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Love in a Broken Vessel: A Novel

By Mesu Andrews

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Note to the Reader

When you think of reading the story of Gomer and
Hosea, what novel comes to mind? Redeeming Love
by Francine Rivers, right? I think I’ve read it at least four
times. It’s tied for first place in my all-time favorites, and
Francine Rivers is hands down my favorite author. So why
would I dare write a novel that might be compared to such a
classic? Because Love in a Broken Vessel is biblical fiction, and
Redeeming Love is a biblical story set in a prairie romance.
Trying to equate the two stories would be like comparing
apples and oranges—both are fruit, but very different yummy
flavors. My hope is that readers will enjoy each one for the
unique story it is.
Engaging fiction must be believable, but let’s face it—a
righteous man of God marrying, loving, and repeatedly forgiving
a prostitute is hard to grasp. However, as you immerse
yourself in the ancient days of Hosea and Gomer, remember
that the Bible says Hosea married a harlot named Gomer,
and the story mirrors God’s desperate attempt to turn the
hearts of Israel back to Himself. The story may not have
happened exactly as I’ve written it, but it did happen. It was
the mystery of Christ’s love and mercy before the incarnation
of our Savior.
Now, regarding the parts that are fiction, there is no historical
data linking the prophets Jonah, Amos, and Hosea.
However, Amos was indeed a fig picker from Tekoa, and it
was feasible that Jonah was still living during the time of
Amos’s prophecies and Hosea’s ministry. I’ve chosen to weave
their lives together in a prophets’ camp—a sort of school for
aspiring messengers of Yahweh. Though, again, I found no
factual basis for a prophets’ camp in Tekoa, the Bible often
refers to a community of prophets beginning as early as the
tribes themselves. Shiloh was the gathering place for prophets
with the ark of God. In 1 Samuel 19, Saul sent messengers
to Naioth to seize David from a company of prophets, and
2 Kings 6 gives an account of some cantankerous prophets
complaining that their living quarters are too tight.
Scripture also describes the details of King Uzziah’s leprosy
but gives no location of the rented house where he lived out
his life while Jotham ruled from Jerusalem. Neither does the
Bible declare Uzziah’s exact relationship to Isaiah and Amoz.
Scripture tells us that Isaiah was the son of Amoz (2 Kings
19; 20), and according to Talmudic tradition (ancient Hebrew
text), Amoz was Uzziah’s uncle (Meg. 10b). This dilemma
encapsulates the beauty and challenge of biblical fiction—
piecing together Scripture’s truths with historical supposition.
Hosea’s ministry began approximately 180 years after King
Solomon’s death. Solomon’s son, Rehoboam, angered the
northern ten tribes with high taxes and hard labor, so they
rebelled against the young king’s authority. The kingdom of
Israel split into two nations. Israel comprised the northern
nation of the ten rebelling tribes, while the tribe of Judah
formed a new nation, maintaining its capital in Jerusalem
and claiming the tribe of Benjamin as its sole support. The
Canaanite people dispersed among both Israel and Judah
continued worshiping pagan gods, drawing false parallels between
El, the father of gods, and the Hebrews’ God, Yahweh.
The northern nation of Israel set up golden calf idols in Bethel
and Dan, drawing Israelites into idolatry and stoking Yahweh’s
wrath. But more profoundly—Israel broke His heart.
God’s chosen people rejected His love. And that is where
Hosea and Gomer’s story begins.

Part 1

Prologue

HOSEA 1:2
When Yahweh first spoke to Hosea, Yahweh told him,
“Marry a prostitute, and have children with that prostitute.
The people in this land have acted like prostitutes
and abandoned Yahweh.”

Hosea’s empty house throbbed with sweet silence. He
soaked it in, letting it nourish him like the last bite
of warm, fresh bread soggy with lentil stew. His stomach
rumbled, and he realized it was past time for his evening meal.
The stone worktable stood like a sentry in his main room.
Covered baskets hung on the wall, filled with day-old bread
and hard cheese. The meager fare would suffice until he could
soak lentils for tomorrow’s meal. He approached the table,
noticing dust dancing in a shaft of dusk’s golden light.
A second look at the glow drew him deeper into contemplation.
I only see the dust when light shines through the
window. Hosea waved his hand through the light, stirring
the dust, but felt no resistance. Visible and real, yet without
recognizable sound or weight, the dust was present but immeasurable.
A slow, satisfied smile crept across his lips. Now,
that is a good topic for the prophets’ class tomorrow. Jonah
would enjoy the—
A breeze swept through the house, startling him, swaying
the hanging herbs. Hosea turned to the front door, confused.
Had the wind blown it open?
The door was closed.
“What was that?” he whispered to no one. The wind stirred
inside the house again, this time not a breeze but a gale that
whipped his robe around his legs.
The wind spoke. Marry a prostitute.
Hosea gasped. Yahweh?
Marry a prostitute, and have children with that prostitute.
The wind grew stronger, and Hosea covered his face, fell
to his knees, listening.
The people of Israel have acted like prostitutes and abandoned
Yahweh.
The wind stopped. All was silent. Tranquil again.

1

HOSEA 1:1
Yahweh spoke his word to Hosea, son of Beeri, when
Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah were kings of
Judah and when Jeroboam, son of Joash, was king
of Israel.

Gomer hurried from her private room, through a connecting
breezeway, and into the brothel’s kitchen.
Jarah, one of the servant girls, grabbed a few dried figs and,
with a trembling hand, held them out to Gomer—an offering.
Gomer took two and closed the girl’s hand around those
remaining. “Eat them yourself, Jarah. Don’t let Tamir find
them and give them to someone else.” Gomer walked away,
noticing the girl slip one into her mouth, and tried to remember
the last time she smelled warm bread baking in that
kitchen. Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
She emerged into the sunlit courtyard of Tamir’s brothel,
spotting old Merav tending three toddlers playing in the dust.
Gomer glanced left and right, hoping to avoid a confrontation
with the owner. The wealthiest businesswoman in Samaria,
Tamir had built her business on determination, cunning, and
the favor of the gods.
And Gomer.
Yes, Gomer had been Tamir’s most lucrative harlot since
she’d been dumped on the woman’s doorstep after Gomer’s
twelfth year.
“Why do I have to go to the sacrifice this morning?” Gomer
ranted while stomping toward Merav. “Why can’t the younger
girls go without me? I’ve had only a moment’s sleep, and I’m
tired, Merav.”
The old woman pressed a single finger to her lips and nodded
at the sleeping infant in her arms. Merav, the brothel’s
midwife, loved all the children inside the gates, whether born
within or abandoned at the threshold.
Gomer adjusted her volume but not her tone. “Why does
Tamir demand I accompany the girls? They are quite capable
and can work the crowd just as well as I.” Disgusted, she
gathered one of the toddlers in her arms, giving her a little
spit bath to clean her smudged cheek.
“Tamir knows you represent her house well, and the other
girls look to you for leadership while they’re on the streets.”
Merav’s voice was gentle, and Gomer wondered how much of
her soothing was for the sleeping baby boy in her arms and
how much was meant to calm Gomer’s foul mood. “Here,
eat your pomegranate skin.” The old midwife held out the
dried rind and offered a wry smile. She was done listening
to Gomer’s complaints.
Gomer planted the toddler back on the ground and reached
for the pomegranate rind—but captured Merav’s hand and
kissed it before letting go. The old woman brushed her cheek.
“Now, take some pomegranate seeds with you. I don’t want
to be holding your baby next year.”
A wave of emotion washed over Gomer at the thought.
“Well, I wouldn’t know if it was my baby, now would I?” The
question came out more accusatory than she intended, and
when she saw the hurt on Merav’s features, she knelt beside
the old woman. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything
by that. It’s just that, well . . .” She fumbled for words,
trying to unravel the knot of feelings she’d awakened with
this morning. “You know me, Merav. I try to forget yesterday
and not worry about tomorrow. If it wasn’t for you and these
pomegranates, I might have a dozen children by now.”
The old woman met her eyes and stroked her cheek. “What
troubles you this morning, my little Gomer?”
“I awoke with a terrible sense of dread. Perhaps one of the
gods is warning me of danger.”
“Or maybe you drank too much wine last night.” Her eyes
twinkled with mischief.
“I’m serious!” Gomer shouted, causing the sleeping infant
to stir. A warning glance from the old woman reminded her to
lower her voice. “I’m getting older, Merav. I’ve lived through
two childbirths and one rue-induced drop. No matter how
many pomegranates you feed me, I’m almost certain to get
pregnant again with the number of clients I see each night.
Tamir says she’ll teach me how to run the brothel, but so
far . . .”
“But so far she hasn’t begun teaching you the business
side of harlotry.” The old woman finished Gomer’s sentence.
“That’s right.” Their eyes locked in understanding. “She
hasn’t taught me anything! Only you have taught me, Merav.
You’ve taught me what herbs, roots, and teas prevent a man’s
seed from growing inside me. You’ve taught me how to bring
forth a child on the birthing stones. But I’ve watched the
other girls long for the babies of their womb and become less
human with each child that’s taken from them. I must know
why Tamir sends all the male babies away but has decided
to keep this one.”
“Even I don’t know the answer to that, my little Gomer.
I’ve known Tamir since she purchased this house, yet she
hides what’s special about this boy.” The old woman caressed
his downy black hair and snuggled him closer to her heart.
“Then tell me why she refuses to let an ima know which
babe is her own.” Gomer glanced at the little ones playing with
sticks and stones at Merav’s feet. “Are any of these mine?”
Merav’s eyes welled with tears, but her voice was solid
stone. “You know I cannot answer that.” She raised her chin
and swiped her tears. “And you know how hard I try to keep
any of Tamir’s girls from conceiving. If they would eat the
seeds I give them and drink the tea regularly, we wouldn’t
have to take the babies or give them rue to induce—”
“I know,” Gomer said, laying her head in Merav’s lap.
“I’m not accusing you, my friend. I’m just frustrated, and
for the first time I’m trying to see my future—but the path
is very dark.”
Merav stroked Gomer’s hair and began humming a familiar
cradle tune while still holding the infant in her other
arm. Gomer’s mind wandered to her childhood in Bethel. It
seemed ages ago. She saw her three younger sisters cowering
in the corner during one of Abba Diblaim’s drunken rages.
He was a priest at Bethel’s temple—and a pig at home.
Then she saw Hosea’s face. He’d been ten when she last
saw him; she’d been six—that day in the temple, when she fell
from the rafters. She didn’t even get to say good-bye when his
abba took him from Bethel. Hosea had been her one friend,
her protector.
When Abba Diblaim sold her to an Asherah priestess from
Samaria a few years later, she learned the bitter days of a
priestess and the lonely nights with drunken men. She’d believed
one of the Baal priests when he said he loved her. What
a little fool she’d been. Stripped of her ritual duties, she was
labeled a harlot and dropped at Tamir’s gate. Merav had
soothed her broken heart and tended the whipping wounds
on her back. The poor woman didn’t deserve the tonguelashing
Gomer had given her this morning.
“We’ve been together almost seven years now,” Gomer
whispered, letting her tears wet Merav’s robe. “I know better
than anyone how you love the girls in this house, and I want
to make sure we both have a place to live after I’m too old
to provide food and shelter as a street harlot.” She lifted her
head, holding the woman’s gaze intently. “I need to know
who Tamir talks to at the temple when one of our young girls
reaches the age for service in Asherah’s grove. And how does
Tamir decide which girls become priestesses and which ones
work as street harlots or serving maids? What other ways
does she bring in food and income for this house besides the
street harlots’ pay?”
“Well, well,” came a silken voice from behind them. “It
appears I’ve happened upon an important conversation this
morning.”
Gomer saw the fear in Merav’s eyes and realized Tamir had
heard too much. She leapt to her feet and faced the brothel
owner. “I was telling Merav the questions I intended to ask
you when I returned from the sacrifice today.” She could hear
the quiver in her voice and cursed herself for it. She’d perfected
her conniving with men but still struggled when lying
to Tamir. “Is there anything I can help with before I leave?
Any special instructions?”
Tamir’s eyes narrowed, and she placed balled fists on slender
hips. “Yes, in fact, there is something you should know
before you leave this morning. Today’s sacrifice will be the
first of its kind in Israel. The drought we’ve experienced for
the last two years has affected even King Jeroboam’s grain
stores.” She glanced right and left, lowering her voice. “He’s
finally desperate enough to show real devotion to the gods.
Perhaps he’ll live up to the glory of his namesake, Israel’s first
Jeroboam, who gave us the golden calves at Bethel and Dan.
He’s built a new altar for the special sacrifice.”
She twirled a lock of Gomer’s auburn hair around her
finger. “The altar fire will glisten off your curls, and the beating
drums will arouse the worshipers. Make sure you and the
rest of the girls are near the altar at the moment of sacrifice.
I expect a full day of celebration, and I want all payment in
grain.” She dropped Gomer’s hair and shooed her away like
a fly. “We’re low on grain here, and the servants can’t make
bread from silver.”
Everything within Gomer screamed indignation, but what
other choices did she have? Where else could she go? “Of
course, Tamir. I’ll do exactly as you ask.” She swallowed
hard and tempered her voice, determined to find a way of
escape. “Is there any other way I might serve you, my lady?”
She bowed, hoping to hide the rage her expression could not.
“Yes. Get to the sacrifice. Now!” The owner of the house
stormed away, shouting instructions at one of the serving
maids across the courtyard.
Gomer trembled with pent-up fury and whispered to
Merav, though she dared not look in her direction, “I will
go as she commands, but when I return tonight, my friend, I
will have enough silver for us both to leave this hen house.”
Merav reached for her hand. “Just be careful, little one.
I’ve seen that look in Tamir’s eyes before. King Jeroboam
isn’t the only one who is desperate.”

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