Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Joseph, Man of Joy and Tragic Woe

O, Joseph, boy with varicolored cloak,
Who, slumb'ring, saw your brother's bowing wheat,
And waking, spoke in manner indiscreet,
By which your brother's rage you did provoke.
How sad to find yourself in slav'ry's yoke;
Cast down again by cruel and sly deceit,
In prison then to face a last defeat,
For God had brought you low by varied stroke.
O, Joseph, man of joy and tragic woe,
Who held command o'er all the king's domain,
How could you love, and take your brother's part -
Embrace the ones whose hate had brought you low?
Almost, I wish I'd known such grief and pain,
If thus they could have turned unloving heart.

Leah: A Dysfunctional Family

Jacob is my husband, and I love him. I love him because he was always such a bad-boy, and there's something about that kind of man that has always appealed to me. But I hate him too, because it was clear from the beginning that his love for me was like a candle dimmed by the glorious sunlight of his love for my sister Rachel.

It was only because of my father's treachery that I got to marry Jacob, and Jacob wasn't too happy about the trick. Why should he be? Who in their right mind would want to marry a homely girl with such weak eyes she can't see beyond her nose without squinting?

It would have been nice if he could have at least pretended he was happy to be married to me. On the other hand, at least I always knew where I stood with him. The man whined like a baby until my father consented to let him marry my sister too.

Though I was older than my sister, I grew up in Rachel's shadow, and now I will never get to leave that shadow; even though she is now dead, I can tell that Jacob loves the memory of her more than he loves me.

When he first walked through the door of my father's home years ago, Jacob was full of stories of his father and his grandfather, and even an innocent girl like me could see that his was a terribly dysfunctional family. There was Abraham, who told everyone his wife was his sister, and had a child by his wife's slave girl (at his wife's request!), only to throw mother and child out into the desert to die when Isaac, the favorite son, was born. Jacob's parents weren't much better than his grandparents; from the birth of their twin children they had each chosen a favorite child, and pitted the two brothers against each other in a strange power struggle that deformed both of their lives.

I guess, with all that family history, I assumed Jacob would have learned a lesson or two about how not to maintain a healthy family. I was wrong. I first realized I was wrong when barren Rachel - who had heard the story of Abraham and Sarah and Hagar as many times I had - decided to follow in Sarah's footsteps and give a slave girl to her husband, and then pretended the sons born to the slave girl were hers.

Yes, I confess, I did the same thing, but Rachel was the one who started it.

By the time I, my slave girl, and Rachel's slave girl were done with Jacob, he had ten sons, and not a one of them was Rachel's own. Then, at last, there came son number eleven: Rachel's firstborn child, Joseph.

Rachel was insufferable in her gloating. Jacob acted like this newborn baby was the only child he'd ever had. Judah, Reuben, and all the others stood by in open bewilderment as Jacob began treating them exactly as he had always treated me: with a dismissive, almost contemptuous indifference.

Things came to a head yesterday when Jacob gave out gifts to all his sons. He had robes made for all of them; how fine they all looked in their new garments! Simeon stood straight and tall and powerful in his deep blue robe, Reuben was like a god or a king in his purple garment, and the others wore shades of red and green and yellow - a vibrant mix of colors.

Then came the favored son - the child who was firstborn, even though he had ten older brothers. We quickly understood what Jacob had done; each of the older brothers' robes had been hemmed long, and a strip of cloth had been cut from each, in order to have a multi-colored cloak sewn together for beloved Joseph. Who could miss the insult to the rest of us as Joseph stood before the family - proud and smug - wearing all the colors of the rainbow?

I may be mostly blind, but even I can see this family is headed for disaster.

Jacob: The Dreaming Son

"Dad, can I talk to you?"

It was Reuben, standing at the entrance to my tent, seeking permission to enter. I gave a quick and pointed glance at my second wife, Leah, who got up from the tent floor and exited as her firstborn son entered.

Reuben, dressed in a dusty and dirty purple robe that had lost its vibrancy through long use, sat cross-legged in front of me. Reuben was a good boy, probably Leah's very best and brightest son - though one day he shall certainly be punished for taking one of my concubines to himself - and unlike some of his brothers, he never bothered me with stupid quarrels and bickering among his siblings - which is why his opening words surprised me.

"Dad, it's your son, Joseph."

Joseph. Now there was a boy a man could be proud of. Polite, courteous, respectful, obedient, Joseph was my eyes and ears among my twelve sons. It was Joseph who would keep me apprised of any trouble brewing among the brothers.

"What about him?" I said testily.

"Dad, he's stirring up a lot of hatred among the brothers. He came out to the fields today and was bragging about his dream he had last night."

"I haven't heard about any dream," I said.

"He dreamed that we were all out in the fields gathering wheat, and when we had all laid our sheaves on the ground, his rose up in the middle, and all the others bowed down to his."

I wanted to laugh at the mental image of eleven bundled piles of wheat bowing low before Joseph's. It also made me want to cry for joy. I considered my words carefully before I said, "Reuben, you know that dreams come from God Himself. If Joseph dreamed that he will rule over you, and you will bow down to him, you must prepare yourself for that day, for it will come."

What I didn't say was that I had long known this to be true. As Leah's firstborn child, Reuben might wear the purple robe, but my boy Joseph is the one who will inherit all.

"Now go," I said, "And tell your brothers not to bother Joseph about his dream. The lad is young, and does not know enough to understand that others might not share his joy at learning of his great future."

Reuben looked unhappy with my answer, and I can't blame him for that, but he stood, bowed low before me, and exited the tent.

Once he was gone, I let out a joyous laugh, and praised God for the good news I had received; my son truly would be the great and powerful man I had always dreamed he would be. The promise of God to Abraham would be fulfilled through my son: A great nation would be made of him, and through him all the nations of the world would be blessed.

The rest of his brothers - they would go the way of Ishmael and Esau. I would give to them the gifts of a man to his concubine's sons, and send them on their way. But oh, my Joseph - what a kingly man he will become, ruling over all this promised land!

The next day, as we sat down to eat supper, with Joseph on my right, Leah on my left, and all the rest of the family scattered in a circle about me, Joseph said, "Father, I had a dream."

I heard the beginning of mutterings among the children of my wives, but I held up my hand for silence, and my stern expression silenced the angry voices. I nodded wisely and said, "Tell us all, my son, of the dream you had."

I expected he would retell the story of the sheaves, but this was a different dream. "Father, I saw the strangest sight in my dream. It was a day like no other day, and a night like no other night, for there in the sky I saw both the sun and the moon together, and with them both, even through the brightness of the sun I could see eleven glowing stars shining with a beautiful, piercing light."

I smiled. Joseph was learning a bit about dealing with his brothers. That's it, my son, soften the blow for them by telling them that their stars shine with a beautiful light. They will not mind so much that they must bow to you, if they know they have your respect.

Joseph continued, "In my dream, the stars, the moon, and even the sun itself turned and faced me on this strange night-day, and each one bowed low before me."

My anger burned so bright and fast that I didn't even stop to think before my hand - almost of its own accord - reached out and slapped my boy across the face. Bright red streaks stood out on his cheek where my fingers had struck. "How dare you," I said, "Do you think that I am stupid? Do you think I don't know that you have imagined me to be the sun, and your mother to be the moon? Do you really think that any of us will ever bow down to you?"

Startled and hurt by my outburst, my beloved Joseph bowed low in humiliation, saying, "Father, I have sinned against you and I am ashamed." Then, without another word he stood and walked away.

As I look around the circle now, I see laughing, mocking faces all around me; the sons of my wife and concubines have taken great pleasure in my son's humiliation.

But Reuben - that boy has an entirely different look on his face. There is a smile, but it is cynical rather than mirthful, and in his questioning gaze I can read clearly the sardonic query: "How is it Father, that one dream must be from God, yet the other is not?"

Joseph is not the only boy I want to slap tonight.

Reuben: The Pit and The Caravan

Few people understand just how messed up my family is. How could you possibly understand, unless you grew up with it? Twelve children, all with the same father, but with four different mothers. Two of those mothers are sisters, and the other two are slave girls that the sisters owned - and loaned - to my father.

If you haven't experienced it yourself, I don't think you can imagine the shame felt by my half-brothers Dan and Naphtali, who have to watch their mother slave away at the most menial of chores every day, while my mother sits in Father's tent doing nothing day after day. I see the way anger seethes just under the surface of their blank and stony expressions, and that anger frightens me.

To top it all off, for three generations now the family has been plagued by favoritism, discontent, and the constant fear that one brother will be raised up over all the others to receive the fabled blessing of God. When Joseph, who Father has always treated as the firstborn, received that extravagant gift of a multi-hued coat, all I could think was, Just as God gave Noah a promise through a rainbow, this rainbow coat is Father's way of promising the world to his beloved son.

The whole horrid mess came to a head one day when we - the oldest sons - were out in the fields far from home, tending the herds, and Joseph was sent out to check on us. Ostensibly, he was "seeing to our welfare," but every one of us knew from bitter experience that Joseph was Father's eyes and ears - the rat in the corner spying and carrying tales.

We saw him coming a mile off; how could we miss him with that rainbow coat? While he was still out of earshot, the brothers and half-brothers began plotting against him. I think it was Naphtali who first said: "Here comes the dreamer! Let's kill him and toss his body in a pit, and then we can tell the old man that he got eaten by a bear."

The brothers laughed at this, but it was a laugh with a very bitter and very sinister edge to it; it didn't take long for me to realize: they were taking the suggestion seriously.

I didn't wait to see how this conversation would play out; Joseph was getting close and I didn't have time. As the oldest, most responsible brother, I needed to act. "Brothers," I said, "Let's stop to think about this. We aren't murderers are we? We're not killers!"

From the expressions on their faces, and their muttered discontent, I saw that they weren't convinced. So I continued, "If we kill him, we are guilty of his shed blood before God. Let us not forget the story of Cain who wandered the world - a perpetual stranger - because he murdered his brother. So let us, instead, simply throw him in a pit without murdering him. What happens to him then is not our problem."

The brothers laughed again, and their laughter was filled with a kind of sadistic glee that sickened me.

Before God I swear to you, it was my intent to rescue my brother; I intended to wait until all the brothers were gone and pull Joseph out of the pit. I would be innocent of his blood, and one day - when this spoiled kid became king over all - he would remember who his true family was.

But my intentions came to nothing, for when I stepped away to pursue a wandering lamb, the brothers devised a second plan in my absence. When I returned with the lost animal in tow, it took me only a moment to realize that I no longer heard the cries of my little brother from the pit, begging us to spare his life.

At first I thought the brothers had relented, but I knew that was only wishful thinking. "What have you done?" I demanded. "Have you killed him after all?"

Simeon laughed. "While you were away," he explained, "we realized that it would be a pity to let our brother die when we could make some money off him."

Trembling at the possibilities of his meaning, my fear came out as anger; I stood close to Simeon and with fists clenched I snapped, "Explain!"

Judah stepped between us and tried to calm me with peaceful hand gestures. "Relax, brother. This is better. While you were gone, a caravan of Ishmaelites came by on their way to Egypt. We pulled Joseph out and sold him as a slave."

With a laugh that was filled with sickening glee, Naphtali said, "Look on the bright side, brother. The Ishmaelites are our cousins, so this way we've kept him in the family!"

Dan added, "At least until he reaches Egypt!"

The whole clan erupted into laughter.

I said nothing as the brothers took Joseph's rainbow coat and tore gaping holes in it, then dipped it in the blood of a slaughtered goat. I understood their intent. They would present this bloody garment to Father and tell him that Joseph had been devoured by wild beasts.

As for me, while I listened to their laughter and cruel mocking, I wept with the shame of a disturbing realization: This cruel story they've invented is horribly close to the truth.

Potiphar: Foolish Slave Boy

These barbaric nomads from out in the wasteland are such uncultured oafs. They smell of camels and dung, they can barely read (and most can't read at all) and their behavior - like their humor - is quite crude. Though you can scrub them until they glisten and the stench is gone, and though you can dress them up in Egyptian clothing, when it comes right down to it, they're still barbarian nomads from the wasteland.

And they're good for just one thing: slaving in the fields all day.

Except this new slave I bought from the caravan - I can't quite figure him out. Most of the other slaves are either terrified or filled with rage (and who wouldn't be, having been torn away from family and home by Ishmaelite slave trader scum?) but with this boy there is neither the despair nor the sullenness of the other slaves. He looks around the slave market with curiosity, and when I pay my money for him he looks at me frankly, unafraid. There is no anger; it is as though when he looks at me he is simply wondering how he's going to get beyond me to the next stage of his life.

That's it. That's what's wrong with this boy: he's confident. He is foolish enough to think of slavery as a temporary condition. And the expression in his eyes is not even the cold calculation of a slave who is trying to figure out how to escape; this boy isn't going to try to escape, he just seems to know that someday, somehow, his slavery will end.

Foolish boy.

Potiphar's Wife: Hebrew Sorcerer

It has been interesting to watch my husband interact with the new slave boy. At first their sole interaction consisted of Potiphar pausing in his work - when he thought no one was watching - to stare out toward the fields at the Hebrew slave. If Joseph had been a girl, I would have said my husband had developed an infatuation.

"There's something different about that slave, love," he said to me on several occasions.

I just laughed and reminded him of the nasty rumors about the Hebrews. "Of course there's something different about him; have you forgotten how Hebrew fathers mutilate their boy children?"

"That's not what I mean. Haven't you noticed how quietly he works, without complaint, finishing every task long before the others have even started?"

I shrugged. "I do my best to avoid watching filthy, sweaty slaves working the fields. My skin breaks out in a rash just thinking about the layers of grime on those boys."

Potiphar said, "I was thinking about giving Joseph a little more responsibility."

"You're going to hook him up to the yoke and let him pull the plow as well as steering it?" I teased.

"No, love. I mean, I think he would do well at some of the household duties."

"Potiphar, you wouldn't dare bring that filthy boy in our house!" I exclaimed.

Intentionally misunderstanding me, my husband replied, "He could be taught to bathe, you know. Eventually those layers could all be washed away."

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it. The boy is a Hebrew. And you're going to let him inside the house? Do you really think I'm going to suffer the indignity of passing that mutilated riffraff in the hallway every day for the rest of my life?"

"I'll keep him well away from you, dearest."

"And the neighbors? What will they think?"

"They won't know. Joseph may be a Hebrew, but his complexion is not so far from ours. It's not like everyone else keeps a list of our slaves' origins."

I gave a resigned little shrug. "Just see that you keep him away from me."

Potiphar kept true to his word. For months I never even saw the barbarian in the house; my husband kept him busy with duties far from me. When our paths finally did cross, it was because I was looking for my husband in his office, and there sat the young slave, keeping books.

At first I didn't know who this stranger was - clean-shaven, bathed, and sprinkled with the sweet fragrances that staved off the stench of perspiration in our hot climate - he looked nothing like the vile-smelling rat Potiphar used to watch out in the fields.

My first thought on seeing the boy was, Who is this handsome young man my husband has working for him? Then, when I realized the answer to my unspoken question, I fled the room in shame. I spent the rest of the day in the bathing rooms, hoping to wash the shame away with intense scrubbing, but the shame was on the inside, and no amount of washing could remove it.

I prayed to all the gods that my friends would never discover the terrible thoughts I had entertained toward a Hebrew slave boy.

I think the Hebrews must be sorcerers of great power, for I found myself again and again thinking of this handsome young man. Some days, even without meaning or intending to, I would walk the hallways to my husband's office, there to peek in on this Joseph. Eventually I realized that my days had come to consist of pacing the hallways, hoping for even a quick glimpse of the cruel magician who had invaded my heart with his sorcery.

Then came the day of my great shame, and the day of the demon's triumph. The day when - without conscious control or effort - my mouth opened to form the words, "Sleep with me."

The boy stared at me like he didn't know what I was talking about, as though he wasn't the one who was inspiring these evil, disgusting thoughts in my mind. In a voice shrill with shock he said, "What?"

Oh, Joseph, do not pretend innocence to me; I know what state you have brought me to with your treacherous sorcery. Aloud I said again, "Sleep with me."

The boy had the audacity to say, "No," and then he turn his back on me, returning to his book work as though I didn't even exist.

By this I know it must have been with the most powerful of witchcraft that he poisoned my mind: the boy's rejection did not prevent me from approaching him day after day with that same three word command.

And day after day his reply was the same.

Then after many weeks of this there came a day when Potiphar and all the other men of the house were away. In my ceaseless haunting of the hallways I passed by Joseph striding purposefully from one part of the house to another. On that day, the day of my ultimate humiliation, I grabbed the young man by his robe and demanded of him, more vehemently, and with more force than ever before: "Sleep with me."

The cruel sorcerer must have known to what terrible depths he had brought me, but there was no sympathy in his eyes - only a look of terror which I knew must be feigned. When he saw that I had grabbed hold of him, and that I would not let go until he consented to join me, the boy pulled away, ripping his fine Egyptian garment in the process, and then fled altogether, leaving his robe in my hands as he ran naked outside.

I stared at the torn robe in my arms, and in that moment awoke from my ensorceled dream.

Oh, Joseph, barbarian slave, I thought to myself, you shall be sorry for this.

I always knew it would be trouble, bringing a Hebrew into our home.

The Baker: In Pharaoh's Prison

They say that no matter how bad off you are, there's someone in the world who is worse off than you. I don't really believe that any more. I mean, somewhere in the world there must be someone whose situation is worst of all, right?

Take this boy in the Pharaoh's prison, for example. Born the eleventh son of a poor, uncultured nomadic family. Despised by his three step mothers (his real mother is dead) and his ten older brothers. Tossed (by his brothers) into a pit to die, then sold into slavery (also by his brothers). Then falsely accused by his master's wife of all sorts of evil debauchery and thrown into prison by his master, who (of course) believed his wife instead of his slave. And there he sits, year after year, stuck in this stinking dump with nary a hope of escape. The only bright point for him is that the jailer seems to like him and trust him, and has put him in charge of all the rest of the prisoners.

When you hear that story, you might be tempted to say, "There is the most miserable of men; no one is worse off than him!"

If you thought that, you would be forgetting one thing: since Joseph has been put in charge of prisoners, that means there are people right here in this prison who are lower, even worse off than him.

That would be me, and my friend the cupbearer.

We used to work for Pharaoh, but how we have fallen! I was the king's baker, and my friend was his personal servant. We both have offended our master, which is why he had us thrown into this prison.

Here we sit, awaiting his final judgment.

Don't misunderstand me; I do like Joseph - he's a nice boy. I just think my situation is a bit more dire than his. Let me tell you what I mean.

Three days ago my friend and I both had dreams. They were strange and troubling dreams, and as we discussed them together, we began to fear what they might mean, for everyone knows dreams are gifts and portents from the gods. As we sat there discussing the possible meanings of the dreams, Joseph walked by and saw our troubled expressions. With his usual empathy, he asked why we looked sad, and my friend explained, "We have had dreams during the night, and we do not know what they mean; we no longer have access to the king's magicians to explain for us the meanings of dreams."

Joseph scoffed. "Magicians. Dreams are not for magicians to explain - they are from God himself, and only God has the interpretation. I have some experience of my own with dreams, so tell me yours, and perhaps God will show me the meaning."

My friend and I looked at each other with doubt; we understood that when Joseph spoke of "God," he was not speaking of the Egyptian gods, but the God of the Hebrews, who (he claimed) was in control of all things. My friend and I had spent many hours wondering why anyone would serve a god who supposedly controlled everything, since that would mean it was the will of that god for all of us to end up in this stinking place.

My friend decided (out of pure curiosity, I think) to put Joseph to the test. "In my dream," he explained, "there were three branches growing out of a vine, and on each branch there was a cluster of grapes. Since I was holding the king's cup in my hand, I did what came natural to me: I squeezed the grapes into the cup and served the king."

Joseph stood there in silence for a minute. No dancing, no chanting, no magic rituals - he just stood there as though he was listening to someone speak. Then he turned to my friend and said, "Your dream is simple. The three branches are three days. After three days Pharaoh will relent in his anger and restore you to your former position. You will be set free, and returned to the king's palace."

Then he added, "But I ask one favor of you; when you are released from prison, please do this one thing for me: tell Pharaoh about me. Tell him about how I was falsely accused and thrown into prison. Perhaps the king will take pity on me and get me out of this horrid place."

I wanted to laugh. Imagine that - a king taking interest in the plight of a barbarian slave prisoner. But my friend wasn't laughing. His expression had turned to one of joy, and he promised the boy all he asked.

So now it was my turn, and I decided there was no harm in telling my dream. "In my dream, I was carrying three baskets of freshly baked bread on top of my head, and in the third basket, there were birds eating the food."

As Joseph stood there listening (first to me, then to the silence of his God's speech) his face grew troubled, and then even more troubled. "In your dream," he finally said, "the three baskets are also three days. After three days Pharaoh will also release you from prison. But he has not relented in his anger against you. You will be taken from here and publicly hung from a tree, where the birds will come and peck away at your dead flesh until you are devoured."

My friend looked at me as though he was seeing a ghost; it was clear he believed everything this Hebrew slave boy said. But not me. I don't believe in the Hebrew God, and I don't believe in interpretations given by nasty molesters of virtuous women. He is a liar and a cheat, and I won't believe a word of it.

And yet, now it is the third day, and I can hear a troop of guards tromping down the length of the cell block with purposeful stride, and I can't help but think: if ever there was a man whose situation is more dire than any other...

I think that man is me.

Pharaoh: On the Banks of the Nile

I stood at the banks of the Nile River and there I saw a sight that made my skin crawl, as though a thousand beetles were creeping across my flesh. Up from the depths of the Nile came a herd of cattle - seven well fed, sleek and healthy animals that simply burst forth from the water and splashed their way toward dry land.

I don't know why those seven animals were under the waters of the Nile, or how they could have survived there, but they, for their part, behaved as though nothing was out of the ordinary. With cheerful lowing sounds they strode calmly through the Nile until they reached the western bank where I stood watching, and began feeding on the lush grass at the edge of the water.

As I continued to watch, an even stranger, more frightening sight appeared before me: once again the waters of the Nile were stirred, and up from the depths came seven more cattle. These were not well fed or sleek; their bodies dripped with open sores, dried mucus clung to their snouts, and they were so thin I could count every rib and joint. They were positively skeletal. Just the sight of these cursed creatures made me want to retch.

But what these monstrous cattle did next was beyond disgusting; it entered into the realm of the macabre. Instead of joining the first seven cattle in a feast of marsh grasses, these gaunt demons approached the plump cattle and, with jaws hideously distended, began feasting on the cattle themselves, until there was not a bone, not a drop of blood, not a single mound of bloody red flesh remaining.

Then, as the reflex to vomit became unendurable, I awoke, screaming at the utter horror of what I had just seen there on the banks of the Nile.

The Cupbearer: Deep Powers

Some people think that the magicians have no power, that they simply invent prophecies and dream interpretations out of the misty depths of their own imaginations. I don't believe this; I know that their power comes from deep and terrifying forces beyond the realm of man. I've seen the look of panic on the faces of those magicians when the deep powers refuse to - or are unable to - give them answers to the questions they ask. I've seen a magician stand before Pharaoh and with trembling fear insist that he doesn't know the interpretation of a dream - even though he knows the wrath of Pharaoh is seething under the surface, waiting for an excuse to explode.

Consider this most recent nightmare that awoke the king in the middle of the night. If I were a mage trying to invent a meaning for a dream, I would have no difficulty. After all, seven is a mystical number, tied to perfection and completeness; no matter where you look you could find a way to explain the dream. The seven scorpions of Isis. The two sevens of Osiris' body hewn. The seventy cubit tower, and the seventy windows.

Yet the mages stood there trembling before the king, insisting there was no interpretation for his dream. I waited, holding the king's cup and listening to these frightened men babble on about how the secrets of the dreams had been hidden from them by forces too great for them to comprehend. I realized that I - of all the people who attended to the Pharaoh - might have the solution to the king's problem - a Hebrew slave named Joseph.

Joseph! The man who had explained my dream, and made me promise to tell Pharaoh about him. I had so eagerly agreed to everything he asked, but in the excitement and celebration of my return to favor, I had shoved the dark memory of those evil days in the prison into the recesses of my mind. For two years I had served in the court of Pharaoh without a single thought of the man who had interpreted my dream and brought me hope. While I stood in the presence of the king, he languished helplessly in the king's prison. I felt the sudden rush of blood to my cheeks and I was ashamed at my selfish forgetfulness.

Now I began to see that I was a pawn in the game of the gods; it was no accident that I had been sent to that prison, and it was no accident that Joseph had interpreted my dream. No wonder the deep powers refused to speak to the mage about the dream. They (or perhaps even deeper powers) would use this situation to bring young Joseph from prison, into the court of Pharaoh.

That evening as I served the king, I drank deeply of my weak reserves of courage and leaned close to Pharaoh. I did not want anyone else to hear what I said to him.

"My lord," I said, "I believe I know of a man who can interpret your dream. He is a man who speaks directly with the gods."

Pharaoh looked at me with doubtful gaze, and I knew I would have to tell the whole story. There were so many levels on which I did not want to tell that story; I did not want to remind the king of the days when I was out of his favor. I did not want to admit that I had left this wise and powerful man to suffer in prison for two years when I had the power to speak on his behalf. And, most of all, I did not want to tell the king that the man was a Hebrew barbarian - and not just that, but a Hebrew barbarian accused of molesting the wife of his chief bodyguard.

In so many ways I was entering a realm of great personal hazard, yet the deep powers of the universe required me to speak, so I spoke.

And Pharaoh listened.

Pharaoh: The Course of Power

My father told me that when I was just a little child, he took me up to the highest pinnacles of the royal palace, and set me upon the edge of the wall so I could see all the land of Egypt: the river like a winding sash of blue cloth laced with green shrubbery, the undulating, ever changing rise and fall of desert dunes, and the frantic scurrying of a million people who would one day be in my charge. As I sat there, peering unafraid over the sheer drop of the palace wall, Father said to me, "One day all this will be yours to command."

I only vaguely remember that day, and I don't remember at all what happened on the next day. The story told by those old enough to remember is that I was found down by the banks of the Nile, waving my hands in wide arcs, and shouting at the river, commanding it to turn in its natural course. The river, of course, ignored my instruction. All my father's advisors laughed - quietly, of course, and behind my back - at the little boy who thought he had the power to command the Nile. Father laughed as well, but loudly, and to my face.

I know now why they laughed. Even as king over all the land, my power to command extends only as far as the weakness of another. Thus, I can command the weak and vacillating wills of simple folk, but the stronger the people are, the weaker I am. The strength of the Nile is beyond my rule.

I cannot even command the inner workings of my own mind; I wake up in the night with absurd dreams of cattle feasting disgustingly on each other, or ears of corn that devour one another in a manner quite inappropriate for garden produce.

Nor can I command the magi, who refuse to give interpretation to my strange midnight encounters. The more I beg and plead for interpretation, and none comes to my aid, the weaker I become in the eyes of the people. I may need to kill these magi, just to strengthen my position.

Now, to make things worse, I am reduced to taking advice from a lowly servant, who tells me that all my woes can be resolved by a foreigner, a prisoner in one of my dungeons. Worst of all, as my cupbearer tells me about this barbarian magician, standing next to him in stony silence is my chief of security - the very man who put the Hebrew mystic in prison, and who would likely be content to put a sword through the man's heart before I even have a chance to ask him about my dreams.

Nevertheless, I must have interpretation, so I instruct my soldiers to bring this interpreter of dreams before me.

The man is surprisingly confident, for one who has spent much of his adult life either as a slave, or as a prisoner. Not arrogant, or proud, like a man who considers himself superior to all around him, but confident in a contented and peaceful way. I find it hard to explain what I see when I look at him. He is, I think, the sort of man for whom the Nile really would turn in its course, but not the sort of man who would make such a change just for show. He is a man of quiet dignity, a man whose spirit is at his own command, and thus he has a look of comfortable repose, even when he stands before me. He is utterly unafraid.

"Joseph," I begin, "I have had troubling dreams, and none of my magi" (I place a cynical emphasis on this word, thus to weaken the control of these useless old men) "can interpret it for me. It is said that you are a magician yourself."

The young man doesn't even hesitate before speaking. "I am no magician, my king, and I have no power in me to command the interpretation of dreams. Yet, the God of my fathers, the great God over all things, He knows your dream and its interpretation. So speak, and if God is pleased to do so, He shall make known the meaning."

So I tell this child of wilderness nomads my dreams, of the cattle, and then of the ears of corn that, like the cattle, devour one another. When I am done, there is only a brief moment of hushed silence in the chamber while everyone, from Potiphar to the magi to my servants and guards, waits for the young man to speak.

Joseph's words are calm and earnest, though everyone trembles to hear them. "Your dreams, my king, are the same dream. The seven cattle that are plump, are seven years of plenty; in these seven years the crops will grow bountifully, and there will be more than enough food to live comfortably. But following those seven years there shall be seven years of famine, which will come up and devour even the memory of bounty, and your people will starve in these seven years."

"And the dream about the corn?" I demand anxiously, "It means the same thing?"

"My king, God has given the dream twice so that you may know, the thing which will come to pass is set in stone, and cannot be changed."

There is a moan and sigh of fear that rises among all my advisors and servants, and I tremble to hear these words which every king fears: You have no power to command.

"What then can we do?" I ask.

"Appoint a wise man, and many overseers under him, to work throughout the entire kingdom for seven years, taking one fifth of all produce of the land and placing it in storehouses, where it may be kept to feed the people during the times of famine."

I look again at this slave boy with his peaceful expression and his confident posture and I think to myself: I shall take this weakest of all men and appoint him over all, for he has no desire for power, so his strength could never weaken me. If anyone can command the course of a famine, surely it is this mystic boy.

As I speak my decree aloud, I see Joseph's expression change at last, to a look of wonder and amazement. With a smile I think: At least I still have the power to surprise.

Simeon: Meeting Zaphenath-paneah

When Father tells us to jump, none of us questions or hesitates. None of us stops to ask why. We just jump. It's kind of silly, really. I suppose we all have a secret and absurd hope that - with Joseph out of the way - whichever one of us plays up to Father the best might have a chance of inheriting everything. But we all know that hope is really nothing but a dream. As long as step-mother Rachel's other boy is still alive, none of us stands a chance of inheriting anything.

The downside of our eager, sycophantic attitude is that not a one of us dares to step out and take action on his own, without the express permission and approval of Dear Old Dad. So when the famine struck, and all our crops failed, and the wells were running dry, Father found us all just sitting around, waiting for him to tell us what to do. Father had never been shy about telling us what he thought of us, and he didn't hesitate now.

"Are you children? Or men? What are you doing, just sitting around staring at each other like helpless lumps of mud? Haven't you heard that in Egypt they have stored up grain for many years, and are selling food to those in need? Get off your lazy rumps, pack your bags, and get down to Egypt!"

As always, we leapt to our feet and began scurrying about in a frenzy to impress Father with our willing eagerness to do his bidding. Even young Benjamin was preparing for the journey, but the Old Man put a stop to that immediately. "What are you doing, Benjamin?" he asked my step-brother.

"Getting ready for the journey, Father."

"No, no, son, I don't want you to go. It will be a dangerous journey, and there is no telling what might happen once you reach Egypt. I cannot bear to have anything happen to my son."

My son. I don't think anyone can imagine how much it grates on us to hear him say things like that; are we not his sons also? Does he not fear for our lives as well? But with Joseph gone, Benjamin is our father's only living reminder of his favorite wife, and the only one he considers to be his true son.

It's strange; I think I've mellowed and matured with age, because I don't hate Benjamin for this favoritism. Maybe it's because Benjamin never had dreams about being the boss. Maybe it's because he never ratted on us when we did wrong. Or maybe it's just that I finally understand: it wasn't Joseph I should have hated; he was merely what Father made him. Father is the one I should despise. Father is the one I do despise.

Yet still I do his bidding.

When the ten of us - all the brothers except Benjamin - reached Egypt, we were directed to the Pharaoh's second-in-command, a man named Zaphenath-paneah. He was a man who by all accounts was great in wisdom and in power. The stories that we heard on the streets were wildly improbably: he was a slave, he was a criminal, he was a magician, or he was the mouthpiece of the gods (they say that his name means "Speaker of the Gods"). No matter which story you believed, all agreed that his rise to power happened with stunning speed, like a shooting star appearing in one moment and turning into a burst of glory before you could even blink.

The man was dressed in royal robes and jewelry, and my brothers and I felt shamed and embarrassed by our dirty, faded, single-hued homespun robes. Even Joseph's multi-colored cloak would have looked paltry and pathetic next to this great man's attire.

We bowed low before him, this great Egyptian ruler, and waited for him to speak. His words were harsh and angry; he demanded to know where we were from.

Reuben spoke for all of us. "We are from the land of Canaan, and we have come to buy food, if you can sell us some."

Zaphenath-paneah glared at us and said, "You are liars and spies. You have not come to buy food, you have come to spy out the land and discover our weaknesses, so you may attack."

I was filled with dread then, for if this great ruler believed us to be spies, he had the power to kill us all. And, of course, there is no good way to prove that you aren't a spy - is there?

Reuben merely reiterated what he had said before. "We are not spies. We have come to buy food." Then he added, "We are all brothers, and we are all honest men; you can trust us."

I felt a the blush of shame at these words; Reuben was the most honest of all of us, but even he had gone along with the story of Joseph's demise. No, there was not an honest man among us. But this Egyptian ruler had no way of knowing that.

Once again the great ruler insisted that we must be spies, searching the land for undefended places to attack.

It was my stupid half-brother Naphtali who spoke next, giving out far more information than was necessary. "My lord, we are all sons of one man in the land of Canaan. There are twelve of us in all, though one of us is dead, and the remaining son stays with our father."

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Tell this man - who believes us to be spies - all about our family; what an idiot!

The ruler looked from face to face, as though trying to find the truth in our eyes. I felt as though every lie and treachery of our entire lives was laid bare before his inquisitive gaze. After my eyes locked with his for a short measure of time, I shuddered and lowered my gaze, unable to meet his frank and honest stare.

Then he nodded. "It is as I suspected. You are all liars and cheats. If you would prove yourselves to be truthful men, there is only one way for you to do so. You must bring to me your younger brother, the one who stays with your father."

With that, he threw us all into prison and left us there for three days. Three days in a foreign prison, with no one to tell Father where we were, or what had become of us! At the end of those days, Zaphenath-paneah came to us again, and his expression had softened slightly from the fierce distrust he had turned on us three days earlier. "I cannot leave you here in prison," he confessed, "because I fear God, and must do what is right. I will release all but one of you. The nine who are released, you must go home, taking the grain you have purchased. You will get your brother there and bring him back to me."

Judah spoke up then, in the language of our people, and said, "This is our punishment, brothers. We heard the cries of our brother when we tossed him in the pit, and we heard his pleas when we sold him into slavery. Yet we turned a deaf ear to those cries. Now we are punished, for one of us must be sold into prison, while the rest return home."

Reuben added, "I warned you against this, telling you not to harm the boy, but you wouldn't listen, and now we all pay the price."

I wanted to smack Reuben in my anger. He had told us no such thing; he had merely said we should leave him to die instead of killing him with our own hands. Did he really think he was innocent? I almost said something in reply, but the words froze on my lips as I saw the Egyptian ruler watching us closely - as though he could understand every word we spoke.

I wondered, in that moment, why an Egyptian king would know the language of the Hebrew people, and as I stared at him, the Egyptian's eyes fell on me again. As he reciprocated my gaze with troubled curiosity, I knew one thing for sure: I was not going to be returning to Canaan any time soon.

Judah: Life Is Growth

Life is change. Life is growth. The seed falls to the ground, brown, ugly and shriveled, yet the heat of the sun, the cool of the ground and the gentle splash of rain transform it to a tiny sapling, then a mighty tree with pink buds that blossom into flower. The cub, helpless and hungry, waits eagerly for mother's milk, but a day will come when he will wait no more, but will forage eagerly for his own food, taking responsibility for himself.

Everything changes. Everything grows. It is the way of all living things.

Except Father.

For as long as I have known him, he has been a selfish, self-absorbed, conniving, treacherous deceiver, who cares for nothing but himself. He was like that when I was a little child, and he is still the same man today as he was then.

I despise him for it.

But Reuben! There is a man who has grown, and learned to take responsibility. Not just for himself, not just for his children, but for all of us. When we returned to Canaan, it was Reuben who stood before our father and explained the situation. "The man who sells grain in Egypt believed that we were spies, Father, and though we insisted we were not, he would not believe us. He has taken Simeon prisoner and locked him in jail until we return, bringing Benjamin with us."

Father stared at him. "Take Benjamin with you?"

"Yes, Father. Simeon will remain in prison until we return with Benjamin."

I guess I expected Father to behave as a real father would. A real father would go to any lengths to free his son. A real father would get up from his tent and march on Egypt, demanding the freedom of his wrongfully accused son. A real father would - at the very least - send his sons back to Egypt.

But he is not a real father; he is a whining, sniveling child, as he always has been. "Oh, my sons have been taken from me; my son Joseph has been killed, Simeon is imprisoned, and now you want me to lose Benjamin as well?"

"It is the only way to redeem Simeon from prison, Father," Reuben explained patiently.

"You shall not take my son to Egypt," Father insisted.

Perplexed and astonished, Reuben said, "Father, if we do not take him, then your son Simeon will rot in jail for the rest of his life."

And there, of course, is the real issue: he has never considered any of us to be his real sons, and he would gladly trade all of our lives, all of our freedoms, for that one remaining child of his favorite wife.

Like a pathetic, stubborn child, he repeated, "You shall not take my son to Egypt."

Reuben continued to push the issue. "Father," he said, "see my two sons, your grandchildren? If you let me bring Benjamin to Egypt with us, I will leave my two sons in your care. And then, if I do not bring your son home to you safely, you may kill my sons."

Do you know what Father said to that? That despicable old man actually had the audacity to say, "You cannot take my son with you, for his brother is dead, and he is the only son remaining to me. Should harm come to him, I would go to the grave in sorrow."

The only son remaining to me?

I would like to send that heel-grabbing excuse for a father to the grave myself.

But no amount of wheedling and begging would get him to change his mind - until, months later, all the grain was gone, and he had no choice.

"It is time for you to go back to Egypt for more grain," he told us.

We began packing our caravan, but as before, Father intervened when he saw Benjamin preparing to go with us. "You must not go to Egypt, son," he said.

"Father," I said, "the ruler in Egypt was quite clear on this matter. We may not return to Egypt unless we bring our brother with us."

Father was adamant. "Benjamin shall not go."

Slowly, deliberately, I began unpacking the animals. My brothers stared at me for several seconds before they understood what I was doing. There was a look of astonishment in their eyes as they saw I was standing up to the old man, defying him. Then, after quick glances at one another, and a few nods of agreement, they began unpacking as well.

Father raged. "What are you doing, Judah?"

I shrugged. "If Benjamin does not go, none of us goes, Father. We will stay here and all starve together."

"Why have you all treated me so badly?" Father whined, "Why did you even tell the man that you had another brother? Why couldn't you have left my son in peace?"

"Father," I said, with a grim determination, "we had no choice. The man asked us about our family. Would you have us lie to him?" I didn't pause to give him time to answer; I knew the answer already. Father would tell any number of lies, trade any number of sons, to protect his youngest child.

"Now let us take Benjamin, for if we do not, we will all die. I will be the collateral for your son's life. If I do not bring him back to you safely, then I shall forever bear the blame, and you may do with my life what you will.

"But the time is now. If you hadn't spent so much time whining and fussing over Benjamin, and had a little care for Simeon, we could have gone to Egypt and returned twice."

At last I saw that Father was relenting. And in this moment of triumph, my brothers stared at me with newfound respect. Because I had faced down the old man? Or because I had promised to forfeit my own life for my brother's?

Had I really promised that? Had I really offered my own life in exchange for my brother Benjamin? Was this insanity? Or bravery?

Whatever it was, I know now that I, like Reuben, am no longer doomed to be my father's son. I am my own man.

Life is change. Life is growth. Today I am my own man, and I like the way it feels.

Benjamin: The Favored Son

My brothers behaved as though it was no big deal to be headed back to Egypt again. They laughed and joked and sang among themselves as the caravan moved south, but I could tell there was tension in every laugh, and nervousness in every song.

My feelings were mixed. Unlike my brothers, who had been to Egypt before, I had never seen the massive, fortified city and the strange, incomprehensible people of Egypt. I couldn't wait to see these wondrous sights. On the other hand, my father's fears had put an uneasy edge to my excitement. Wonderful things could happen in Egypt, but terrible things could happen as well.

Just don't think about Simeon, and don't think about Egyptian prisons.

My brothers hardly spoke to me during the course of the journey. When they did address me it was to say things like, "This is where we will stop for the night," or "Go fetch some wood for the fire."

I wasn't surprised; my ten oldest brothers never saw me as one of them. The great chasm that lay between them and me was my dead brother Joseph. With Joseph gone, they see me as "Daddy's Golden Boy" - the favored youngest son. They treat me with far less open hostility than they treated my older brother, but I still can tell that they don't like me very much.

When we arrived in the capital city of Egypt, my brothers laughed at my naive astonishment, but I didn't care. I had never seen such extraordinary buildings that stretched so tall toward the sky. I had never seen such strangely dressed - and in some cases strangely painted - people in my entire life. What an amazing thing it must be to live in such a wonderful place.

"Come, Benjamin," Judah said, not unkindly. "There will be plenty of time to see the sights before we leave. But we must go to the ruler of this land to buy grain." As an afterthought, he added, "Say as little as possible, Benjamin, and do nothing to attract any undue attention."

When we walked into Zaphenath-peneah's reception hall, the great man recognized my brothers immediately. This surprised me. Surely the ruler met hundreds of people every day; my brothers must have made quite an impression on him to be remembered on sight after so many months had passed. His fierce, penetrating stare passed from one brother to another until he had looked at each of the ten brothers in turn, then his gaze fell on me. I tried my very best to return his stare, but something about the way he looked at me made me very uneasy. I looked away before he did.

Then the ruler spoke to one of his servants quietly enough that none of us could hear. The servant bowed before him, and then motioned for us to follow him. In silence the servant led us out of the great hall and down the street to a building that I could only describe as a palace. Surely it was a home fit for a pharaoh!

As we approached the palace, the servant advised us: "You are a guest in the home of Zaphenath-peneah; see that you do not touch anything."

Guests? I was excited at the thought of being guests of the great ruler, but my brothers looked very unhappy. "After all," Reuben explained to me softly, "Simeon has also been a guest of Zaphenath-peneah. And this Egyptian ruler has no reason to expend any great love or favor on us, either."

I remembered, then, the story that my brothers had told upon their return home after the last visit, how they had opened their grain bags to discover that every coin they had brought with them to pay for the grain had been mysteriously returned to their sacks.

Judah spoke up in the Egyptian language, addressing the steward who was leading us. "My lord," he said, "when we returned from Egypt the last time, we were horrified to discover that every coin we had paid for the grain was in our grain sacks. We did not steal the money, and we do not know how it got there. We have brought all that money with us, along with more money to purchase grain. We are not thieves."

The steward laughed, and it seemed to be a friendly laugh. "Don't be afraid. You have stolen nothing. The money you found in your sacks must have been a gift from your God, because I keep careful records, and your money certainly never left the treasuries of Egypt."

Then, as though to prove his good will, the steward said, "Wait here, for I have a surprise for you." We looked at one another with disquiet in our hearts as the steward left us there at the entrance to the ruler's palace. Our unease turned to unadulterated joy, however, when the steward returned leading our long lost brother Simeon. There was a great deal of laughter and hugging, and many brotherly kisses were exchanged. Simeon even had a kiss for me, which spoke volumes for the loneliness he had experienced in an Egyptian prison.

The steward then led us inside the palace and provided water to wash ourselves in preparation for the noon meal. "Zaphenath-peneah will be joining you for lunch," the steward informed us.

This announcement did nothing to ease my brothers' concerns; even after the release of Simeon from prison, they were distrustful. We stood awkwardly about, waiting for the man to arrive, and every moment that passed made us more and more uneasy.

At last he arrived, and we were brought before him. My brothers and I approached him slowly, carrying gifts from our homeland, and we all bowed low before him. The ruler graciously accepted our gifts and then said, "Tell me, when you were here before you spoke of an aged father. Is he alive, and well?"

My brothers assured the man that our father was well.

"And this boy," the Egyptian said, turning in his chair to face me directly, "this is the younger brother you spoke of?" Then without even waiting for an answer he spoke to me. "May God be gracious to you, my son." I was astonished at the gentle tone of his words, and even more than that, I sensed that he was giving me the blessing of the Hebrew God, not of the Egyptian gods.

As I turned to look at my brothers, I saw that they looked very unhappy. At first I thought it was the same old jealousy that had always come between us, but then I realized their unhappiness came from great fear. They did not like the fact that this powerful Egyptian man was taking a special interest in me; he had the power to detain me just as he had detained Simeon. No wonder Judah had advised me to remain silent.

The Egyptian left the room then, probably to check on final meal preparations, then returned to us and instructed his servants to serve the meal. When the servants led us to the table, a shock awaited us: we were seated, all eleven of us, exactly in order of our age, with the oldest at the head of the table, right down to me at the very end. How could they have possibly known the order of eleven sons?

But the worst shock of all was this: my plate was heaped high with five times as much food as anyone else's. My brothers looked first at their own plates, and then at mine. As we considered what this strange bit of favoritism might mean, fear settled over all of us like a cold, wet blanket.

I fear that I shall never be permitted to leave this land.

The Steward: Cruel Mind Games

My master is the wisest man who ever lived. This is what I keep telling myself.

His behavior, when dealing with most people, is normal, but put these outland barbarians before him and he becomes completely erratic.

First he tossed them in prison for no reason. Then he let all but one go free. Then he instructed me to take all the money they had paid for grain and put it back in their luggage. And then he required me to, with a straight face, tell them all that the money they found in their sacks must have been a gift from their god.

But all of that pales in comparison to the most recent nonsense he instructed me to participate in. After serving these poor men a sumptuous meal, and treating them like kings, he instructed me to take his silver cup - a chalice of nearly immeasurable value - and put it in the youngest boy's luggage.

Why? I could not imagine why. I longed to ask him, but one does not question the great Zephenath-peneah. Does it amuse him to torment these strangers? I did not know. So I simply stood by and watched as the eleven brothers left the city with their grain, unwittingly carrying our treasures with them. I stood by and waited to see what insane instructions my master would give next.

As the strangers were passing through the city gates, on their way home, my master sent me running after them. "Halt!" I called. "Do not continue a step further!"

The eleven-man caravan halted, and the brothers all stared at me with a combination of frustration, bewilderment, and fear.

"How dare you?" I demanded. "How dare you steal from my master? Do you not know that his silver chalice is one of the most precious items in his treasury? And you have stolen it!"

The brothers were loud and vehement in their denials, and I felt ashamed for the part I was playing in my master's mind games. I had no desire to be part of this cruelty, but a command is a command.

One of the brothers spoke up above all the other voices, "How could you think that we are thieves? When the money appeared in our sacks after our last visit to your land, did we not return it to you? None of us would steal from your master, for we are honest men. If any of us has done this, then let him be put to death, and the rest of us turned to slaves."

"No," I replied, "Only the guilty one shall be made a slave - the rest of you will be free to go. Now open your sacks, and let me see."

Of course the chalice was found in the youngest brother's sack, exactly where I had placed it. The brothers began moaning and weeping and tearing at their clothing, they were so distraught.

"So," I said, trying to ignore their grief, "this youngest troublemaker is the thief. He will return with me and be my master's slave for life." I paused to look at the other ten in turn, and then said, "The rest of you are free to go."

I half expected that the older brothers, given permission to leave, would depart with all haste, for fear that I would change my mind. But they did not. They followed me and their younger brother back to the city, right to the palace.

There they stood before my master and begged for the life and freedom of their younger brother. I have never heard such impassioned pleas in my life. They spoke of their aged father back home who would die of sorrow if his youngest son did not return safely.

Then one of the brothers - Judah, I think his name was - proposed an exchange: "Let my younger brother go free," he begged, "and I will willingly be your slave for the rest of my life."

A life for a life! A brother for a brother! Never have I heard of such love and devotion, and his impassioned plea brought me to the brink of tears. I, who am hardened by years of listening to the hard-luck stories of all manner of scoundrels, was moved by this offer of one life for another.

Yet, in all of this, my master sat unmoved; his expression was like the hardest, unmovable stone. In that moment I despised my master for his indifference, and his cruel treatment of these poor men. What is it about them that inspires such hatred and unfair treatment?

Then, slowly, my master stood from his throne and looked about the great hall. He spoke two words, and his voice sounded strained. Anger? Pity? I could not tell what emotion lay behind the words he spoke: "Leave us."

All who were there with us stared at one another, confused, and began filing out of the hall. Even the guards were sent from the room, leaving my master, the barbarians, and myself. Then my lord looked at me and said, "You too."

"My lord," I began, but he cut off my protest.

"Go," he said, his voice strained with an emotion I could not understand.

As I exited the hall, leaving my master alone with eleven barbarian men, I could not help but think, It would be so easy for those men - left all alone with none to stop them - to overpower my master and kill him.

Then I thought, And I would not blame them if they did.

Joseph: The Reunion

When my brothers first appeared before me, down in Egypt, I thought I was seeing ghosts. Or maybe that is backwards; maybe I was the ghost. I appeared before them, but I was entirely invisible; they hadn't a clue who I really was. To them I was just Zaphenath-peneah, the great Egyptian ruler who would save mankind from starvation.

I confess: I wanted to hurt them. That was my first and overwhelming reaction. I wanted to make them suffer for what they had done to me, all those long, painful years ago. But God did not put me here for vengeance. My purpose was salvation. So I put behind me thoughts of revenge.

My next thought was: I should bring my entire family down to Egypt, where I can watch over them and keep them safe. Oh! To see my father again! And, oh! To see my brother Benjamin once more!

And yet, how could I trust these men - these violent, dishonest men - who stood before me as though they were simply innocent sufferers? I knew better. If I revealed myself to them, what would they do? What kind of men had they grown to be?

All this went through my mind so quickly, as my brothers stood waiting for me to speak. As they waited, fidgeting uneasily, it occurred to me that I needed to put a test before them, in order to find out how things really stood in my father's household. So I trumped up an excuse to have them all locked in prison, which gave me time to think through how I could lay a trap to test my brothers' true mettle.

In the end, I decided to leave only one of the brothers in prison. It seemed fitting; I had been left in a pit, so Simeon would be left in a pit. I was unjustly tossed into jail, so too was Simeon.

But the real test was this: what would the remaining nine brothers do? Would they leave Simeon to rot, telling our father that Simeon had met a tragic demise en route to Egypt? The brothers I knew from long ago would not hesitate to abandon a brother to his fate. If they had not changed, I would never see them again.

I held out hope, though, that my brothers had changed. I heard them speak of their past sins with shame. They didn't know I understood their language, but I heard, and I understood, and I hoped.

So I waited. And waited. Weeks passed, and the weeks turned into months. I had almost despaired that they were never coming back, when I saw the nine brothers - and Benjamin! - standing before me once again.

I nearly cried out for joy! In part because I was seeing my beloved brother Benjamin once more, and in part because my older brothers had passed my first test.

I say, first test, because I was not through with them. I'm not stupid; I know that Simeon is one of them. The real test is this: what will happen when the outsider is in trouble? What will they do when the favorite son, the one for whom they harbor strong jealousy, is arrested?

So I laid my trap carefully. I knew that Benjamin was favored at home, but to incite even more jealousy, I made it clear that he was favored even here in Egypt. I offered to him the blessing of God, a blessing I had never given to his brothers. I heaped his plate with enough food for five men, while his ten brothers had only a normal serving.

What will you do, my brothers? What will you do when the brother who has father's affection is arrested and tried for crimes he did not commit? Will you let him be sold into slavery as I was? Will you take my steward's invitation to simply walk away? Will you return to your home without regret, telling my father that another son has been lost?

What kind of men are you, my brothers?

As they stand before me now, they are terrified, but they are unwilling to leave my brother to slavery as they had left me so long ago. How easy it would have been for them to walk away, yet there they stand, and their pleas break my heart. How can I stand to listen any longer to their begging? How can I bear to watch their tears pour down their cheeks? In my heart I know the pleas are real, the tears are real, and oh! Judah! Would you really trade your life for Benjamin's? This is not the brother I knew so long ago! How you have changed! You have become a man of whom any brother, any father could truly be proud.

And now my own tears begin to well up, and I know that I cannot bear to listen to their begging any more. I cannot let them suffer another moment because of my cruel test; they have passed the tests I have set, and it is time to put their torment to an end.

Slowly, and with much trembling, I stand from my throne and demand that the hall be cleared. Bewildered, my servants, my guards, and all the onlookers leave the room. As the last door closes, I am left alone with these men who are no longer the spiteful children I once knew. I break into a shrill weeping cry that is sorrow, and shame, and great joy all mingled together at once.

My brothers stand there, horrified, astonished, and amazed; they don't know what to think of this, even when I say to them, in their own language - in my own language - "Brothers! It's me! Joseph! Your brother!"

They are struck dumb with fear, as though they have seen a ghost. So it must seem to them, for I have returned from the dead. I gather them close to me and say, through my tears, "Do not be afraid, my brothers. I am truly your brother, alive and well. Long ago you sold me into slavery, and you intended me great harm, but don't be afraid, because God intended something great; he has brought me here before you to preserve your lives!"

I see that they do not believe I have forgiven them, so one by one I wrap my arms around each of my brothers, and cling to them, covering them with my tears and my kisses, until at last they believe me.

"Now go," I say. "Return home and tell my father what you have seen and heard. Tell him that he must bring the entire family and all its possessions to Egypt, for the famine will last yet another five years. Come to Egypt and I will see that the family is cared for."

Now, as I sit on my throne, anxiously awaiting the arrival of my father, I think about my brothers, and how time has changed them, how time changes all things. And then I realize, to my astonishment, that time has changed me as well.

I remember with shame those younger days when I was so proud, so smug in the knowledge that all my brothers would one day bow down to me. I am no longer that boy. Of all the dreams I ever had, that dream once seemed most important. Now that it has come to pass I realize that it does not matter at all, compared to all the wondrous things which have been accomplished in my life. I feel both silly and ashamed to think that I once thought it would be my crowning moment to see my brothers bow before me.

I know, for God Himself has promised it, that even my aged father will bow before me when he arrives. And yet, even if my father should never bow, why should I care? God has blessed me beyond all imagining, and has fulfilled all my dreams that truly matter. In blessing me He has, in turn, made me a blessing.

Once, long ago, God promised to my great-grandfather Abraham that all nations would be blessed through his family. If I have taken part in fulfilling that dream, then my past, with all its sorrow and pain and tragedy, has been worth every terrible moment. I would not trade a bit of it for any other dream.

I, Joseph, am content at last.

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