Tuesday, September 17, 2013
I AM GOMER
I love studying the women of the Bible, how God used them, and putting myself into their sandals. I have to tell you that Gomer is not one of the women of the Bible whose sandals I wanted to wear nor did I have any great desire to study her, but I’ve been led there nonetheless.
Many times when people study the book of Hosea, they study the aspect of how God uses the marriage of Hosea to Gomer as an object lesson. It parallels God’s love for Israel and how Israel had behaved against God, but I want to just look at Gomer…not that you can separate her from the story or remove God from her life. But what I found may startle you or surprise you like it did me. I could actually relate to Gomer. The next couple of blog are going to be titled, “I Am Gomer.” I hope you get something out of them. Below is my putting myself in Gomer’s sandals. Young mommas with several little people may relate.
I AM GOMER
When you see a little girl playing with other children, you never look at her and say, “One day she’s going to be a disgrace,” or “One day she’s going to work in the sex industry.” Instead you see the little girl twirling around, her hands clasping another little girl’s hands. They are giggling as little girls in pony tails often do, and you wonder, “Whose little girl is she?” Once upon a time, I was someone’s little girl. I was Diblaim’s little girl. I may not have had much or I may have lacked for nothing, but it’s important for you to know that at one point in my life I was a pure, little girl.
I had few choices in my life. Decisions were made for me and not in my best interest. It’s not really important how I got to this point in my life, but rather this is where I am.
My life is not my own. My body is not my own. Day in and day out, I please men with my body. I’ve done this for so long, I’m really a shell of a woman, of a person – not really feeling much like a women, more like an object. Numb. When I walk in the market, there are whispers. My “friends” are limited to those who are in the same path as myself and the men we service.
Then one day, a man makes me his wife as if I had any say in the matter. He slips a ring on my finger and covers my body. He dresses me as the wife of a prophet should dress. It’s much like putting lipstick on a pig. I don’t belong with the other prophet and leaders’ wives. Truth is I know more about their husbands than they do. So in the matter of minutes I went from many men to one man in my bed. From drinks and darkness and lascivious conversations, to living in the prophet’s house minding my p’s and q’s. The prophet is patient with me, but it is a drastic change.
In no time at all, I’m pregnant. Once again, I’m not in control or in charge of my own body. I give birth to a boy, and my husband names him some name his God gave our son. Shortly after, not nearly long enough for my body to get back into pre-baby shape, I find that I’m pregnant again. This time, I give birth to a girl. Do I see myself in the face of my daughter? Do I care about my babies at all? I care enough to wean them myself. You can judge me all you want, but I did my responsibility. And then I’m pregnant again. I have got to be the most fertile woman on the face of this earth! I haven’t slept a full night…well, I can’t remember when. My hormones are all over the board. I’m so busy with three babies that I don’t have time to listen to the rumors they say about me.
My body is still not my own. It no longer belongs to different paying men, but now it belongs to these three babies and my husband. I don’t even recognize my body any more. After giving birth to three babies back-to-back and breast feeding all three, I sag. There isn’t anything perky here. My life was never my own, and now I’m feeling quite overwhelmed. I’m drowning. I’ve lost my identity. I’m no longer the party girl, the fun girl. I’ve traded my glamorous, partying life with powerful men and drinks and slinky clothes for attire of a prophet’s wife, a ring on my finger, spit-up on my shoulder, a child at my feet and one on each hip. I’m feeling trapped, and I want to feel alive. I want my old life of parties, drinks, men and desires met. As things are, I’m a mother of here, confined to home, laundry and market. When do I get a break? I want to feel beautiful and alive.