drainage ditch and winced at the pain in her hip. Would the effects of Eitan’s beating remain for a lifetime? Would she ever escape the scars of harlotry? Could she ever be a true wife—and ima?

  Hosea kept insisting he could love her. How? He may have known her once, but he had no idea who she was now. She’d tried to show him who she was.

  “My recent customers called me the lady of invention,” she told him one day while he was working alone on that silly two-wheeled cart meant to carry her back to Judah. She’d intended her words to wound, but his pained expression pierced her soul.

  “Gomer, when will you let me love you?” he said.

  Emotion strangled her. “When will you let me go?”

  “Never,” he whispered.

  “My answer is the same.”

  The memory brought unexpected emotion, and she swiped at the tears on her cheeks. Someone in the crowd bumped her, and she realized she was standing at Tamir’s brothel gate. She studied the cedar planks and iron bars and wondered what they’d done with Merav’s body. Who had washed her? Had they buried her with the beggars, or had Tamir given her a proper burial in the tombs north of the city?

  She knew the answer. Tamir was a businesswoman, after all.

  Another sigh, and Gomer walked on, determined to think happier thoughts. The city streets were alive. Merchants haggling in the market, children scurrying at her feet. The stench of the drainage ditch never smelled so sweet. She wished she’d planned her escape more carefully and brought a few pieces of silver with her.

  Hosea had purchased a small parcel of cloves for her during their first days together. She’d made it clear to him that she could live without face paints and perfume, but she refused to endure life with foul breath. He made sure she had a whole clove to suck on each day since.

  She gathered her veil around her face, covering every wisp of copper hair. Did Hosea think she was stupid? She wouldn’t let anyone know she was alive in Samaria. But can I really go to Judah and live on a farm? It all sounded so mundane. Asherah didn’t endow her with beauty and fire and life to be a pandering prophet’s wife.

  “Asherah!” She stopped in the middle of the street, earning more than one backward glance. Asherah’s groves. That’s where she’d go! She reached into her pocket, fingering the nose ring, gold chains, and earrings she’d taken from the brothel—Tamir owed her that much. Perhaps if she offered them to Asherah, the great goddess of abundance would show her the right path for her life.

  Gomer hurried toward the city gates, struggling against the flow of incoming travelers. The grove would be deserted this time of day. All the better for an anonymous offering from a married woman. The veil would cover everything except her eyes so the priestess wouldn’t recognize her. She found herself suddenly thankful for Hosea’s gift.

  She strayed from the main road, following the path lined with oak trees south of the city. The lush green leaves reminded her that Baal had responded to the child sacrifice—in spite of Merav’s foolish heroics. The old woman had given her life to save a baby that wasn’t even her own. How senseless. Now Gomer had lost her friend, the baby was dead, and the leaves were green. Why not give the gods what they wanted and hope they left you alone? Unlike Hosea’s incessant deity who wanted to badger humans into some sort of continual conversation. How exhausting to worship a god so needy.

  The path spilled into a clearing surrounded by poplar, oak, and terebinth trees—Asherah’s sacred grove. The most beautiful place on earth. She inhaled a cleansing breath, enjoying the sweet aroma of fresh sacrifice. Lamb, she thought. Though she’d served at the temple for only two years, she’d learned the distinct aroma of each sacrifice—each scent sending a unique message to the holy queen of heaven. Occasionally, she missed the grandeur of the temple, but never the routine.

  Once inside the clearing, she looked up, listening to the breeze tickle the leaves. Silver and green boughs greeted her. Welcome home. Lifting her arms, she danced in a circle, laughing with a freedom she hadn’t known since Merav’s death. But I hear no bells. She would never again wear bells around her ankles and wrists and waist. The realization slowed her dancing, quenched her joy, and then she realized—her veil had fallen to the ground.

  Instinctively, she reached down to grab it, but another hand snatched it away first. Gomer met the stare of Asherah’s high priestess. “I taught you at a very young age what the punishment would be if you were caught wearing a veil in public, Gomer.”

  “But I’m married! I’m supposed to wear that veil!” She reached for it, but the priestess yanked it away.

  “Guard! Take the harlot to the elders.” A slow, satisfied smile creased her lips. “I’m sure many of Samaria’s leaders will observe your trial with interest.”

  Hosea sat on the completed two-wheeled cart, packed and ready for tomorrow morning’s journey. Leather straps secured baskets stuffed full of supplies, creating a seat suspended between two wheels—a brilliant design by Hosea’s missing wife. Where could she be? Gomer had left for the market just after midday, and now the sun was sinking in the west.

  “I can go look for her,” Isaiah offered for the third time. “No one in Samaria has seen me with Gomer. I’m the safest choice.”

/>   “I’m not sure she’d come back with you.” Hosea tried to muster a grin, but it died when he glimpsed his friend’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Hosea.” The words were whispered, a struggle for composure.

  “What do you mean? Why are you sorry?”

  “I’m sorry for a lot of things,” he said, taking a deep breath and beginning to pace. “Jonah was right. I was jealous when you received Yahweh’s call before me. I tried not to be, but I was. And when I saw Gomer, I was jealous again because she’s so beautiful, and she was so lost and needed a protector.” Isaiah stopped pacing. “But I’m most sorry because I thought Gomer was beneath us—unworthy of love or forgiveness.”

  Hosea bristled, but he let his friend finish.

  “I basically said Yahweh’s plan was wrong, and we were too righteous to obey it.”

  Remaining silent, Hosea measured his lifelong friendship against the protective love he felt for Gomer. Why must he forgive—again? “I love her, Isaiah. You’ve got to stop judging her. My love goes beyond obedience to Yahweh’s command. I don’t like what she’s done or who she’s become, and she’s not pure like Aya, but Yahweh has given me a love for Gomer. If you can’t respect Gomer, at least respect me enough to treat her kindly.”

  Isaiah nodded, extending his hand in truce. Hosea stood and embraced him, and Isaiah held tight, unwilling to let go. “Please, brother, let me search for her. I promise I’ll bring her back to you.”

  Hosea swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m afraid of where you might find her.”

  Jonah appeared at the doorway and nudged the young men apart. “I’ll wait here while both of you search for Gomer. Everything is ready to leave in the morning, so go.”

  Hosea kept his head bowed, unable to look at his teacher. “What if . . .”

  “Hosea, my son. Look at me.”

  Grudgingly, he lifted his gaze and saw the man’s soft heart in his eyes. “Go find your bride. I’ll stay here and pray for Yahweh’s favor. We’ll set out for Tekoa tomorrow as we planned.”