Young Writers Society

Jeremiah stood, staring out the window before him. It was not a pleasant sight to see through the open space, but then again, was Jerusalem a pleasant place to see at all any more?

The street beside his small house was bustling with activity. A stream of people flowed in both ways down the broad street, kicking up dust that swirled in the air, making it difficult to see. An occasional ox-pulled cart rolled through the crowd, the beasts of burden making all kinds of noises to show their own frustration, mirrored by that of their drivers as they were forced to move ever so slowly through the growing crowd. He could smell the scent of animal dung from the stable beside his house, mixed with that of breakfast being cooked in the homes across the street. It made a strange smell altogether, something unique; the smell of the city that was his home.

It was a sharp contrast to the plains of Anathoth, where he had spent most of his childhood chasing goats for fun and performing an assortment of chores around his parents’ large residence. That had been a simple life. This was yet another sharp contrast to his present position. However, that was the past, and it was behind him. The future rested on his shoulders, not the past. Therefore, he must focus on the present.

Pushing both memories of the past and thoughts of the present out of his mind, Jeremiah refocused his attention on the busy street. The dust cleared just enough for him to spot a beggar on the street corner, crying out for the passerby to show mercy and drop a coin at his feet. He watched the beggar for a while as the man came in and out of view due to the swirling sand and dirt that erupted into the air under every man’s footstep. The beggar’s ragged clothes must not have been washed in months, and they hung loosely on his old and frail body, as if the man had lost a lot of weight in a short period of time; the man's body was in the same condition. He was far from handsome, with his gap-toothed smile and matted gray hair that resembled an untidy bird's nest.

Suddenly, several boys pushed through the crowd and began kicking the man, beating him and calling him names, spitting on his ragged form. All the while, the boys laughed joyously as if they were playing a game. It sickened Jeremiah to see the Lord’s chosen people acting in such a way. Had Jehovah’s Satans gone too far this time in their testing of Israel’s faith? Was Jerusalem past redemption? No, surely not, he was foolish to think such a thing could be true.

Glancing back to the street corner, Jeremiah shook his head with sorrow. The children had fled the scene, yet what they had done was obvious to passerby. The beggar lay sprawled out on the dusty street, covered with welts and huge bruises. Blood trickled slowly from several places on the man’s body. He simply lay there, rolling slightly to one side, then back. He was an old man, and he would not survive laying there alone for long, and it was obvious that no one going about there morning chores was going to help him. He got a few sad looks of course, but not a single person even attempted to give the man aid. The old beggar’s fait seemed inevitable.

Jeremiah uttered a silent prayer to his Father in Heaven. “Lord I ask that you bring judgment upon these sinful children for their actions, but show slight mercy, for they are not taught morals at their homes. And please put your hand of protection and your blessings upon this man beset with poverty, Lord, please favor his future. Amen."

He had no doubt that Jehovah would hear his prayer, and answer it. After all, The Lord had ordered him to rid Israel of its current sinful ways, or at least to warn it of the consequences if it would not. The Lord had made him a prophet, and Jeremiah meant to use that blessing to bring Jerusalem and even all of Israel back to its former spiritual and possibly even physical, beauty. He would do this in any way that he possibly could. But it did seem like matters were getting out of his hands, a prophet’s hands. But Jehovah had to make it right soon…..didn’t He?

Jeremiah’s right hand moved subconsciously to his lips as he remembered the Lord’s words to him before he had come to Jerusalem many years ago. As Jehovah surrounded him, encompassing him in majesty, the Lord had put forth his righteous hand and touched Jeremiah’s lips, saying, “Behold, I have put My words in your mouth”. Jeremiah remembered this every time he began to doubt his own ability, which seemed to be far too often of late.

The elderly prophet shook his head sadly. No, Jerusalem was not becoming a very pleasant place at all.

He realized that sweat was beginning to bead on his face despite the early time. It seemed that it was always hot in Jerusalem; and in the other parts of the Holy Land that he had visited as well, for that matter.

He turned away from the window with a heavy sigh, forcing the image of the poor, beaten beggar out of his head. Jeremiah observed the room around him that was ever so familiar.

The room was Jeremiah’s study, and a rather small one at that. Plane wooden paneling made up its walls, and its floor was covered with a large red rug that was fairly worn from its years of use. He would have been perfectly content with the simple dirt floor that was used in so many other homes in Jerusalem, but Baruch, his secretary and personal scribe, had insisted that a rug be put in and that Jeremiah was just being stubborn when he tried to combat the idea.

Baruch himself sat at a small wooden desk towards the corner of the room, scribbling intently on a large scroll with his quill that he seemed to carry with him everywhere he went. The man must have slipped into the room while Jeremiah was observing the street. Good, he did enjoy Baruch’s company. Well, after so many years he had really come to rely on it some might say. He did give good advice, Baruch did.

Everything about the man was scrawny, as if Jehovah had grabbed him and stretched him as he had been formed. His short, curly black hair was unwashed, strange for Baruch; the man was very “clean”, what seemed to be all the time. His small jaw was set; his hooked nose wrinkled, as if he smelled something foul. Baruch’s nose was very keen to bad smells, and the man especially hated the scent of animal dung.

Since Baruch was intent on his work, Jeremiah decided to let him work silently, and walked quietly across the room to where a pitcher of water sat on a squat little table.

The vision of the beggar, lying battered and beaten on the street corner, pushed itself back into his head. He tried intently to remove it but it seemed to stay fixed in the back of his mind, beside others.

He began to speak to himself inside his head. “You cannot prevent every beggar and ill-fortuned man in Jerusalem from being touched by the sin that has been ravaging the city for years now! It would take every minute of your life, with another problem popping up as soon as one would be rectified! The Lord needs you for more important things, for destroying the sin at its roots and giving the people a role model that they can observe besides yourself; King Jehoiakim. You just need to calm down and get a little water before people begin swarming your home with wishes of blessings and meetings with the “mighty” prophet.”

Jeremiah did not feel mighty at all as old age crept up closer to him every day, it seemed that even walking across the room now used up too much of his energy. He felt full of the might and even partially of the wisdom of his Lord, but certainly not mighty alone. But the people believed him to be mighty, well some of them at least, so he let them believe; let them keep up their hope.

Baruch spoke without taking his eyes off his work as Jeremiah began pouring water from the pitcher into one of the two cups set out beside it.

“There are already near a dozen men and women at the front door to see you, Jeremiah, and they seemed to think you were going to see them soon.”

“Did I not make it clear to them that I am to have no visitors this early in the day? How urgent could their problems possibly be, Baruch?”

Baruch looked up from his task and smiled. He smiled often, Baruch did. “Oh, they will wait, for hours if they must. They simply know that you can solve all of their problems. They were seated comfortably on the benches outside when I left them.”

Jeremiah sighed heavily. He found himself doing that far too often of late. “Can they not simply pray to Jehovah and ask him themselves? They act as if I am the Messiah, Baruch! I hope that they do not truly believe that. That could have dire consequences.”

The smile remained on Baruch’s face. “They think you’re the next best thing, my friend. As to why they seem incapable of praying, I have no idea.”

Jeremiah took a long swallow from his water. It was lukewarm from the heat and it did little to quench his thirst. Did nothing stay cold for more than a minute in the Holy Land?

“Try keeping that smile when you are forced to deal with them. They are like wild animals once they get a hold of me, Baruch!”

Jeremiah was surprised to find that his voice held a slight amount of anger. Not at Baruch, not even at the crowds that never left him time to think, but at the problems and the sin that infested Jerusalem like a deadly disease. Only, this disease brought far worse than death. It seemed to be infecting the hearts and souls of God’s chosen people. It was reducing them to the idol-worshipping heathens that surrounded the Holy Land, and he, Jeremiah the “mighty” prophet who could barely cross the floor of his study, was the only cure; The only thing that could save a once flourishing nation.

Jeremiah sighed again, even more heavily than before, when Baruch said nothing and stopped smiling to return to his work. The man had more courage than that of any soldier serving in Israel’s army, yet he was as meek as a mouse when Jeremiah spoke firmly to him- which was almost never- even though they had become close friends over the years.

What was Baruch working on anyways? He thought. It was more than likely the note that Jeremiah had dictated to him to write last night; a letter to King Jehoiakim. It was yet another request for a meeting to discuss Jerusalem’s present state. However, it seemed that Jehoiakim was infected by the growing sin of Jerusalem, and he had become as sinful as the heathens that influenced Jerusalem’s people. The King surrounded himself with women and luxuries while his people, and his nation, slowly dwindled away to nothingness. The man was a fool!

Does that give you more room to work with?