by Mesu Andrews
“Good morning, Abba,” Jezzy would say so properly. He had Hosea’s dark curls, Gomer’s hazel eyes.
They were now his children. Isaiah and Aya had offered to take them permanently, adding to their own growing family. But somehow loving Gomer’s children justified hating her. At least that was how it began. Bitterness had nearly consumed him in those early days. He could never have survived without these three innocent beings full of love and forgiveness. He and the children were happier and healthier without Gomer. He could say that now without bitterness. It was the truth.
Hosea wiped his face, drying his seemingly endless fountain of tears. Yuval would be arriving with his little ones any moment. She’d been a rock of support, even when Amos fell ill in the sheep pasture a few Sabbaths past. Since then, Hosea had been the lone instructor training the camp’s would-be prophets. Their eyes sparked with zeal each time they discovered a new mystery of Yahweh.
What about my zeal, Lord? Will I ever hear Your voice again? The questions he’d asked Isaiah still echoed in his empty heart. Did I misunderstand You, Yahweh? Did I hear what I wanted to hear? He’d been so certain of what he’d heard. Yahweh had been so present, so palpable. He’d thought they’d be a family. He thought Jezzy would unite them somehow. Instead, Jezzy, Rahmy, and Ammi would forever live with the crushing reality—they’d been abandoned by their ima.
Abandoned. Gomer’s favorite accusation.
Yahweh, have You abandoned me?
He hadn’t felt God’s presence or heard His voice since Gomer left. Micah was receiving regular messages from Yahweh now, powerful prophecies that were written on clay tablets and transferred to scrolls. He was anxious to speak to Israel’s and Judah’s kings, but Hosea advised against it, warning of the tenuous political environment.
Or do I hesitate to send him because You’ve chosen him instead of me?
Hosea’s cheeks burned at the silent admission of petty jealousy. But it was more than envy, it was a practical question. How could Hosea teach prophets when he wasn’t sure he could discern God’s voice for himself?
He rolled onto his stomach, planting his face into the curly goatskin rug. “Please, Elohim! Hear my prayer! Speak. Your servant is listening!” Racking sobs shook him, but heaven remained silent. His sorrow swirled into despair, and despair turned rancid in his gut. “If You will not speak, then at least direct me toward a purpose, a mission—a task!”
Hosea’s heart began to pound violently. An indescribable heaviness overtook his limbs and chest, pressing him to the floor. Was it a heightened sensation of angst? Perhaps. But this was somehow different. “Yahweh, is this You?” He squeaked out the words and finished in prayer. I much prefer the warmth of Your presence or the cool breeze when You’re about to speak.
Nothing. No reply. Simply more of this crushing heaviness, growing more unbearable by the moment.
He buried his face in the rug. “Yahweh, help me. What’s happening?” Hosea stilled, closed his eyes, waited.
No words, but an overwhelming sense of a hand covering his whole body. Shielding. Protecting. Pressing him into the floor.
Change.
There had been no voice, but somehow Hosea knew. His life changed the day Gomer left, and he must change too. Whether he traveled to Israel or stayed in Tekoa for the rest of his days, Yahweh’s presence must be enough. Whether Hosea felt it or not. Whether Yahweh spoke or not. Could he serve Yahweh without words, without a task—only submission?
“Shalom, dear.” Yuval’s cheerful voice accompanied the creak of the door. “Oh my! Are you all right?”
“Did you fall down, Abba?” Jezzy hurried over, his hand patting Hosea’s cheek gently.
“Abba was praying to Yahweh,” he said, scooping his son into his arms and rolling him over for a playful hug.
“Is it Gomer?” Yuval’s voice was panicked. “Did you receive word from Jerusalem?”
Hosea looked up, finding fear on Yuval’s features. The familiar feeling of betrayal stirred, but he tamped it down, remembering Yuval’s tender care when he’d returned from Jerusalem with Ammi in his arms. She’d told him about the conversation she and Gomer had on that last day before leaving for Jerusalem. Guilt nearly consumed her. Hosea wished she’d warned him of Gomer’s unrest, but he ended up consoling instead of chastising.
“No, I’ve had no word from Jerusalem.” He grinned at this dear woman, her heart too big for a single chest. “But I received word from a little higher up.”
She squeezed Ammi closer to her heart and danced in a circle, holding little Rahmy’s hand. “Your abba’s been talking with Yahweh, Yahweh, Yahweh. Your abba’s been talking with Yahweh today, today, today.” Her impromptu song and dance inspired Hosea and Jezzy to join the loop, celebrating outwardly what Hosea felt inwardly.
He broke the joyful chain, swinging Jezzy into his arms. “Have the children eaten, or should I slice up some bread and cheese?”
Yuval began unpacking all the items she’d stashed with Ammi in the sling around her shoulder and waist—bread, figs, cucumbers, cheese. “I’ve packed all you need right here.” She looked up, eyes glistening. “I’ll tell Amos you’ve heard from the Lord. Will you be returning to Israel with a message?”
Hosea felt his cheeks flame. Was he embarrassed that he had no prophetic message? It was a sure sign he’d let pride slip in unnoticed. “Tell Amos I was given no specific message to prophesy. My highest calling is to submit to Yahweh in whatever needs done.” He picked up Ammi, kissing his rosy cheek. “Right now, I serve Yahweh in camp.”
36
• HOSEA 9:11–12 •
Ephraim’s glory will fly away. . . . There will be no more pregnancies, births, or babies. Even if they bring up children, I will take those children away before they grow up.
Breathe!” Gomer shouted. The girl had gone white as stone, laboring to deliver her first child. “You’re dizzy because you’re holding your breath. Now breathe through the pain!” Hosea’s advice during Ammi’s birth nearly four years ago had made Gomer one of the foremost midwives among Jerusalem’s harlots. If this girl had been a member of Miriam’s household, Gomer would have fed her pomegranate rinds and wild carrot tea months ago, sparing her the heartache of carrying this baby to term.
“I have to puuuushh . . .” She bore down without coaching.
Gomer had learned much during the past four years of midwifery. At the top of the list? A woman’s body—left to its own design—would signal its needs and fulfill them naturally if possible. The other things Gomer learned provided unnatural solutions to women’s foolish choices.
“I see the baby’s head. A few more pushes, and you’ll greet this child in person!” She had to give the girl hope, but she refused to fill her thoughts with candied figs when an anxious brothel madam waited to whisk the baby away to the highest bidder. “Here it comes. Here it comes!”
With one final whoosh, a little boy entered his cold, harsh reality. Gomer had locked the door of her heart and swallowed the key—except in these moments. Fighting tears, she wiped the baby clean and rubbed him with salt as he wailed that first newborn cry.
“Let me see him,” the new ima whispered, her exhaustion all too familiar.
Gomer remained silent, hurrying through the prescribed tasks. “You’ll feel another contraction soon, and I’ll help you deliver the afterbirth.”
“What? Oh—” The girl, surprised yet efficient, resumed her laboring for a few short moments.
The final task complete, Gomer shouted to the women waiting beyond the curtain, “We’re finished in here.”
Two women entered. The first Gomer recognized as the girl’s madam, owner of a competing brothel a few houses north. The second was Miriam.
“We’ll need compensation for the use of a room and my midwife.” Miriam extended her hand.
“Fine.” The girl’s madam dropped her silver pieces into the proffered hand and snatched the infant from Gomer’s arms. “I’ll make five times that on the child.”
“No!” the new ima screamed, watching her child being carried away. She leapt off the birthing stool and tried to follow, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. Miriam and Gomer caught the girl as she fainted, a rush of her blood flooding the wood-planked floor.
“Help me get her to the straw mattress, Miriam.” Gomer grabbed her herbs and poured some boiling water into a mug over a spoonful of broken leaves, stems, and stalks. She stirred its contents, blew the steamy liquid, and coaxed the girl to drink. Delirious, she drank and tried to speak but lost consciousness again.
“What are you doing?” Miriam said, panicked. “She’s bleeding to death and you’re giving her rue tea? Are you trying to kill her?”
Gomer rolled her eyes. Her friend could be so dramatic sometimes. “No. Rue tightens the abdominal muscles and stops the bleeding.”
She felt Miriam staring. “How do you know all this? I worked as a street harlot for years and then inherited this place from my dear old madam—but I don’t have half your knowledge of herbs and midwifery.”
Gomer’s heart squeezed in her chest. Merav. Even in death, she gave her life. “I had a friend in my first brothel, the midwife there, who taught me about herbs and keeping a man’s seed from taking root.” She glanced up to meet her friend’s gaze. “I also know from personal experience. I’ve given birth to five children and survived one rue-induced drop, so I know a little about what this girl’s going through.”
Miriam’s eyes welled with tears. “You left five children to come to Jerusalem?”
“I left three children with loving people who will give them a better life. My first two children were taken from me—as that baby was taken from her.”
“Taken?” A weak voice interrupted their conversation, and Gomer checked the straw mattress. The bloodstain had stopped spreading. The girl opened bleary eyes. “Where’s my baby?”
Gomer swallowed hard, replacing the impenetrable armor around her heart. “You are alive. You survived. That’s what’s important. You’ll have more children someday, but if you’re smart, you’ll never allow this to happen again—until you marry a wealthy old merchant with a house on a hill.” The girl turned her face away, but Gomer couldn’t let her deny reality. “Do you understand? If you remain a harlot, don’t let yourself become pregnant!”
The girl nodded, her eyes swimming in unshed tears, and Gomer felt her cheeks burn with shame. Who was she to shout such commands? She’d maintained an empty womb in Jerusalem because of Miriam’s willingness to supply pomegranates and wild carrot seed for the girls, but without the provision of a kind madam, this girl had no chance to survive. She lifted an eyebrow at Miriam, a silent plea.
Miriam rolled her eyes and sighed. “I have space for one more girl in my house.” A spark lit the girl’s eyes. “If you promise to work hard, bring in at least two clients a night, I’ll take you in. And Gomer can help you remain childless.”
“Yes! Oh, yes. Thank you.” The girl reached for Miriam’s hand, but the madam turned and left without a word. The girl undoubtedly thought it was because she was harsh and uncaring—as was intended. Gomer knew a madam couldn’t reveal her heart any more than a midwife could share her soul.
“Gomer, wake up.”
The haze of deep sleep cleared slowly.
“Gomer, Commander Hananiah is downstairs. He says he must see you right away.”
Miriam’s mention of Hananiah’s name brought Gomer to her feet and out of her chamber door in one swift motion. She followed her madam downstairs, riddling her with questions. “Did he say what’s wrong? Is he alone or did he bring guards? Does he have a message or a scroll? You know I can’t read.”
“He said that he must see you right away. When I told him you see a few select clients, he became outraged and said he hadn’t come to sleep with you, only to talk with you.”
Momentary relief was replaced with fear. What could they possibly have to talk about? Unless he had word from Tekoa . . .
Her foot reached the last step, and she saw the terrified expression of Judah’s commander. Her heart stopped. “Hananiah, what is it?”
He glanced at Miriam and back at Gomer. “I must speak with you alone.”
The madam touched her friend’s elbow and leaned close. “Do you need me to call the house guards? I believe all four of them could restrain the commander if it came to that.”
Gomer patted her hand, touched by her concern. “No. I’ll be fine. Commander, you may come to my private chamber upstairs.” He appeared shocked, embarrassed. “Don’t worry.” She grinned. “What was it someone once said? ‘I’ll never force myself on you.’” She caught a glimpse of his fury before leading him upstairs. Neither spoke until they entered her chamber, where she lit an oil lamp. The room was small but seemed even smaller with his mountainous form consuming it. “So, Commander, what brings you to my home in the middle of the night?”
His jaw muscles danced, and he swayed from one foot to the other, looking more like a nervous groom than a confident soldier. “I’ve heard you’re the best midwife in Jerusalem.” He paused. “There’s a girl.” Another pause. “She’s pregnant.”
Gomer’s mind began to spin. He’d come to secure her midwife services for a pregnant girl? “And who is this pregnant girl, Commander?”
“Does it matter?” He spat the words, more like a threat than a question.
“She obviously matters very much if you’ve sought out the best midwife in Jerusalem.”
He sighed deeply and folded his arms across his leather breastplate—the first signs of defeat. “She is the daughter of a royal advisor, and she’s carrying my child.”
In that moment, Gomer was thankful she’d had four years to harden her heart and perfect her indifference. It gave her the strength to conduct business rather than melt into tears. “How far along is she?”
He looked at her as if she’d asked for directions to the moon.
“How many months since she’s experienced her womanly flow of blood?”
“Well, how would I know that?”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or slap him. “What is it you’re asking me to do, Commander?”
“We want to be rid of it.”
Now she was certain she wanted to slap him. “Is the girl as anxious to ‘be rid of it’ as you seem to be?”
His eyes narrowed. “She’s waiting outside with a guard. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“I’ll speak with her only after you’ve settled on a price with Miriam. She negotiates the fees for my services, and I’m guessing this will cost you plenty.”
She started toward the door, but Hananiah grabbed her shoulders. “You were right before when you said this girl matters. She matters very much to me—personally and politically. Don’t think you can harm her and take your revenge on me. If anything should happen to her, I’ll charge you as a criminal, and you’ll endure the harshest penalties conceived in Judah’s kingdom.”
Gomer twisted out of his grip and stopped at her doorway. “Your threats don’t frighten me, Hananiah. I know who holds true power in your household. Now, do you want to talk with Miriam or not?”
He followed her downstairs like a lamb to the slaughter. Certain Miriam would require an exorbitant fee, Gomer hid a satisfied smile. She’d done dozens of rue-induced drops on the harlots in Jerusalem. Could nobility’s wombs be different? She would begin preparing the delivery room while Hananiah and Miriam worked out the details. By this time tomorrow night, their brothel would be richer, and Gomer would’ve won another victory over Judah’s commander. She must remember to plant a kiss on Lady Asherah’s bronze head before she offered rue tea to the advisor’s daughter.
“At least she’s stopped screaming.” Miriam’s pale face and sweat-stained robe testified to the lengthy vigil she’d kept beside the advisor’s daughter.
Gomer could only stare. Horror. Disbelief. How could this be happening? “She’s dying, Miriam.”
“What? No! She can’t be!” Panic seemed to
set in, and she began shaking the girl’s shoulders. “Breathe! Isn’t that what you always tell them, Gomer? Breathe!”
“It’s too late for that.” She pushed Miriam away, cradling the girl onto the straw mattress. “Let her last moments be peaceful ones.”
They sat in silence, listening to the whisper of breath escaping the young girl’s blue lips. Finally, a long exhale.
Miriam lifted terrified eyes to Gomer. “What do we do?”
A girl poked her head through the curtain. “I don’t hear any more screaming. Should I send word to the commander that he can come to collect her now?”
“No!” they shouted as one.
Miriam took the lead. “Get out. We must clean her up before any message is sent. Do you hear me? No message until I give the order.”
The girl backed out penitently.
“We have two choices.” Gomer spoke quietly, ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard. “I can go to King Jotham with the truth and hope for his mercy.”
“King Jotham would never believe the word of a street harlot over his commander!”
Gomer shook her head, donning a wry smile.
“How can you smile at a time like this?”
“I forget you know almost nothing about my past. King Jotham is an old friend. I showed kindness to his abba Uzziah after he was struck with leprosy.”
Miriam stared blankly. “And you’re just mentioning this now?” She shook her head, seeming to dislodge all she’d just heard. “I don’t care if you’re Jotham’s ima, he’s not likely to overlook a murder charge—and that’s what Hananiah will call this—when it involves the daughter of one of his advisors.”
Gomer knew she was right, and the tears she’d held back breached the stronghold. “That leaves us with choice number two. I slip out of Jerusalem now, and you delay the news of the girl’s death as long as possible.” She reached for Miriam’s hand and squeezed it as tears streamed down both their faces. “When Hananiah discovers you’ve let me escape, he’ll try to close you down.”