He opened his mouth—and then closed it again.
The words were there, burning like coals behind his ribs, but his tongue stayed still. The courtyard was full: elders in dark robes, workers with sweat on their brows, children hanging on their mothers’ skirts. Waiting.
“Jeremiah,” one of the priests said, a slight smile tightening his cheeks. “You had something to tell us?”
He should run.
A vision had woken him in the night, thick with thunder and flame. The almond branch, the boiling pot, the voice that shook the marrow of his bones. But now, in the harsh light of morning, everything in him twisted away from it. He was only seventeen. He'd never even raised his voice in public before.
He took a step back.
“I—I’m too young,” he muttered.
The priest chuckled, turning to the others with a shrug. “He’s a good boy,” he said, like that was enough.
It might have been.
But the voice had said otherwise.
Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.
Before you were born, I set you apart.
Jeremiah turned, stumbling out of the courtyard, heat rising in his neck. He didn’t look back. He didn’t know if the stern-eyed guards would call after him, or if the elders would laugh, or if his father would be ashamed.
He found himself behind the wall, where the stone met the wild grass, trying to breathe. His chest ached. He dug his hands into the dirt. “God, why me?” he whispered.
A wind trembled through the leaves overhead.
Do not say, ‘I am too young.’
He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to speak judgment—didn’t want to be hated. He'd seen what they did to prophets who spoke too boldly. Stones had quick edges. People turned cruel when the mirror didn't flatter.
You must go to everyone I send you to…
He pressed his forehead to the ground.
“…and say whatever I command you.”
A hand touched his shoulder that night—his father’s. “You used to speak freely at home. What holds your tongue now?”
Jeremiah didn’t reply.
The next morning, he returned to the courtyard, trembling. The same faces. The same sky. But his soul felt scorched clean, as if fire had swept through and left only a voice.
“The word of the Lord came to me,” he said.
Silence.
“The Lord has shown me the branch of an almond tree.”
An old scribe raised an eyebrow. “An almond?”
Jeremiah nodded. “He says He is watching… watching to see His word fulfilled.”
A mutter ran through the crowd.
“And what else?” someone called.
He swallowed hard. “A boiling pot. Tilted away from the north.”
Now the silence grew heavier. No one laughed this time.
He stepped forward. “Disaster is coming from the north.”
More muttering. Some scorn, some fear.
Jeremiah stood straighter. “The Lord has appointed me a prophet. To uproot, to tear down—”
A guard stepped closer.
“—to destroy and overthrow…”
Now the priest stood again, scowling.
“…to build and to plant.”
No applause. No anger, yet. Just stares.
He exhaled.
The voice broke over him again. Do not be afraid of them… for I am with you and will rescue you.
He walked away slower this time. Not running. Not hiding.
That night, as he sat alone under a sky gone pale with stars, he put both hands flat on the earth. Cool, solid.
And then he opened his mouth—not to others, not yet.
To God.
To the fire that would not stop burning.
He opened his mouth—and then closed it again.
The words were there, burning like coals behind his ribs, but his tongue stayed still. The courtyard was full: elders in dark robes, workers with sweat on their brows, children hanging on their mothers’ skirts. Waiting.
“Jeremiah,” one of the priests said, a slight smile tightening his cheeks. “You had something to tell us?”
He should run.
A vision had woken him in the night, thick with thunder and flame. The almond branch, the boiling pot, the voice that shook the marrow of his bones. But now, in the harsh light of morning, everything in him twisted away from it. He was only seventeen. He'd never even raised his voice in public before.
He took a step back.
“I—I’m too young,” he muttered.
The priest chuckled, turning to the others with a shrug. “He’s a good boy,” he said, like that was enough.
It might have been.
But the voice had said otherwise.
Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.
Before you were born, I set you apart.
Jeremiah turned, stumbling out of the courtyard, heat rising in his neck. He didn’t look back. He didn’t know if the stern-eyed guards would call after him, or if the elders would laugh, or if his father would be ashamed.
He found himself behind the wall, where the stone met the wild grass, trying to breathe. His chest ached. He dug his hands into the dirt. “God, why me?” he whispered.
A wind trembled through the leaves overhead.
Do not say, ‘I am too young.’
He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to speak judgment—didn’t want to be hated. He'd seen what they did to prophets who spoke too boldly. Stones had quick edges. People turned cruel when the mirror didn't flatter.
You must go to everyone I send you to…
He pressed his forehead to the ground.
“…and say whatever I command you.”
A hand touched his shoulder that night—his father’s. “You used to speak freely at home. What holds your tongue now?”
Jeremiah didn’t reply.
The next morning, he returned to the courtyard, trembling. The same faces. The same sky. But his soul felt scorched clean, as if fire had swept through and left only a voice.
“The word of the Lord came to me,” he said.
Silence.
“The Lord has shown me the branch of an almond tree.”
An old scribe raised an eyebrow. “An almond?”
Jeremiah nodded. “He says He is watching… watching to see His word fulfilled.”
A mutter ran through the crowd.
“And what else?” someone called.
He swallowed hard. “A boiling pot. Tilted away from the north.”
Now the silence grew heavier. No one laughed this time.
He stepped forward. “Disaster is coming from the north.”
More muttering. Some scorn, some fear.
Jeremiah stood straighter. “The Lord has appointed me a prophet. To uproot, to tear down—”
A guard stepped closer.
“—to destroy and overthrow…”
Now the priest stood again, scowling.
“…to build and to plant.”
No applause. No anger, yet. Just stares.
He exhaled.
The voice broke over him again. Do not be afraid of them… for I am with you and will rescue you.
He walked away slower this time. Not running. Not hiding.
That night, as he sat alone under a sky gone pale with stars, he put both hands flat on the earth. Cool, solid.
And then he opened his mouth—not to others, not yet.
To God.
To the fire that would not stop burning.
