Old urns

kind crtsy: konrad_hofmann@unsplash

It had been alot. Malachi had had some things to say. The original non for profit, prophets, had spoken their messages, sent words into their todays and our tomorrows. Four hundred years had elapsed. I mean 12-16 or more generations, depending on your math, of stone silence. Alot of reunions come and gone. Conversations from heaven strangely absent.

Yet, some still sat, still were listening. Astronomers, the learned of the learned searched skies for signs. Old manuscripts rested, gently crumbling in urns, waiting for their words to become life. Whispered conversations between elders and son’s sons. One is coming.

Even the powerful of the powerful kept sages in the eaves- what have you heard? Nothing, my excellency.

But time was pregnant.

In the clandestine nothing of a town, Bethlehem. Not too busy. Before the crowds, the guides, the set apart places. Going about it's obscurity.

Just the sound of donkey feet, and two unlikely bearers of a coming message.

The urns were about to speak, and letters to arise off of papyrus.