Jeremiah 28

The chain breaks in my hands. I feel its wood in between my fingers. I almost feel sorry for him: His brown hair hangs down in clumps by his neck. His eyes have the look of a man who gets too little food, and even less sex. I see him avoiding the prostitutes when they call to him from their fig-trees. I offered him money once, a gift, to let him spend the night. "I don't want to owe you a favor", he said.
"Why so bitter, Jeremiah?"
"We didn't all go to prophet school. Some of us had to learn things the hard way."
"Sure."
"I hear God. You don't believe me?"
"Yeah, I believe you. But I don't think you know what the job of a prophet is."
"To say the word of God."
"No. To tell the people what they need to hear."
He laughed.
"I'm serious. You think I haven't hear it all before, this doom and fire stuff? But that's not what they need, with the Babylonians knocking at the gate - they need hope."
"With hope comes complacency."
"You really need to get laid."

The next day, he avoided my gaze completely, but I couldn't help but smile when I heard him tack on that piece about God redeeming his people.

"But God really told me that!", he said, later that night, as we shared a cigarette. He flinched when I put my arm on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing - it's just that I- well, after what God told me - you heard this morning - I dont' want to get too attached."
"What makes you think we're attached right now?" I force the cruelty into my voice. He swallows, takes a long drag on the stub. I see tears in the corner of his eyes. I want to put my arms around him, and whisper that it will be all right: Hope. That's what we need.

But after spending all day on my feet, giving hope to the people, I am tired. I crawl into bed, and curl up on my side, closing my eyes when he crawls in beside me - and puts his arm around my waist: Hope.