Bathsheba, p.19
Bathsheba, page 19
Adonai, have mercy on me! The prayer nearly choked him. He did not deserve any sort of mercy. But as the hours passed and he lay all night on the ground, he could not help but plead for that which he did not deserve. If not for mercy, who could stand before the Lord? There was none righteous, not even one.
David dozed partway through the night, and when dawn came, he rose and stretched, checked on the child’s status, and returned to lay prostrate once more before the Lord. He paced and knelt and wept and lay facedown again, his prayers like breath.
By the third day, contrition grew to deeper repentance. He searched his heart, appalled at the pride and rebellion he found there. How arrogant he had become! How unlike the days when he was first anointed and sought Adonai with all his heart.
Against You and You only have I sinned and done what is evil in Your sight, so that You are proved right when You speak and justified when You judge. Save me from bloodguilt, O God. You do not delight in sacrifice or burnt offerings or I would bring it. A broken spirit and a contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.
His servants came by with trays of food, but he sent them away, tasting only water, his tears his food, the earth his bed. He saw the concerned looks, the worried glances. Even Benaiah had grown more watchful, as though he wondered if David had lost his senses and was ready to take action to correct the situation.
A week passed. Bathsheba’s distant wails turned to keening on the seventh day. His servants stood in his chambers, looking through the arch at him where he sat on the bench, where he had first shared Bathsheba’s kiss. He caught the anxious looks, saw them bend their heads together, whispering.
And he knew the day had come of which Nathan had spoken. The son he and Bathsheba had conceived in their sin was dead.
28
Thin white clouds touched the outer recesses of the heavens, doing little to block the heat of the sun as David’s entourage moved from the child’s burial at the tomb of the kings back toward the palace. Had he still been living the lie he’d lived for the past ten months, he might have taken the child to the cave where they had laid Uriah’s body to rest, pretending the child was conceived to honor Uriah’s name.
But the truth was known now. He was not a kinsman redeemer. He was a murderer, an adulterer, and he would not try to deceive the people again. He glanced at Bathsheba, saw the way her slender body huddled forward like an aged woman, and his heart constricted. He would do anything to take the burden from her shoulders, to lift her head from its bent position, to restore her joy. But she’d made it clear she no longer wanted anything to do with him. And why not? He had ruined her life. Such thoughts of restoration were foolish—impossible dreams of an overwrought mind.
After seven days of fasting and weeping and praying, laying prostrate in the dust, he had at last washed and put on his royal robes for the burial, though food had yet to touch his lips. He would eat soon enough, after he took his leave of the procession to sit before the ark of the Lord. His heart beat a normal rhythm now, despite the curious and contemptuous looks of the people gazing down on their group from the windows and roofs of their houses along Jerusalem’s main thoroughfare. He deserved their scorn. Would they also reject him as their king?
The thought troubled him, and he slowed his step. He glanced behind at the women and children, the few who had agreed to join the march to the burial cave. Some surely resented that he’d laid the child in his own tomb. Others resented that Bathsheba was given such attention at all. Most of his other wives would not speak to her.
He looked her way again, longing to go to her and comfort her, but there was too much to say and no guarantee she would allow him to say it. He had almost commanded his other wives to come to support Bathsheba, to show a unified front to the inhabitants of the city, but a part of him feared they would not heed his word, making him look more foolish yet. Even Michal, who had finally accepted friendship with Abigail, walked with Abigail’s children, but distant from his grieving wife. His older sons had refused to come at all, their bitterness impossible to deny.
His step slowed yet again, and he watched Bathsheba, knowing certain things would never be right again. Shame filled him as they neared the tent where the ark of the Lord rested. He knew with utter certainty that he did not deserve the forgiveness Adonai had offered.
The procession stopped when he did, and Benaiah approached.
“Send the people home, Benaiah. You can leave a guard to walk with me when I am finished.”
Benaiah gave a slight nod, then stepped away to do as David had commanded. At least his men still obeyed his voice, even if his wives and children would not.
He removed his sandals and set them near the door to the courtyard in front of the Tent of Meeting, then walked barefoot toward the curtain that separated the courtyard from the Holy Place, a place where the priests and Levites kept the lamps burning and the showbread fresh on the table before the Lord. His heart yearned for Adonai, for the close relationship they’d once had. He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the swept dirt floor.
You are proved right when You speak and justified when You judge, Adonai. You are worthy to be praised.
Tears came, pooling in his eyes, seeping into his beard, dampening the earth.
Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from Your presence or take Your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit to sustain me. Then I will teach transgressors Your ways, and sinners will turn back to You.
He sat back, arms raised to the heavens. Surrender, full and sweet, swept through him, his heart yielding every part of him, giving back to God what rightly belonged to Him. David did not deserve mercy, and he could not demand the grace of Adonai, but he could rejoice in what had been given. He could offer upon God’s altar a grateful heart.
A slow and tentative peace replaced the guilt. Worthy are You, O Adonai. Blessed is the man whose sins are forgiven!
Could it possibly be true? He searched his heart, looking for the despair he’d known only moments before, the shame that had threatened to send him to the abyss, but the sense of forgiveness was sure, his bloodguilt gone.
Blessed are You, O Most High, and blessed is the man whose sin Adonai will not count against him.
He lowered his hands and turned them over in the dim light. They were warrior’s hands but also shepherd’s hands. With Adonai’s help, he would lead Israel again.
Relief came like a mighty wind, his heart humbled. Thank You, Adonai, for mercy, even in the death of this son. He could not go where his son had gone. Not yet. And the babe would not return to him. One day he would join the child in the place of paradise where Adonai lived. Until then, he still had the work Adonai had planned for him.
David rose to his feet, his heart yearning heavenward, sensing in his spirit the relationship had been restored. Smiling, he walked back toward the curtained door at the entrance to the northern court, his stomach rumbling from his long fast.
If Adonai could forgive him such a terrible wrong, perhaps Bathsheba could welcome him again, allow him to comfort her. In time, she could conceive again and have another son to fill her empty arms. Please, Adonai, let it be so.
He was not in the place of God that he could control life in the womb, but he knew that soon he would need to give Bathsheba far more than physical affection. He must draw her out and let her share her grief with him, even if he risked her rejection.
Restlessness overtook Bathsheba. If the king would allow it, she would walk the streets or else leave Jerusalem altogether, climb the Mount of Olives, fall beneath the trees, and weep for days. But she was as captive here in the palace as she had ever been in her father’s house or Uriah’s home. None of them had ever allowed her complete freedom to come and go without proper guards, always thinking to protect her from unscrupulous men, when the most unscrupulous of all stood watching in her own backyard.
A bitter laugh escaped her. She moved from her sitting room to the gardens David had portioned for her from his own abundance. She had slept every night—when sleep would come—on a mat in the sitting room, unable to visit her bedchamber or look upon the place where her son had so briefly lain. The very thought of him lying cold, unmoving, buried in a cave with no escape . . . She choked on a sob and lifted her gaze to the azure skies, their blue too cheery after her son’s death.
How long had it been since she had stood before the tomb weeping? Two months? Three? The days blurred together in their sameness, and despite the efforts of those around her, she could not rouse herself to live again. David had tried to visit her that first week, but she had refused even to look at him, and it seemed he had given up trying.
She’d been right about one thing. He did not need her. Any day now, he would send word and have her removed from these rooms, if his guilt would allow it—probably relegate her to a small apartment in the company of his bitter wives. Fitting, as she was now one of them.
She sank to the stone bench aligning the walk, feeling the weight of her sins in the weariness of her bones. She was an outcast here, a wife of adultery. She would never be accepted among his other wives—those taken to secure treaties or appease tribes, or for love.
But in truth, had he ever loved any of them? Did he know the meaning of the word?
Confusion stirred her insides, resuming the restlessness she could not shake. Rising on unsteady feet, she trod the smooth stones, squinting as she stepped away from the shade into the sun’s brightness. He didn’t love her. If he did, he would have visited again and at least made a feeble attempt to woo her out of her melancholy, to comfort her in her grief.
His kisses had tempted her, drawn her in, and made her love him. Made her believe she was wanted, cared for, cherished. She kicked a small stone into the bushes with a vehemence that caused her to stumble. How false his love!
Uriah had rarely spoken his affections, but his actions had shown them, had proved his love. And she had thrown his love away that night, forgetting how often Uriah had cherished her when he was home, had loved her in ways she didn’t notice until it was too late. She’d thought on it often since his death, since coming here and feeling so distant from all she’d known. Even her grandfather and Chava and Aunt Talia seldom visited now, and besides Tirzah, she had no friends here.
And still David did not come.
Oh, Adonai, why did I not die in my son’s place? Even now she would join her son if God would allow it. Living was a more just punishment, perhaps a harsher punishment than death.
She took a turn in the gardens, where the shade of an almond tree beckoned, and she slowed her frantic pacing. She thought to sit on the bench beneath the tree but could not bear the weight of her heartache or the rawness of her loss. She swallowed hard and slipped to the stones on her knees, seeing again the still form of her son like a lamb sacrificed on her behalf.
“Oh, Adonai, forgive me!” Her whispered words mingled with the late afternoon breeze as the sun slipped behind a layer of quick-moving clouds. She clasped her hands in her lap and rocked back on her feet.
A touch on her shoulder made her insides grow still. David took hold of her shoulders and helped her stand, turning her to face him.
“Beloved.” He lifted his thumb and drew a line through her tears across her cheek.
She looked away, unable or unwilling—she wasn’t sure—to hold his tender gaze.
“Why are you here? Haven’t you done enough?” She wanted to fling the words at him as she had done that first night, but her voice would not rise above the whisper of her prayer. She raised a fist to push him away, choking back her emotion, afraid it would billow from her like a raging storm if she let it.
His gentle grip on her hand warmed the frozen places in her heart. “Bathsheba, please.” He spoke softly, as if to an injured child, and gently folded her into his arms. She did not stop him. “I’m sorry, beloved. I have done you great wrong, but don’t send me away. I want you . . . I need you.” His hushed words melted the last of her resolve. She didn’t want to send him away.
He rubbed slow circles over her back as her body grew limp against his chest. He pulled her up to sit beside him on the bench, his arm draped over her shoulders, her head resting against him. Birds chirped in the trees above them, and the wind sang a faint melody in accompaniment.
“We never even named him,” Bathsheba said after a lengthy silence. A soft tremor worked through her, but she would not cry. She had cried every tear she owned in the past months, and couldn’t bear to give in to such emotion yet again. She had no strength left for tears.
“God named him for us.” David’s confident tone brought her head up. She looked into the liquid darkness of his eyes, his gaze affectionate and sad.
“Why did God take him . . . when He should have taken us?” The question had burned in her mind, but she did not expect God to answer.
“Sometimes God allows a substitute to spare a man. The sacrifices are a continual reminder of that fact.”
“Our son was sacrificed on our behalf so we could live? I’d rather die.”
“Our son took our punishment, that is true, but God also did him a favor to spare him the future.” He stroked her cheek, his gaze filled with compassion. “He would not have fared well as a child of adultery. Everyone would have known of his beginnings, and once I am dead and could no longer protect him, men would not have been kind to him.”
“Or to me.” She looked away, but his hand gently drew her gaze back.
“Bathsheba, I cannot know the future. I am not in the place of God that I can say I will always live to protect you.” His jaw set, and a soft glint filled his gaze, as though he spoke with authority beyond his own. “But I promise you that when you bear me another son, that son will one day sit on my throne, and he will live to protect you always.”
Her breath caught. “A son born of my flesh will be king?”
He nodded and bent to kiss her, his lips carrying the salty taste of their mingled tears. “God has forgiven us, beloved. I don’t understand it, but He has.” He kissed her again but held back as though waiting for her to respond.
A sigh escaped and she lifted her mouth to return his kiss, a kiss born of sorrow and shared grief, a kiss to mend what was cracked and shattered.
“Let me comfort you, Bathsheba.” His broken words stirred her even as she questioned how she could long for his love when he had caused her so much grief. She sat immobile, fear and anger warring with longing and forgiveness.
His fingers drew circles on her palm, his gaze unguarded, beseeching, humble. She rose, clasping his hand, and pulled him to his feet. They stood, silence and birdsong whispers between them, their breath mingling again, his deepening kiss heating her blood. She returned it in full, then let him lead her into his chambers.
29
Bathsheba paused in her stitching and placed a protective hand over her extended middle, cradling the child moving inside. The pains had begun that morning after the king sat with her for the first meal and left for court. He’d been attentive in the past nine months, spending most evenings in her company, playing music on his lyre, singing songs of Adonai to her.
The miracle of another pregnancy so soon after the death of her first son still baffled her. Perhaps she had not been barren after all. That God would smile on her again, allowing her to conceive and soon bear the king another child, seemed beyond reason and far more than she deserved. But the truth lay growing within her and would soon take his place in the world.
She glanced at her protruding middle again and rubbed a hand over the hard surface. “Be brave, little one.” She struggled to stand and pace the spacious room, catching sight of her lyre resting against one edge of the couch, where she had left it after David had coaxed her to play along with him. He had given her all the privileges of first wife, requiring little of her, visiting her often. Besides a love of music and of Adonai, they shared something his other wives did not—a common failure, a common grace, and a humility born of sins forgiven.
Your son will one day sit on my throne, to protect you always. David’s promised words accompanied another birth pang. She drew in a sharp breath and held it, then slowly released.
“Are they close together? How firm is the pain?” Tirzah looked up from her own stitching, making Bathsheba realize she could no longer keep the child’s coming to herself.
“They grow sharper. This is the fourth since the king left.” She glanced at the shadows and light trading shapes across the sheepskin rug. “You’d best send for the midwife.” Bathsheba looked toward the window to the beckoning light and the scents of the almond tree beneath it. “And see if Aunt Talia and Chava will come.”
Wistful longing accompanied the request. She had not seen her aunt or cousin since the babe’s funeral, since the attitudes at court had changed toward her. The king had sensed it too—the accusations, some subtle, some hostile in their expressions and their words, as though she alone were to blame for David’s fall. David did his best to quash the rejection, especially from his other wives and children, reminding them all that he was to blame. But his efforts did not accomplish what he had hoped.
“I will send word, mistress. If they . . . that is, if they won’t come . . . is there anyone else?” Tirzah dropped her mending into a basket on the floor and lifted her stout body with an agility that Bathsheba, in her condition, did not possess. Tirzah hurried to the door of Bathsheba’s chambers.
Bathsheba pressed both hands against the small of her back, counting her breaths. “If they will not come, there is no one else.” At least her maidservant had remained faithful when she could have requested her leave. “Thank you, Tirzah.”
The woman dipped her dark head as though the gratitude embarrassed her. She opened the door and stepped out, addressing the guard who stood watch there, barring entrance to anyone she did not wish to see. “Send word to Hannah to bring the midwife at once. Send a messenger to the house of Matthias the merchant to send his wife and mother-in-law for my mistress’s comfort. And tell the king his son is on the way.”
