Love In A Broken Vessel (13 page)

Aya arrived with an empty basket dangling from her arm. Amoz wasn’t far behind, his beard littered with crumbs, presumably from the contents of Aya’s basket. The potter reached out his hand, and Hosea locked his forearm in a friendly embrace.

“It’s good to be home,” Hosea said. Stepping aside, he placed his hand at Gomer’s back and felt her trembling. “Amoz, this is my wife, Gomer. She thinks she might enjoy learning to work clay. Would you be interested in an apprentice?”

The kind eyes of the quiet man sparkled. “Isaiah mentioned it this morning.” He turned to Gomer and offered a slight bow. “Come tomorrow, after you break your fast.”

A small gasp betrayed Gomer’s excitement. “Thank you, Master Amoz.”

He nodded, acknowledging her respect, his cheeks pinking at the attention.

“And this is Aya.”

The girl stepped forward like an eager playmate. “I saw Isaiah when I brought Amoz’s midday meal. He told me you
were beautiful.” She perused Gomer like a trinket in the market. “I had no idea a harlot would be so beautiful.”

Hosea couldn’t breathe. Gomer went rigid.

Aya continued chattering, seemingly oblivious to the pain she’d just inflicted. “Isaiah and I are to be married in a year. Perhaps we’ll raise our children together. We’ll cook and weave toge—”

“What fun we’ll have,” Gomer interrupted, venom dripping from her voice.

“Gomer, stop.” Hosea wrapped his arm around her trembling shoulders and tried to guide her toward the door. “Come, we’ll talk about this at home.” He kept his voice low, though every sound in the workshop had fallen silent and all busy hands had stilled.

She shrugged off his arm and stood regally, addressing her audience. “You can teach me to cook and weave, and I’ll teach you how to please a man in ways a wife cannot fathom.”

A collective gasp sucked all air from the shop, and Hosea squeezed his eyes shut.

Gomer turned to Amoz with the grace of a leopard on the hunt. “I will understand if you don’t wish to train a
harlot
in the art of pottery.” She offered a cursory nod and took a step to leave.

“I am not training a harlot,” Amoz said softly. “I am training my friend’s wife.”

Gomer met his gaze, expressionless. “As you wish.” She reached for Hosea’s arm with a trembling hand, glancing at the women workers who now stared openly. “We must go for now. Yuval is teaching me to cook. A harlot has so little time for such mundane tasks before becoming a wife.”

Hosea tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and led her out of the workshop. The moment the late morning sun kissed their faces, she jerked her hand away as if he’d contracted Uzziah’s leprosy. Without a word, she started walking, her posture stiff as a rod, her chin lifted in defiance.

And Hosea knew. All the trust he’d built since leaving
Samaria had been shattered, left in a heap like the shard pile at the pottery shop.

They passed the women at the loom, but Gomer’s focus never wavered, her eyes fixed on some distant point straight ahead, jaw set. They were a few cubits from the first row of houses when she finally stopped and challenged him. “How many people know?”

He took a deep breath. “Everyone.”

She staggered to the edge of the path and collapsed to one knee, hiding her face. When he tried to comfort her, she pushed him away.

Patient. He must be patient. He sat next to her there. Waiting. She rocked. No sound. No words. He lost track of time. People passed by, but he ignored them. Someone offered water, but Hosea waved him away.

Finally, Gomer looked at him, eyes swollen but with no other remnant of tears. “If I am to be your whore, I expect to be paid.”

The words sliced him, as they had undoubtedly been intended to. “You are my wife, Gomer. Almost two full moons have passed since I heard Yahweh’s voice telling me to take a wife. It was the first prophetic mission the Lord had given since Amos’s journey to Israel twelve years ago.”

“Congratulations.” The hatred in her voice chilled him.

“No, listen!” Frustration overtook him, but he shook his head, calming his voice. “Please, just listen. After the Lord spoke on the wind, I told Jonah that I was to go to Israel and marry a prostitute. The whole camp rejoiced that Yahweh had spoken to His people.” She turned away, and he was tempted to embrace her, make her listen. But he continued talking to her back. “I assumed I’d marry some nameless harlot out of obedience to Yahweh—an arrangement.”

He paused, waiting for a reply. None came.

“Don’t you see, Gomer? We prophets talked about God’s command, and the whole camp celebrated the event. Even the nation of Judah celebrated Yahweh’s message.”

She turned, horror on her features. “King Uzziah knows?
He knew I was a harlot when I approached him in the street?” He watched her draw the linen veil over her face, hiding her humiliation.

He ached for her.

“Please, my wife. Hear and know that you are a miracle in my eyes. The camp sent me to Israel to be obedient, but when I found you, I understood that Yahweh wanted more than my obedience. He wants me to help Israel understand His love. Until I fell in love with you, I had no idea how deeply Yahweh’s heart is moved by His people. Others know our marriage began as a command, but now it’s up to us to show them the miracle of love it’s become.”

She removed the veil from her face, her expression once again void of emotion. “There is no miracle, Hosea. There is only a prophet married to a prostitute.” She stood and sneered. “And prostitutes don’t cook.”

• H
OSEA
5:5–6 •

The people of Israel’s arrogance testifies against them . . . and Judah stumbles with them. They go . . . to search for Yahweh, but they can’t find him. He has left them.

G
omer couldn’t stop shaking. Hosea had tried to distract her with idle chatter as they walked home from the pottery workshop, but she’d seen every sideways glance and huddled whisper. How had she missed it before?
You’re a fool, Gomer.
She’d become complacent, forgotten the first rule of the streets.
Always be aware of your surroundings.
Why had she allowed herself to trust him? Men always betrayed.

“Shalom, Gomer.” Yuval’s voice accompanied a gentle knock on her front door.

Why had Hosea sent her? When they’d arrived home, Jonah had been waiting and said Uzziah wanted to meet with both prophets immediately. Hosea had looked at her as if she were a helpless cripple and promised to send Yuval. She’d told him not to bother. He was evidently deaf
and
stubborn.

“Gomer?” Another knock.

“Yes, yes. Coming.” She stomped to the door, any pain from Eitan’s beating numbed by Hosea’s betrayal. With a
deep breath, she tried to calm herself, adopting a pleasant air.
I must be hospitable to the owner’s wife.
She opened the door—and Merav’s ghost smiled back.

“Oh, there you are, dear,” Yuval said. “I wondered if you’d gone out for a walk this morning.”

A wave of grief washed over her. She stepped back. “Please, come in.” Then she saw the creature in the old woman’s arms. “What is
that
?”

Yuval chuckled and stepped over the threshold, stirring the air with the fresh scent of coriander. “Hosea said you might be interested in meeting Sampson. These Egyptian cats may not look ferocious, but you should see them go after the little snakes that crawl under the bed.”

Gomer shivered at the thought—then considered asking if the cat would go after the big snake who slept
in
her bed. She refreshed her practiced smile. “Perhaps you should tell me more about living in Judah, Yuval. We never had to worry about snakes and wild beasts in Samaria.” At the mention of her old life, Gomer was stricken with renewed humiliation.

“You knew last night,” she whispered, “yet you were still kind to me.” Yuval held her gaze, and Gomer measured the old woman in silence, suspicion coiling around her heart like the deadly vipers she feared. “Why did you bring me food when you knew who—what I was? And why are you being nice to me now?” A slight pause, and then she understood. “You wanted to see for yourself what Israel’s filthy harlot looked like. Now you’ll have plenty of details to share with your friends in camp, is that it?”

The old woman swallowed hard, and her eyes grew damp. “I’m being nice because—well, because you’re like a newly planted fig tree, Gomer. You need a little extra care or you’ll runt out and die in this climate.” She transferred the cat into Gomer’s arms and stepped toward the worktable and oven. “Everything in life can be learned from fig farming, child. Now pull out one of those rugs and sit down while I put on a pot of lentils to soak.”

Gomer held the furry creature at arm’s length, a little stunned that Yuval stayed. She studied the cat, inspecting its hypnotic green eyes, black stripes, and speckled, light-gray coat. “Will it bite me? What’s that sound he’s making?”

“That means he likes you. He won’t bite you, but his tongue is rough, so the first time he licks you, it may feel like a little bite.”

Gomer was smitten. She held him under her chin and stroked his silky fur. She danced with him toward the stack of goatskin rugs and reached for the one on top. “So, tell me, Yuval, does Sampson scare the snakes or does he—” An iron pot clanged, and panic shot through her. “Yuval, no!”

Gomer’s shout startled the old woman, and a wooden spoon clattered to the floor. “Blooming fig trees, child! What’s the matter? I was just going to soak the lentils.”

Gomer dropped the cat, her mind whirring for any excuse to move Yuval away from the shelf where her Asherah lay hidden. “I refuse to cook for Hosea. He told everyone I’m a harlot, so I told him harlots don’t cook.” Her cheeks flamed. It sounded so childish when she heard herself say it. Perhaps it would have been less embarrassing to let Yuval find the goddess.

The old woman set aside the cooking pot and joined Gomer on a rug while Sampson curled up at their feet. “I know it’s hard to live with a past you’re not proud of. I felt unworthy to be Amos’s wife—an orphaned servant girl marrying the son of a wealthy landowner. Many of the women were unkind to me at first, and even more when our betrothal became widely known. But what matters most is the way our husbands treat us, not the opinions of a few jealous gossips on the farm.”

Gomer felt tears burn. She didn’t want to cry in front of the owner’s wife, but the compassionate face looking back at her seemed so familiar, the voice so much like the woman who had raised her. She fell into Yuval’s arms and wept. Tired. Confused. Angry.

“Why do the gods hate me? Why won’t they leave me alone and let me live in peace?”

Yuval rocked her back and forth, removing Gomer’s blue veil, stroking her hair. “There is only one God, child, and He doesn’t hate you. Yahweh chose you as Hosea’s wife.”

“To make me a mockery among the people of Judah!”

“To make you the example of His divine love.” Her words were soft-spoken but firm. She coaxed Gomer to sit up. “Look around you. In what other home do you see such fine pottery? And how many baskets of grain do you count?” When Gomer didn’t answer, Yuval grasped her chin and delved into her eyes. “How many baskets of grain?”

“Three.”

“Yes, three baskets of grain. Do you know how many baskets of grain Hosea purchased last year—for the whole year?”

Gomer shook her head.

“He purchased one basket of grain for himself, and he slept on one of these goatskin rugs. Who do you think he bought all these supplies and that beautiful wool-stuffed mattress for? He was preparing his home for a wife, Gomer.”

“He was preparing for a harlot.”

“Listen to me, little Gomer. Hosea prepared his heart to obey Yahweh and marry a prostitute—yes. But the man I saw return with you in his arms was a man in love. He loves his
wife
, Gomer.” Yuval released her chin but held her gaze. “Only you can make yourself a harlot in his eyes.” She transferred a kiss from her finger to Gomer’s nose. “Now, I intend to teach you how to cook today, so you’d best find a better spot for whatever you’ve hidden over there by the cooking pot while I go to the well for some water.”

The door clicked shut behind Yuval, and Gomer grabbed the Asherah, hurrying to secure a new hiding place before her perceptive friend returned. She had planned to involve Yuval in securing a gift for Hosea—something to make the lie she’d told him in Jerusalem seem true. But Yuval would almost certainly discern Gomer’s duplicity. Like her old friend
Merav, Yuval seemed to have an inner sense about Gomer that was both comforting and frustrating.

Allowing herself one last glance at the Asherah before hiding her under the mattress, Gomer felt renewed anger bubble up. Hosea didn’t deserve a gift. If he asked what happened to the item purchased for him in Jerusalem, she’d tell him she destroyed it—just as he had destroyed any hope of their happiness.

“I’ve been praying all night for King Uzziah,” Jonah said, allowing Hosea and Isaiah to support him as they walked the rocky trail between the king’s rented house and the fenced compound of Amos’s farm. “I’ve had no relief from this wariness in my spirit.”

“I spoke with him this morning,” Isaiah said, “and he seemed in good spirits, though his wounds are worsening.” He shook his head, seeming as puzzled as Jonah. “I left him just after the midday meal as his three chief advisors were arriving.”

Hosea felt a little guilty. He hadn’t given King Uzziah’s troubles much thought since arriving home last night. He’d been consumed with his wife—both her ecstasy and her agony. Sighing, he tried to refocus. How could he be of worth to this struggling king?

“Uzziah knows we’re of little help until the priests examine him again in seven days.” Hosea was so engrossed in guiding Jonah’s footing, he felt the prophet’s nudge before he noticed the changes.

“What’s wrong?” Isaiah glanced from the prophets to his cousin’s makeshift royal city. Surrounding the little stone house was a sea of royal tents, spaced the prescribed ten cubits from the leprous king’s abode. Guards and priests scurried at Uzziah’s command, while he sat on a mat in the doorway of the house. It seemed the king had moved his throne to Tekoa.

“I don’t think King Uzziah is learning Yahweh’s intended lesson on humility.” Jonah’s voice reflected the dread Hosea felt. This would not be an easy meeting. Isaiah’s confusion was evident, but they left his questions unanswered, hoping he’d see the spiritual significance of the meeting through the veil of his family devotion.

“Shalom the house!” Hosea shouted, trudging toward the royal clearing.

“Ah, the prophets have arrived!” Uzziah waved them over like old friends.

“My lord, remember the Law!” the high priest shouted.

“Oh, yes, yes.” Uzziah cleared his throat and belted out, “Unclean! Unclean!” and then checked for the high priest’s approval. Yahweh’s priest nodded, and Uzziah regained his amiable smile. “I’m not used to the regulations of a leper yet. Please, Hosea, Jonah, be seated in my new audience chamber. Isaiah can show you.” He winced when moving his arm to direct them. Isaiah’s report of intensified suffering had not been exaggerated.

The audience chamber, as he called it, was a set of fine tapestries on the ground, two camels’ lengths from the king’s front door. The sun had reached midday, and thankfully, both the tapestries and the king’s entry would be shaded by mighty sycamores.

The two younger men bowed to the king and his officials and then helped lower Jonah on the tapestry between them. Uzziah charged ahead with introductions. “Have you met my officials, Jeiel, Maaseiah, and Hananiah? Jeiel is my chief scribe and Maaseiah my most trusted advisor. Hananiah is the commander of Judah’s army. Gentlemen . . .”

The three officials bowed, and the prophets returned the respectful gesture.

Hosea glanced at Jonah, hoping the more experienced prophet would begin the conversation. He didn’t, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. Hosea noted the advisors’ stony expressions, fueling his apprehension. Isaiah, to his
credit, remained silent, waiting for whatever prompted Uzziah’s meeting to unfold.

“As you know,” Uzziah’s voice suddenly echoed off the hills, “Israel and Judah have enjoyed peace since Jeroboam and I have ruled our nations, but you may not know at what price. When Jeroboam’s abba died and released my abba from a Samaritan prison, no formal treaty was signed, but an informal agreement has been understood.”

Hosea sensed Isaiah tense beside him and wondered how much of the privileged political and family information his friend knew.

“I don’t actively scout Jeroboam’s Israel,” Uzziah said, leveling his gaze at Hosea, “and his troops stay out of Judah.”

Uzziah glanced at Commander Hananiah, and the man’s voice boomed as big as his stature. “But we’d all be fools to turn blind eyes to the weapons and war strategies of neighboring nations.”

The king nodded to his scribe, who handed a wax tablet and stylus to his advisor, Maaseiah. The advisor then relayed the writing materials into Jonah’s hands.

“I’ve asked my advisors to attend today’s meeting in order to witness your statements,” Uzziah said, pointing at the items of exchange.

Jonah looked down at the unmarked tablet and returned an empty stare. “We’re not sure what
statements
you’d like us to make.”

The commander stepped forward, two long strides that placed him midway between the king and the audience tapestries. “You prophets have spent two full moon cycles in Israel, and we need to know how Jeroboam’s troops compare to Judah’s. We have a standing army of over three hundred thousand trained soldiers, but I’d still like to know what we’d be up against if Israel attacked us.”

At this point, Jeiel stepped forward with a partially unrolled scroll, announcing with delight the things that appeal to scribes. “We have shields, spears, helmets, armor, bows,
and stones for slings. It would be most helpful if we could compile a similar inventory of Israel’s war supplies, including an accounting of chariots, horses, war machines . . .” He looked up from his scroll and added, “Whatever information you provide would be helpful.”

Hosea sensed Jonah’s tension and felt his own stomach tightening into a knot. Uzziah was a good and godly king. Did he understand so little of Hosea’s calling to Israel? He must find a way to answer respectfully and yet remind the king that he and Jonah had not gone to Israel as spies.

“I would be happy to tell the king everything I witnessed of Israel’s military status.” Hosea’s earnest tone seemed to relax the advisors and shed eager delight on Uzziah’s features. “We entered Samaria’s gates and went to the temple, where we saw King Jeroboam’s general, Menahem, standing next to him at a pagan sacrifice. We then witnessed a contingent of guards escort a battered old woman into the temple while the captain held an infant aloft, marching toward a brazen altar of Molech. We heard later that they tossed the infant into the fire, mirroring the sins of the Canaanite nations before them.”