Love In A Broken Vessel (7 page)

• H
OSEA
6:3 •

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

H
osea 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 same 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.”