Love In A Broken Vessel (6 page)

Gomer woke to the sound of men’s voices in her room, dim lamplight, and chilly night air. The coppery taste of blood lingered in her mouth, and her head still throbbed—now a dull ache rather than clanging cymbals. Someone was dabbing a cold cloth on her forehead.

“Hosea?”

“No, it’s me,” came a little girl’s squeak.

She tried to open her eyes and discovered both were in working order. Jarah, the kitchen maid, knelt beside her, washed and dressed in her finest robe and tunic.

“What . . .” But before Gomer questioned the girl, Hosea knelt at her left side.

“You look better. The swelling is down and both eyes are open.”

“Who is that?” Her gaze motioned to the handsome young man standing with the fish prophet.

Hosea seemed to understand and swept the hair off her
forehead. “Jonah brought my friend Isaiah back from the tombs. We’ve paid Tamir the agreed price, and Jonah rented a small house on the other side of town.” He paused, gazed into her eyes with some undecipherable emotion. “Everything is in place to perform a simple wedding ceremony. Isaiah will serve as friend of the bridegroom. Jonah will pronounce the blessing, and Jarah”—he motioned to the girl kneeling a cubit from them—“will be your virgin attendant.” He leaned close, a wry smile creasing his lips. “We had a little trouble finding a maiden among your . . .
associates
. . . who qualified for the honor.”

Gomer smiled in spite of herself and noted Jarah’s pink cheeks. “I’m glad you chose her. She’s my favorite.”

The girl stifled a small gasp. “Thank you, Mistress Gomer.”

She returned her attention to Hosea, noticing his smile had fled.

“I believe Yahweh has chosen you to be my wife, Gomer, but I will not force you to marry me.” He lifted his voice for all to hear. “Before Yahweh and these witnesses, do you
choose
to be my wife?”

Gomer’s heart thundered in her chest, its beat resounding in her ears like the drums at the temple this morning. She had lamented her lack of choices, demanded her opportunity to decide. How did Hosea know what she needed—when she needed it? Suddenly, a strange calm swept over her, as it often had when they were children. Hosea used to take her hand in his and strum her fingers like a harp. Just like he was doing now . . .

“Hosea!” She lifted her head and looked at her lifeless hand lying at her side. He had indeed been strumming her fingers. “I felt your touch! Strum my fingers again!”

He laughed and cried and strummed her fingers, rejoicing with her at the hope of recovery. While the others celebrated, Hosea lifted her into his arms and kissed her. Not the friendly peck of a ten-year-old boy, but the sweet passion of a bridegroom longing for his bride.

Breathless, she whispered, “Yes, I will marry you.”

• I
SAIAH
2:1 •

This is the message which Isaiah, son of Amoz, saw about Judah and Jerusalem.

G
omer sat in the narrow shade of their small rented house on Samaria’s northeast side, listening to the birdsong—and to Jonah’s snoring. The fish prophet said he’d seen seventy summers. Gomer felt certain he’d slept through fifty.

“You must cinch it tighter, Hosea. Here, let me do it.” Isaiah snatched the leather strap from his friend’s hand, and Gomer’s slow boil rose to full steam.

The bossy young messenger had taken over the two-wheeled cart project that Hosea was building and Gomer designed. Her injuries had healed nicely in the past three Sabbaths, but she still wasn’t strong enough to saw or tie or lift. So Hosea let Isaiah “help.”

“Hosea was doing just fine,” she shouted across the courtyard. “If you make the strap too tight, the baskets won’t flex as a back support, and the strap will break.”

Jonah expelled an enormous snort and startled himself on his teetering stool. Hosea chuckled, but Isaiah leveled a
challenging stare at Gomer. “If you think you can do better . . .” He stepped back and invited her with a sweep of his hand.

She refused to be cowed and grabbed one of Jonah’s walking sticks to push herself to stand. Hosea rushed to help, but she shoved him away. “Leave me alone.” She hardly noticed the hurt in his eyes anymore. What did he expect? A street harlot one day, a loving wife the next?

A few excruciating steps, and she was face-to-face with her husband’s handsome friend who despised her. “Say what you wish to say to me, and then I see no need for us to speak again.” She lifted her chin, pleased at his shocked expression.

“Isaiah . . .” Hosea stood between them, sweat beading his brow. “She is my wife.”

“She is a
prostitute
.” The word spewed from his mouth like vomit. “She is a symbol of everything Yahweh despises in Israel, and yet you treat her as if she is fine pottery from Egypt.” He turned his mocking smile on Gomer. “I am grateful to you for one thing. Your black heart has shown me all that my lovely Aya is not. I will marry a pure and holy maiden when we return to Tekoa, a woman whose heart is right with her God and who knows how to love.”

Gomer had no words. She began to tremble and knew she must escape or lose all control in front of this
child
who had peeled away layers of carefully placed armor. A nod was her reply.

She turned and started for the house. Jonah stood at the door, his eyes full of tears.
No! I don’t want your pity!
she wanted to scream. And then she felt Hosea’s hand on her arm. “No! Don’t touch me!” He obeyed, stopping in the courtyard while she retreated into the lone private chamber of their rented house.

Was life as a prophet’s wife supposed to be better? At least as a harlot she had the respect of her peers. She knew she didn’t deserve love, but had she given up all hope of friendship as well?

“How could you, Isaiah?” Hosea asked when Gomer disappeared into the house. He spun on his heel and rushed at him, grabbed the collar of Isaiah’s robe, and lifted him off the ground. “How could you say those things?” he screamed.

“I am a prophet, and we’ve been taught that prophets must say hard things sometimes.”

Hosea released him, breathless, wordless. He felt Jonah’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him aside.

“How did Yahweh’s voice manifest to you, Isaiah?” the old man asked. “What proof did Yahweh’s Spirit give you that you could grasp when others questioned your motives—like we’re doing right now?”

Isaiah’s face shaded deep crimson. “I didn’t hear Yahweh’s voice word for word, but—”

“That was not prophecy, Isaiah,” Jonah’s voice thundered. “It was your jealousy speaking, wishing you’d been given a prophetic mission before Hosea.”

“I’m not jealous of him. Why would I want to marry a prostitute?”

Hosea’s heart shattered into smaller pieces.

Jonah paused, allowing silence to stress his words. “You’ve made your disdain for Gomer clear. Your childish tantrum and inability to comprehend Yahweh’s heart has revealed your immaturity. You’re not ready for Yahweh’s call, Isaiah.”

All color drained from Isaiah’s face. He and Hosea watched Jonah hobble to the house with one walking stick. Hosea folded his legs and sat, too numb to fight.

His humbled friend sat beside him. “‘I’m sorry’ hardly seems enough—but it’s where I’ll start.”

Hosea nodded but couldn’t yet bring himself to accept Isaiah’s apology. How would he ever unsay the hurtful things Gomer had heard? “You were wrong. She’s not the symbol of all Yahweh
despises
in Israel. She’s all that He seeks to redeem—the brokenness, the confusion, the lost lamb that
needs a shepherd.” Isaiah rubbed his face and sighed deeply, nodding his head in what Hosea hoped was a vow to see her afresh. “But you were also right about Gomer. She doesn’t yet know how to love. I think Yahweh wants me to teach her.”

Isaiah cocked his head, furrowed his brow. “It seems you’ve already started. Please don’t misinterpret what I’m about to say, but . . . she hasn’t said a civil word to you since we moved her from that brothel. Yet you seem to care for her. How can that be?”

Hosea shook his head, a slow smile forming. He looked at his reckless young friend and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I must have a soft spot for people who need forgiveness.”

Gomer glanced at the wool and spindle lying on her sleeping mat and then cursed the lumpy thread beside it. What was Hosea thinking? A harlot didn’t spin wool. If he’d like her to paint his nails with henna or line his eyes with kohl, she’d be happy to oblige.

Today marked her fourth day in the private chamber, and she’d be content to die there. If she ever saw Isaiah again, it would be too soon. How could he describe her so accurately after knowing her for only three Sabbaths? She
was
everything this Yahweh god despised, if all Hosea had said at Jeroboam’s sacrifice was true. But when Isaiah exposed her utter inability to love—
that
was the dagger to her heart. Her black heart.

“Gomer?” Isaiah’s voice sliced through her from the other side of the curtained doorway.

She said nothing, hoping he would think she’d died.

“Gomer, please. I need to talk to you. I want to apologize.”

Her heart pounded. If she allowed him in, where could she escape? This was her sanctuary, her only retreat. He drew back the curtain, and indignation replaced her fear. “I did not give you permission to enter!”

“I know, but—”

“Who do you think you are—a king? I am no longer a harl—”

“No, but I’m the cousin of Judah’s king.”

Her mouth went dry, and words failed her. She hated the satisfied grin on his face but didn’t dare heap more condemnation on her already long list of offenses. If Isaiah was royalty, she would undoubtedly be executed the minute they arrived in Jerusalem.

He walked in and seated himself across from her. “Hosea loves you.” A slight pause. “And I love Hosea like a brother. I see that the way I’ve treated you hurts both of you—and I’m sorry, Gomer.”

She tried not to roll her eyes but evidently failed at hiding her disdain.

“Why do you do that?” Mounting frustration tightened his jaw.

Cousin to the king, cousin to the king.
She must try to be respectful. It hadn’t been long since she’d played the harlot with many men. This would be no different. She softened her tone, painted on a smile, demurred. “Please forgive me, my lord. I have not been myself since the beating. I ask your patience and will make a better effort in the future.” She kept her head bowed to hide her unmasked anger.

Silence stretched into awkwardness. Finally, Isaiah’s voice quivered as he spoke. “That’s why you frighten me.”

Gomer snapped to attention, finding the young royal staring at her—as if she were Mot from the underworld. “I frighten you?” she asked, mocking. “You’re the righteous one, raised in the security of your perfect prophets’ world.”

But Isaiah didn’t draw his verbal sword this time. His expression seemed almost . . . vulnerable. “You so easily deceive, and I’ve witnessed the destruction that deceit and idolatry bring to a nation—to a family.”

“What would a
royal
Yahweh student know of idolatry?”

“King Uzziah is my cousin, my abba’s nephew. But because their ages are similar, they grew up more like brothers.
Abba Amoz hated deceit and palace politics, so he moved to Lachish and learned the pottery trade. When Uzziah’s abba, King Amaziah, turned to idolatry, conspirators in Jerusalem sought to take his life, so he fled to Lachish for Abba’s shelter. Assassins followed Amaziah there and killed him. Abba has always felt responsible.”

“But he wasn’t responsible,” Gomer protested. “It was the zealots—those men who wouldn’t allow King Amaziah to worship other gods.”

“No, Gomer. Uncle Amaziah was responsible. Each one of us must choose whom—or what—we worship.”

Gomer’s blood ran cold. “How can you be so narrow-minded? So certain Yahweh is the only god?”

“Because He proves Himself to each one of us—if we are willing to set aside the distractions and desires that draw us away from Him. That’s why Uzziah commanded Abba Amoz to move closer to Jerusalem. He feared Abba would succumb to Lachish’s idolatry while mourning my ima’s death—she died while giving me life.”

“I’m sorry, Isaiah.” Gomer’s sympathy was stirred, but she wasn’t yet ready for a truce. Besides, some of his story didn’t make sense. “If King Uzziah commanded your abba to move to Jerusalem, why were you raised with Hosea at the prophets’ camp?”

A slight grin began but died before it reached his eyes. “Yahweh had blessed Uzziah’s reign in both military and building campaigns. He purchased land in the foothills around Jerusalem and then began building towers and cisterns in the wilderness to fortify the nation of Judah. He’d spent some time in the Tekoan wilderness and knew there was plenty of clay soil to supply a workshop. Knowing Abba hated politics, Uzziah asked the prophet Amos if he could build a pottery workshop on his farm. An agreement was struck, and I grew up at the camp.” A sad smile creased his lips, and Gomer saw a thousand unspoken words behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry you never knew your ima, but it sounds like a pretty perfect life to me, Isaiah.”

He held her gaze, pondering, and then he stood, holding out his hand. She accepted, feeling somewhat better about Hosea’s hostile friend.

He reached for the curtain, pulled it aside, but stopped just before they left her self-imposed prison. “I have a good life, Gomer. But at least you knew why your abba gave you away. Mine lives in the same camp, but he let others raise me—and I have no idea why.”