I was no one special—just a shepherd boy from Chevron, one of the younger cousins in a large family. But I remember the day everything changed, when Yosef shared his strange dreams and the air around my older cousins turned sharp like thorns.
Yosef was my uncle Yaakov’s eleventh son—Yaakov, the same man who wrestled with a malach, a heavenly angel, and became Yisrael. Yosef had always been different. Handsome, yes. But it was more than that. He walked like someone who didn’t quite touch the ground. And Yaakov, our grandfather, gave him a ketonet pasim—a special coat made of many-colored threads. It wasn’t just a gift. It was love stitched into cloth, and everyone knew it.
One afternoon, after we had returned from grazing the flocks, Yosef gathered us near the fire and said, “I had a dream. We were binding sheaves in the field—and suddenly, my sheaf stood upright, and all of yours gathered around and bowed down to mine.”
There was silence.
Then Shimon, one of my older cousins, scoffed. “So you think you’ll rule over us now?”
The laughter was forced—and sharp. I saw something dangerous twist in Levi’s eyes. But Yosef didn’t stop.
The next day he said, “I had another dream. This time, the sun, the moon, and eleven stars bowed to me.”
“Enough!” Reuven, the oldest, stood up. “You dare include our father and mother in this nonsense?”
I wanted to speak—but I was young. What could I say? That the dreams felt true? That maybe Yosef wasn’t bragging—just trying to understand? I stayed silent, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
Sometime after, Yaakov sent Yosef to check on his brothers tending sheep near Dotan. I wasn’t with them then, but I later heard what happened: the whispering, the plotting, the open cistern. Some say they wanted to kill him, but Reuven tried to stop them, and Yehudah—another of the brothers—convinced them to sell Yosef to passing traders heading to Egypt.
They dipped his beautiful coat in goat’s blood, brought it to Yaakov, and said Yosef had been torn by a wild beast. I watched our grandfather collapse, his cries cutting through the camp like knives through cloth.
We all mourned, but some of us mourned more than Yosef. We mourned our silence.
Over the years, the pain never left Yaakov’s eyes. And though we kept our secret well, some of us prayed under our breath that Yosef lived—that somewhere, the dreams still stirred.
Now, as I sit by the fire as an old man, I tell this story to my grandchildren because I want them to know: envy turns love into ash. But even through betrayal, Hashem—our God—can bring redemption. Yosef’s dreams weren’t just visions—they were calls to become who he was meant to be.
Love, when true, waits... even in Egypt.
I was no one special—just a shepherd boy from Chevron, one of the younger cousins in a large family. But I remember the day everything changed, when Yosef shared his strange dreams and the air around my older cousins turned sharp like thorns.
Yosef was my uncle Yaakov’s eleventh son—Yaakov, the same man who wrestled with a malach, a heavenly angel, and became Yisrael. Yosef had always been different. Handsome, yes. But it was more than that. He walked like someone who didn’t quite touch the ground. And Yaakov, our grandfather, gave him a ketonet pasim—a special coat made of many-colored threads. It wasn’t just a gift. It was love stitched into cloth, and everyone knew it.
One afternoon, after we had returned from grazing the flocks, Yosef gathered us near the fire and said, “I had a dream. We were binding sheaves in the field—and suddenly, my sheaf stood upright, and all of yours gathered around and bowed down to mine.”
There was silence.
Then Shimon, one of my older cousins, scoffed. “So you think you’ll rule over us now?”
The laughter was forced—and sharp. I saw something dangerous twist in Levi’s eyes. But Yosef didn’t stop.
The next day he said, “I had another dream. This time, the sun, the moon, and eleven stars bowed to me.”
“Enough!” Reuven, the oldest, stood up. “You dare include our father and mother in this nonsense?”
I wanted to speak—but I was young. What could I say? That the dreams felt true? That maybe Yosef wasn’t bragging—just trying to understand? I stayed silent, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
Sometime after, Yaakov sent Yosef to check on his brothers tending sheep near Dotan. I wasn’t with them then, but I later heard what happened: the whispering, the plotting, the open cistern. Some say they wanted to kill him, but Reuven tried to stop them, and Yehudah—another of the brothers—convinced them to sell Yosef to passing traders heading to Egypt.
They dipped his beautiful coat in goat’s blood, brought it to Yaakov, and said Yosef had been torn by a wild beast. I watched our grandfather collapse, his cries cutting through the camp like knives through cloth.
We all mourned, but some of us mourned more than Yosef. We mourned our silence.
Over the years, the pain never left Yaakov’s eyes. And though we kept our secret well, some of us prayed under our breath that Yosef lived—that somewhere, the dreams still stirred.
Now, as I sit by the fire as an old man, I tell this story to my grandchildren because I want them to know: envy turns love into ash. But even through betrayal, Hashem—our God—can bring redemption. Yosef’s dreams weren’t just visions—they were calls to become who he was meant to be.
Love, when true, waits... even in Egypt.
