by Mesu Andrews
“There you are,” he said. His face was shadowed, but she heard pleasure in his voice.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, lying across the bed, patting the space next to her. “Or could you spend a few moments with your wife before you enjoy Yuval’s lentil stew?”
She saw him hesitate, standing firm in the doorway. “When I left my wife at midday, she wasn’t speaking to me. When I greeted her at the stables, she was cool at best. To what might I attribute this sudden warm welcome?”
Gomer leapt from the bed and stood by the mattress, her cheeks flaming. “Can we never simply enjoy one another’s company? Must we always discuss every issue before we reap the benefits of this so-called marriage?”
In slow, measured steps, Hosea closed the distance between them. His face reflected the pain her words had inflicted. “This so-called marriage is my life, Gomer. I want to honor both Yahweh and my wife in the way I live it.” He placed his hands on her hips and pressed her gently to sit on the edge of the bed. He stood over her, holding her chin. “I don’t want to just enjoy your company. I want to love you deeply, thoroughly.” He leaned over and kissed her. Tenderly at first—then with passion.
She encircled his neck, losing herself in the moment, and tried to lie back on the mattress. But he pulled her arms away and laid them in her lap. “Talk to me, Gomer. Tell me how your heart has been healed from this morning’s wounds. I want to know your spirit as well as your body. I never intended to hurt you, and I know Aya didn’t either. But friends and family will inadvertently wound each other, and when we do, we must know how to help mend the hurt.” His eyes were pleading, sincere.
His well-spoken words almost convinced her she could heal—almost. Never again would she trust anyone with her heart, but she would tell him what he wanted to hear. She’d earned a living making men believe her in Samaria.
“Yuval helped me realize that the whole camp celebrated Yahweh’s message to you, and that included our marriage. When she explained that she was once an outcast, it helped me believe that someday I could be accepted as she is now.” Gomer almost choked on the lie but trained her eyes to speak for her—changing from sincere to seductive. She licked her lips and saw Hosea’s defenses crumble. “Would you like your lentil stew now?” She leaned close, warming his cheek with her cloved breath.
With a slight groan, he swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately. No more talking. No more promises. No more lies.
Asherah, do your work.
Hosea awoke with a start. Yahweh, please, no! But his dream had been clear. He must return to Israel, and he must leave today. Dread coiled around his heart. How would he tell Gomer? Would she feel abandoned? With a deep sigh, he turned over, ready to wake her with the difficult news.
But she was gone.
“Gomer?” He scanned their small bedchamber. The ivory comb he’d given her was still on the bedside table, and her extra robe and tunic were folded in the corner. A wave of relief washed over him. “Gomer?” he said a little louder.
“I’m in here,” she called from their main room.
He rolled out of bed and donned his robe and tunic. The hard-packed floors were cool on his feet, so he slipped on his sandals and peeked around the corner.
She knelt by the oven, fire lit and fresh bread baking in neat circles on its surface.
“Mmm, smells good.” He grabbed a goatskin rug and laid it next to her, sat down, and pulled her close. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent—better than the warm bread.
“Are you impressed?” she asked, reaching over with her wooden fork to turn three barley loaves, each one a golden brown.
“I am impressed. Yuval must have gotten up early to fix our bread.” His barb and chuckle earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“No,” she huffed, but then confessed, “she left the dough to rise last night before she left.” She started giggling before she could finish. “But I’m baking it!”
He tackled her and buried his beard in her neck, and she dissolved into squeals. Their playful banter was balm to his soul, but the reality of his calling sobered him. She must have sensed a pause and caressed his cheek, then knelt again beside the oven to check the barley bread.
He pulled her back against his chest and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Do you know how much I love you, Gomer?”
She stilled instantly, turning to stone. She rose to her knees, poking at the loaves with the wooden fork. “I don’t want to burn the bread.”
Startled, he rehearsed his words again, trying to recall what hint he might have given of impending bad news. How could she know?
“I thought I’d go to the pottery workshop as soon as you sample Yuval’s barley loaves,” she said, her shoulders rigid. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home. What are your plans?” He heard her voice break.
He reached for her arm, but she pushed him away, keeping her attention on the oven. Had Yahweh somehow told her he was leaving? “I’m going to talk with Jonah after we break our fast. Gomer—”
“Tell the old fish prophet I said, ‘Shalom.’ He’s probably happy to be rid of me.”
“He lives next door. I’m guessing you’ll see him when you walk to the pottery shop.”
She turned on him with the force of a whirlwind, throwing the wooden fork at a vase on the mantle—and missing. “Don’t mock me, Hosea! I’m a harlot, not an idiot. You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”
Shock. Wonder. Pain. Hosea wasn’t sure which to feel first or worst. “I need to go away for a while, Gomer. That’s all. I’ll be back.” He searched her stony expression. “How did you know I was going?”
The tears she’d held captive slid down her cheeks, but she revealed no other sign of weakness. Chin held high, she regained her calm. “Men always leave.”
“No, Gomer. This is different.”
One side of her lips raised in a defiant grin.
“No! Listen to me,” he said. “Yahweh came to me in a dream and told me to return to Israel. He didn’t tell me the specific message I’m to deliver, just that I’m to leave today.” He reached over and placed a hand on her thigh. “Gomer . . .”
She stared at his hand. Silent. Indignant. He removed it, and she lifted a single brow. “Perhaps He’s sending you to marry another prostitute.”
“No!” he said, resenting her smug expression. “You’re being ridiculous! I’m a prophet. It’s who I am, who the Lord called me to be. I will occasionally be called away from home. Just like Amos must travel to the markets and festivals to sell goods, I must go wherever God leads me—”
“To sell goods.” Her eyes flashed. “And you’re very good at it, by the way. You almost had me convinced that I could count on you, that you wouldn’t leave me like everyone else in my life—” Her voice broke, and she leapt to her feet. She grabbed her blue veil, wrapped it around her head and shoulders, and swung open the door.
“Gomer, wait! We need to talk.”
“Actually, we’ve talked too long already. Your bread is on fire.”
Hosea turned and found his barley loaves smoking and then heard the door slam. “Gomer!” he shouted, hurrying to retrieve the fork and dislodge the charred loaves. He stared at the closed door, waving the smoke away. Yahweh, what should I do with her? He reached for a crispy barley loaf and burned his fingers, and then was startled by the undeniable voice of his Elohim.
What should I do with you, Ephraim? What should I do with you, Judah? Your love is like fog in the morning. It disappears as quickly as the morning dew.
Hosea allowed his head to fall back, closed his eyes, and wept. How could the God of all creation describe Gomer’s love so precisely? Because Gomer’s love mirrors fickle Israel and Judah, and You understand my frustration, don’t You, Yahweh?
Hosea was overwhelmed by God’s presence, humbled anew by the awesome privilege of his calling. Please, take care of my Gomer.
Go to Israel. The voice was as clear as Yuval’s rooster announcing the new day.
; 17
• HOSEA 6:5–6 •
That is why I cut you down by sending the prophets. . . . I want your loyalty, not your sacrifices. I want you to know me, not to give me burnt offerings.
Gomer hesitated at her courtyard gate. She glanced at Yuval’s house next door and considered spewing her venom about Hosea on the owner’s wife. But her new friend had likely never heard such vulgar words or seen a harlot’s fury. I’ll never belong with people like Yuval and girls like Aya. She remembered yesterday’s humiliation in the pottery shop, the wide-eyed observation of the pure and innocent girl Isaiah would soon marry. Aya appeared two or three years younger than Gomer, but their true ages were worlds apart.
She pushed through her courtyard gate, walking past Jonah’s house instead, fighting the urge to spit on the ground as she passed. At least with the fish prophet, there was no silk or pearls. He told her plainly that idolaters were doomed for destruction—but he’d said she had a lovely spirit. No man had ever ogled her spirit. Beneath that frightening, curdled skin was a man who could disarm her, expose her. She would stay clear of him for sure.
“You’re up early this morning!” Isaiah emerged from the next house in the row. She had no idea he and Amoz lived so close.
She rolled her eyes and walked faster, not able to face another battle.
“Hmm. Grumpy already too.” He hurried to catch up. “Poor Hosea. A lifetime of waking up to a surly redhead.” Then his smile died. He seemed concerned when she couldn’t insult him past the lump in her throat. “What’s the matter? Aya told me what she said at the pottery shop yesterday, Gomer. She feels terrible. Are you still mad about that?”
She kept walking, the lump growing, the tears getting harder to swallow.
Isaiah grabbed her shoulder and whirled her to face him. “Stop! Tell me what’s going on!”
“Hosea’s going back to Israel, and I’m a harlot in a camp full of righteous bigots.” His troubled expression somehow fueled her rage. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend the day with your abba. Jealous?”
His face drained of color; his lips fell open but made no sound. She’d gone too far. The pain in his eyes mirrored her own closely guarded wound. Staggering, he backed away from her. “Why so cruel to those trying to help you?”
His words snipped her final thread of control. She felt herself spinning, her legs weakening. Isaiah backed away slowly while the camp around them came to life. She glanced at others going on with their lives. She was exposed, alone. Nothing was familiar. She knew no one, trusted no one. And finally . . . she gave up. She collapsed on the camp’s main path, tears coming in torrents, and she cared nothing about the gossip fodder she provided.
She jumped when strong hands helped her stand and then realized Isaiah and Amoz were guiding her toward the pottery shop. She noticed three men unloading a wagon of partially finished pots into the shop. Amoz nodded to them as he walked by, but no one spoke until they ascended the stairs and were tucked away in the loft.
They lowered her onto a stool, resting her back against the wall, while Amoz took his place on a stool behind his potter’s wheel. She stared numbly at them for a time, Amoz so much older than his son but just as handsome, with distinguished gray streaks through dark, curly hair.
Isaiah exchanged a quick glance with his abba and then turned his attention on Gomer. “You said Hosea is going to Israel again. I’ll talk with him about the details of his mission, but Abba and I want to know how we can help you while Hosea’s gone.” Again Isaiah glanced at Amoz, almost coaxing him. An extended silence followed, and Isaiah heaved a deep sigh. “I think Abba would be happy to have you learn the craft of working clay if you’re willing to try.”
Gomer’s stomach was in knots, and though she was waging her own emotional battle, she was painfully aware of the complex relationship before her. Isaiah’s life wasn’t the perfection she’d imagined, but neither was Amoz a heartless Philistine. She glanced between abba and son, breathed deeply, and made a decision. “I will stay in Tekoa—at least long enough to learn from a master potter.” She glimpsed what seemed like approval in Amoz’s eyes. “If you’re willing to teach me.”
A smile lit his face, making him appear ten years younger. “I’m willing.”
“That was almost a wedding dance from my abba,” Isaiah said, his own pleasure evident. “Now I must go ask my best friend why he’s leaving his bride two days after arriving in their new home.”
Hosea trudged the rugged path toward the royal encampment, his body weary, his heart heavy. He’d spent a good portion of the morning packing bread, hard cheese, and figs, hoping Gomer would come back—at least to say good-bye. She didn’t.
He’d checked his neighbors’ houses, hoping to see his beloved friends before leaving on another mission for Yahweh. Amos was traveling, and Yuval said she hadn’t seen Gomer yet this morning. He saw concern on her features but couldn’t bring himself to explain. I’m sure Gomer will inform Yuval of what a terrible husband I am.
He’d gone in search of encouragement from his friend and mentor, but no one answered when he knocked on Jonah’s door. The final blow was Isaiah’s absence. He was never awake until well after the rooster crowed, but today he and Amoz were both gone. Yahweh, will You send me away without any encouragement?
Hosea emerged into Uzziah’s encampment clearing, his prayer answered immediately. Jonah and Micah sat on the king’s audience tapestry, deep in conversation. What are they talking about, and why wasn’t I invited? But his curiosity pricked his conscience, and he chastised himself for thinking everything in camp must revolve around him.
“Shalom the house!” Hosea shouted, and all eyes turned to greet him.
“Unclean! Unclean!” Uzziah shouted. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Commander Hananiah appeared from within Uzziah’s house, measuring Hosea as if uncertain whether to reach for his sword or fall to his knees. The chief scribe and the king’s advisor followed him with the same hesitation on their faces. Yahweh’s presence yesterday seemed to have made a lasting impression.
“Come, Hosea,” Jonah said, inviting his student to join him on the tapestry. “I’ve been telling King Uzziah that you’re going back to Israel today.”
Hosea gaped. He knew better than to ask how Jonah knew. Of course Yahweh had revealed it. “So what else were you telling King Uzziah that I should know about?” He tousled Micah’s hair as he walked to the other side of Jonah and sat down.
“I was explaining that you’ll be taking Micah with you on this journey.”
Hosea raised both eyebrows and leaned forward to exchange a questioning glance with his young friend. “Oh, really? And what does Micah think about that?”
“I’m ready, Hosea. I can be a great help to you.” His eyes were alight with adventure, his joy almost enough to lift the weight of Hosea’s heavy heart.
He leaned close and whispered to Jonah, “Did Yahweh also tell you how deeply my wife is hurting because of my quick departure?”
“What’s going on?” Isaiah emerged from the copse of fig trees behind them.
Hosea turned, ready to taunt that he’d arrived late for the festival, but the fury brewing on his friend’s face stopped him cold. He hurried to his feet and extended his hand to Isaiah, meeting him before he reached the tapestry. “Where were you? I came to your house to tell you I’m going back to Israel, but you weren’t there.”
“I was comforting your wife!”
Hosea’s heart stopped beating. “You were what?” White-hot rage rushed through his veins. Why had Gomer gone to his handsome best friend for comfort?
“Abba and I took Gomer to the pottery shop after I found her dazed and sobbing on the main path in camp this morning. Abba has been teaching her about pottery all morning.”
Hosea stood speechless. He blinked away his misperception, adjusting to the truth after almost accusing his best friend of the unthinkable.
“Isaiah, Hosea, come sit down.” Jonah’s calm voi
ce was the anchor in their storm. They exchanged a silent truce and sat on opposite sides of their teacher. Micah had moved to a corner of the rug. Wide-eyed and silent.
Jonah stared straight ahead, directing his words to Uzziah, but in essence addressing everyone in the royal encampment. “The mantle of prophecy has been placed squarely on Hosea’s shoulders. I’m not Yahweh’s voice for this generation, but I’ve been given an ear to hear in order to teach my students.”
Uzziah nodded but said nothing.
“It is my understanding,” Jonah continued, “that you received a scroll from your son Jotham early this morning.”
The king’s eyes went wide and again he nodded, extending his hand to his chief scribe. Jeiel produced a papyrus scroll, and Uzziah began reading. “To the honorable son of David and king of Judah, Uzziah, from your faithful son and prince, Jotham. Solitary winds blow through the halls of Yahweh’s temple as your fearful Judean subjects have refused to return to the site of your affliction. Your people—and even many of Yahweh’s priests—are terrified of Yahweh’s wrath and now flock to the pagan shrines on every hill and high place. I await your command and will do your will. May our Lord and Elohim give you wisdom like Solomon, and may He heal and bless your name forever.”
Hosea felt as if he might retch. Judeans flocking to worship on high places? Could this day grow darker?
“I’ve already sent a messenger with my reply,” Uzziah was saying. “On the advice of my counselors and Yahweh’s high priest, I’ve commanded that the people of Judah may worship Yahweh at any high place until the Lord’s punishment runs its course.”
The high priest stepped forward, adding, “We’ll assign Yahweh priests to each sacred grove to ensure there’s no pagan worship—”
“What? No!” Hosea shouted. “Have you forgotten everything you know about our Elohim?”
The high priest puffed out his chest, exposing the jeweled ephod he wore. “You forget to whom you speak, Prophet.”