faith-driven lifestyle
faith-driven lifestyle
He knows what the dream means. The answer is simple — almost insultingly simple. And that is exactly the problem. Simple answers do not earn fine linen. A retelling of Joseph before Pharaoh, and the moment he chooses to speak from the stripped place rather than perform from the robes.
Nobody tells you that saying no doesn't make the wanting stop. Joseph is in prison — stripped again, carrying grain in the dark — and his body still remembers the heat of her skin. This is not a story about a man who felt nothing. It's a story about a man who felt everything and still turned toward the door. Because his no was never an absence. It was always a yes, spoken too early to be understood.
They took his coat. Then his position. Then his freedom. Then even the memory of his gift — forgotten by the one man he'd helped. What Joseph carries in prison has no outside. No visible sign. No one to confirm it. Only a knowing he believes came from God.
We are remarkably confident in what we see. This week we enter Joseph's story through his inner vision — seven moments, no timeline, no chronology. An invitation to let the eyes be humbled by what the heart already knows.
Joseph is in a cell he did not deserve, walking back from two men whose dreams he has just read with unsettling accuracy. He can interpret the dreams of strangers. His own life he cannot read at all. This is where we begin.
Someone sticks a tag to your forehead, and you take it down, look at it and go very still. Not the label you would have written for yourself. Joseph carried one too — here comes the dreamer — from the fields of Canaan all the way into an Egyptian prison. This is the story of a gift that gets you into trouble. And of a God stubborn enough to follow it all the way down.
Every one of us carries a gift that has gotten us into trouble. This Easter, journey with Joseph from confusion to recognition — seven weeks, seven senses, from the cistern to Pentecost. Not a promise you won't fall again. A practice of knowing your own voice from its echoes.
He knows what the dream means. The answer is simple — almost insultingly simple. And that is exactly the problem. Simple answers do not earn fine linen. A retelling of Joseph before Pharaoh, and the moment he chooses to speak from the stripped place rather than perform from the robes.
Nobody tells you that saying no doesn't make the wanting stop. Joseph is in prison — stripped again, carrying grain in the dark — and his body still remembers the heat of her skin. This is not a story about a man who felt nothing. It's a story about a man who felt everything and still turned toward the door. Because his no was never an absence. It was always a yes, spoken too early to be understood.
They took his coat. Then his position. Then his freedom. Then even the memory of his gift — forgotten by the one man he'd helped. What Joseph carries in prison has no outside. No visible sign. No one to confirm it. Only a knowing he believes came from God.
Joseph said what he dreamed. The room changed. He is still not sure what he did wrong. Seven scenes from the aftermath — his father, his brothers, the woman who kept going back to the road. Open the one that calls you first.
We are remarkably confident in what we see. This week we enter Joseph's story through his inner vision — seven moments, no timeline, no chronology. An invitation to let the eyes be humbled by what the heart already knows.
Someone sticks a tag to your forehead, and you take it down, look at it and go very still. Not the label you would have written for yourself. Joseph carried one too — here comes the dreamer — from the fields of Canaan all the way into an Egyptian prison. This is the story of a gift that gets you into trouble. And of a God stubborn enough to follow it all the way down.
Every one of us carries a gift that has gotten us into trouble. This Easter, journey with Joseph from confusion to recognition — seven weeks, seven senses, from the cistern to Pentecost. Not a promise you won't fall again. A practice of knowing your own voice from its echoes.
