I backed out of the room, and gently shut the door behind me, hoping the old man would not wake, now that he had finally fallen asleep. I took a deep breath in, and moved out into the half light of the dawning day. I took a seat on a stone bench in the corner of the courtyard and rubbed my tired eyes with my hands. Just a few moments of rest, I said to myself, and shut my eyes as the first rays of warming sun hit my face. As my mind began to wind down, I began to hear the birds beginning their dawn chorus, and the faint smell of roses from the tree climbing up the wall nearby.
As my body began to relax, the words which I had been listening to through the night, and recording with my pen floated in and out of my mind, and I wondered about them, and why I was there listening to them, for I am only a scribe. The job of scribe to the prophet is not an onerous one when the prophet is merely waiting in the presence of God, but when God speaks to him, action is needed and fast sometimes, for the scribe to record the words as the prophet interprets for the people the messages of God. I am so privileged to be there, to see and to hear, to be the first to listen, to be taught. The words seem to float in the air to be captured by the pen. It almost feels as if the words bring themselves to me, run down the pen and cause the ink to flow in the right shapes. I certainly seem to be able to write as fast as the words come, and the ink never dries up in the wrong places. It is almost as if I am possessed by the words which I hear, that through me God is working to educate and enlighten his people. But I am just a scribe, and the words are not mine but Gods. I am not a prophet, merely a worker in the presence of God.
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