Love In A Broken Vessel (11 page)

“Come, Wife. Let’s go home.”

Guilt chewed at the edges of Gomer’s heart. They’d left Jerusalem just before the evening meal and traveled in darkness through the wilderness—a perfect condition for the black heart of one who lies to her husband about a gift when she’s hiding a pagan god in her pocket. Isaiah had been right about her. She was everything despicable and didn’t know how to love.

“You’ve been moping since we left Jerusalem,” Isaiah grunted, pushing the cart with all his might. “One would think you were the one with leprosy.”

Gomer issued him a sidelong glance and dug the walking sticks into the dusty path. “I’m concentrating on using these silly sticks. I don’t know how Jonah gets around so well.”

The old curmudgeon had collapsed north of Bethlehem, but he refused to take her place on the cart. She silenced his
protests by stealing his walking sticks and kissing his cheek. Now he slept atop their makeshift wagon through the bumpiest terrain Gomer had ever traveled.

The cart creaked as one wheel dipped into a deep rut on the uphill path. Gomer stifled a cry, watching Jonah nearly topple from his perch. Isaiah pushed, Hosea pulled, and the cart moaned on its way again.

Relieved, Gomer chatted with Isaiah to distract herself from the ache in her hips. “How much farther to Tekoa?” She was trying not to complain.

“We’re almost there.” He must have been exhausted too. He’d been leaning his whole being into pushing uphill. He glanced over his arm, concern evident. “Do you need to stop? I can have the soldiers signal to Uzziah’s guard.”

“No. I’m fine.”

Isaiah’s brow furrowed deeply, and he tucked his head between his arms again. “You’re not fine, but it’s best to keep going if we can. We are very close, and when we get to camp, you’ll be able to rest in your own home.”

Your own home.
The thought energized her. She had little memory of a real home. She would arrive in Tekoa with a leprous king and an entire detachment of Judean soldiers holding torches aloft on both sides of the path—not the way she envisioned the entrance to her first
real
home, but it would certainly be memorable. A spark of excitement pushed her onward.

She heard a shofar in the distance and looked up, noticing a soft glow in a valley below them. They crested a hill, the cart stopped, and Hosea joined them.

“That’s home, Gomer,” he said, pointing to the village aglow. “King Uzziah must have sent runners to let them know we were coming. They’ve got torches lit for us.”

“I haven’t been kind to you in the past.” Isaiah’s voice split the night air, and Hosea reached his arm around Gomer’s waist, giving her a gentle squeeze. “But I saw a different side of your heart today.”

A lump formed in Gomer’s throat, the goddess in her pocket accusing her loudly. “I know how it feels to be an outcast, Isaiah. No one likes to feel alone.”

“We will remember your kindness,” Jonah’s reedy voice interrupted from atop his perch. “You will need friends in your new home.”

Gomer saw Hosea and Isaiah exchange an unspoken message, and her blood ran cold. Their worried expressions doused her spark of excitement and settled a blanket of dread over her weary bones.

• L
EVITICUS
13:2–4 •

If anyone has a sore, a rash, or an irritated area on his skin that turns into an infectious skin disease . . . the priest will examine the disease. If the hair in the diseased area has turned white, and the diseased area looks deeper than the rest of his skin, it is an infectious skin disease. When the priest has examined him, he must declare him unclean. But if the irritated area is white and does not look deeper than the rest of the skin, and the hair has not turned white, the priest must put him in isolation for seven days.

G
omer perused the lovely stone house where Hosea had asked her to wait while he helped settle King Uzziah in a home outside the camp gates. She was exhausted, and her pride was still bruised after having to be carried from the hilltop where she’d first spied Tekoa. The short rest sent a false report to her legs that the journey was over. Her weakened body refused to take another step on the rocky terrain. Isaiah took sole duty of Jonah’s two-wheeled cart, and Hosea hoisted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a
sack of barley. His strength astonished her. Many things about her childhood friend surprised her these days.

Her stomach growled loudly, and she groaned a little, wishing for a hot meal and a warm bed. But Hosea had plopped her down in this house just inside the camp’s gate without a word about their provisions. He’d rushed out the door to join Isaiah and the others to care for King Uzziah.

The main room was simple yet elegant.
This must be a guest house for visiting royalty.
Perhaps Uzziah stayed here when he visited Amoz and Isaiah. She fell onto a stack of curly goatskin rugs and snuggled into the softness.

But Asherah poked at her hip and pricked her conscience.

She adjusted the alabaster goddess and then scanned the room, wondering where she might hide her treasure when Hosea took her to their home. Here she could find plenty of hiding spots. Beautiful vases, jugs, and bowls were stacked on shelves over a worktable and washbasin. This home even boasted a private oven, not shared with the farm or other houses around a courtyard. In fact, she noted on passing through Amos’s gates that most of the houses stood alone and were built into the surrounding mountains and hills. She’d felt a significant temperature change when she entered this large room and realized the natural-rock walls must help maintain a cool temperature in Tekoa’s desert climate.

She closed her eyes and curled onto her side. Her body needed rest, but her spirit felt alive. Perhaps it was change that brought hope, but she felt more alive than she had since . . . well, since she and Hosea were children. The boy she’d thought abandoned her had reappeared and seemed to sincerely care. A slight flutter tightened her chest. Was this love? A wry smile creased her lips. What was love anyway? But she did care for Hosea. She’d be sad if anything happened to him.

Then the familiar fear strangled her. What would she do if Hosea abandoned her again? Everyone abandoned her at some point.

She reached for the alabaster goddess in her pocket,
stroking the smooth, cool stone.
Great Goddess Asherah, abundant mother of life, open my womb that I might have children one day to provide for me in my old age.
She’d never before imagined such a prayer, but the thought comforted her. As a harlot, she’d dreaded children, done everything in her power to keep her body from producing them. Squeezing her familiar goddess, she felt a strange warmth move up her arm. Yes, she was ready to give herself to her husband. If not for love, then for her future.

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. She sat up too quickly, and her head swam.
I must eat something.
She steadied herself and moved toward the door, wishing she hadn’t returned Hosea’s dagger and left herself unprotected. “Yes? Who is it?” she said through the thick wooden panels.

“Shalom, dear. My name is Yuval. I’m Amos’s wife, and I’ve brought a small meal for nourishment.”

Gomer glanced around the room, not sure what she was looking for, but equally unsure why the owner’s wife would bring her food in the middle of the night. “Hosea isn’t here. He’s helping King Uzziah.”

A slight pause. “I know, dear. Amos is with them. I thought you might be hungry and we could share a meal. Would you be willing to let me in?”

Now Gomer felt utterly foolish. “Of course. I’m so sorry . . . ,” she said, opening the door. But the face that waited outside shocked her into silence. “Merav?” Gomer began to tremble and covered her mouth to stifle a cry.

“What? What’s wrong, dear?” The old woman rushed past her and set the tray of food aside. “Sit down. You look pale.”

The face, the voice, even the hands—this old woman was Gomer’s midwife friend from the brothel. “Merav, I watched the guard kill you,” she whispered. She couldn’t take her eyes off the haunting face.

“Tell me who you think I am, Gomer.” The ghostly matron led her to a rug beside the tray of food. “Your name is Gomer,
right? You’re Hosea’s new bride?” She stroked Gomer’s hand as she talked, soothing, reasoning.

“Yes, I’m Hosea’s wife.” Gomer shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
This must be a dream.
But when she opened her eyes, Merav’s ghost was still there. “Oh, has Mot sent you back to punish me?” She began to cry, fear seizing her.

“Shh, little one. Don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.” The old woman wrapped her in a ferocious hug. “You see? I’m real. Mot has no dominion among Yahweh’s people. I am Yuval, and no false gods will torment you here.” She rocked Gomer back and forth until her tears subsided.

Finally feeling a measure of peace, Gomer released the soft, warm woman who had held her so tightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a fool of myself, but you look exactly like the midwife and nursemaid at the broth—” She stopped, horrified that she’d almost told Yuval she’d been a harlot! It was bad enough she undoubtedly thought Gomer a madwoman. “My childhood nursemaid and the midwife who trained me—her name was Merav. I watched King Jeroboam’s guards stab her to death when she tried to save an infant from a temple sacrifice. You look remarkably like her.”

Tears welled in Yuval’s eyes. “Oh, Gomer. I’m sorry you witnessed such a tragedy. Merav sounds like a brave and caring woman. I hope my life reflects her character as strongly as my face reflects her features.” She patted Gomer’s hand and leaned close. “Now, may I join you in the meal? And when we’re finished, I can help you unpack if you like.” She waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. “Who knows how long before our husbands come home.”

“Unpack?” Gomer watched the dear old woman arrange warm bread and steaming stew on the leather table mat. “Are you taking me to Hosea’s house after we eat?”

Yuval’s hand stopped midair, full of dates. “This
is
Hosea’s house, dear. Didn’t he tell you? This is your home now.”

Hosea left the small stone house Amos had provided for King Uzziah and swirled his walking stick on the path in front of him. The vibration would warn off snakes, and the noise would alert any large predator of human presence. Once inside the camp’s gated compound, he no longer stayed vigilant for wilderness beasts. Now his mind could settle into the matters that weighed heavy on his soul. He trudged up the rocky path toward home, wondering if the world would ever make sense again. Judah’s righteous king—afflicted by Yahweh. He shook his head and sighed, his heart as heavy as his leaden feet.

The priests had inspected every affected area on Uzziah’s body as the Law prescribed. Though the skin was white like leprosy, the hair in the affected area had not turned white, nor did the sores look more than skin deep. The decision—confinement for seven days—had wrought a piteous expression from the king. The Law required Yahweh’s priests to examine him every seven days to determine if the skin lesions were a simple rash or infectious. If at any point the lesions were determined infectious, he would be deemed unclean and must live outside any community indefinitely. The priests’ decision would determine Uzziah’s long-term living arrangements.

Hosea read terror on the king’s features—a man who had thrived on activity, people, and accomplishment now sequestered in the stone-walled house no larger than his palace dressing room. With each requirement the priests listed, Uzziah’s shoulders sagged lower.

“Your outer garment must be torn at all times as if mourning. Your beard must be covered with a mantle. And if anyone approaches the house, you must warn them to keep their distance by shouting, ‘Unclean, unclean!’ And we must shave your head, my lord.”

At the final pronouncement, the king’s eyes grew round. “Surely you can set aside the bald head for your king. It is unheard of for Judah’s ruler to shave his head for
any
occasion.”

It was Hosea’s first glimpse of the arrogance that had
landed Uzziah in a rented house on Amos’s farm. Still, how did a king who offered all the right sacrifices, won all the right battles, built all the right towers . . . still fall under Yahweh’s most severe judgment?

It was Uzziah’s arrogance that separated him from Me. Outward adherence is not inward devotion. I have shown through leprosy the outward sign of his inner corruption . . .

Hosea.

A cold chill crept up his spine. Hosea heard God’s words as if they were spoken aloud, but he’d never heard Yahweh call him by name. It was both tender and terrifying. Hosea fell to his knees on Tekoa’s rocky soil, laying his forehead on the ground, palms up to receive whatever Yahweh would give.

Love your wife, Hosea. Love her as I love My people Israel. Love her as I love Uzziah.

A cool desert breeze swept over him, and the moment was over. Hosea lifted his head, heart racing.
As You love Uzziah? What do You mean, Yahweh?
But his spirit was silent. Would Yahweh send Jonah to help him understand? He glanced all around but saw no one stirring on Amos’s compound. Even the animals were bedded down for the night. He looked to the cloudless sky. The moon was bright, stars shining.

There would be no explanation tonight.

He stood and dusted off his robe. With a deep sigh, he let the exhaustion of the day settle into his bones. “I do love her, Yahweh.” He felt some of the sadness lift as he said the words aloud. His steps quickened. “I do love her.” With each step, he let thoughts of his wife draw him toward the stone house he’d once shared with his abba. Gomer had come so far in the three days since they’d left Samaria. She’d shared her fears, cried in his arms. She even seemed willing to submit to the fellowship meal at the temple—until she saw King Uzziah. Perhaps Yahweh had meant Hosea must teach her faithfully, love her consistently, and, if she rebelled, somehow discipline her.

He wiped his tired face with a long swipe of his hands and
looked up, judging the moon at past its midpoint. Gomer would be sound asleep. Tonight hadn’t been all that he’d hoped for together in their new home, but perhaps there would be space for him on the mattress beside her. He smiled at the thought.

Anticipation pressed him onward, and he swung open the waist-high wooden gate of his small courtyard. He checked the stable, noting the new livestock he’d purchased for his household. The donkey and now two goats had fresh hay. He listened for the soft, contented clucking of hens on their nests.
I must remember to thank Micah.

Micah had become Hosea’s shadow since news of his prophetic message had filtered through the camp. He was a good boy, brought by his abba to study at the prophets’ camp three years ago, and Jonah took over his guardianship. Though Hosea didn’t feel the same kinship with him as with Isaiah, Micah was another little brother with whom he felt a special bond.

Isaiah.
A wave of melancholy swept over Hosea.
Will You call him to ministry, Yahweh? Will he be called to sacrifice like me?

He shook his head, scoffing inwardly. What sacrifice had he really made? He’d been married two full moon cycles and had never bedded his wife. Granted, considering Gomer’s beauty, that was a sacrifice. A wry smile creased his face. But waiting for her love was worth it. He stood for a moment outside his front door, rubbed his face again, and lifted the iron latch.

A fire glowed in the oven, and lamplight flickered from the bedchamber.

“Hosea?”

His heart slammed against his chest, his mouth instantly dry. Nervous. Why was he nervous? “Yes, it’s me,” he said, standing rooted to the floor.

A sound from the bedchamber, and then she was there. Gomer stood silhouetted in the doorway, lamplight illuminating perfect curves through her tunic. All breath left him.

“Is the king all right?” she asked.

Silence.

“Hosea? Is he . . . is he . . . Oh!” She gasped, looking horrified.

He realized she must think Uzziah dead.

“No, the king is fine.” He rushed to her and wrapped her in his arms. Her hazel eyes searched his face. “The priests have confined Uzziah for seven days, and then they’ll inspect his wounds again . . .” He let his fingers slide up the back of her head, entangle in her copper curls. “I don’t want to talk about the king.” He kissed her, tasting the cloves he’d come to love. Tentative at first, he waited for her to stop him, to pull away—but she didn’t resist. She was intoxicating, filling every part of him with a joy and pleasure he’d never known.