I was only a servant then—barely more than a boy, really—assigned to carry baskets of food to the tent of our father Yaakov. It was an ordinary morning, the kind that passes like a sigh. But inside that tent, something sacred stirred.
Yaakov—Jacob, our father—was nearing the end of his days. Each of his twelve sons had been summoned. I wasn’t allowed inside, but I lingered just outside the tent flap, pretending to adjust the basket of dates and bread I'd brought.
Then I heard him speak.
The tent was quiet, but his words carried strength, as if they came not from a weak man but from a soul burning with the fire of prophecy. He was blessing each son—not just with kind words, but with visions of what they and their children would become.
I heard him begin with Reuben, his firstborn. “Unstable as water,” he said. My chest tightened. A father’s blessing should be soft like wool, but these words were sharp. Was it disappointment? Was it warning? I couldn’t tell.
Then came Simeon and Levi—my stomach knotted. “Let not my soul enter their council.” I froze. Was this still a blessing?
But when he reached Judah, the tone changed. “The scepter shall not depart from Judah…” The air shifted. Yaakov spoke of leadership, of kings and strength. I closed my eyes, picturing a day when Judah’s descendants might rule with wisdom and might.
On and on he went—Zebulun near the sea, Issachar like a strong donkey, Dan judging his people. Each son received more than words. They were given identity. Purpose. Destiny.
I didn’t know what stirred deeper—my ears or my heart.
When he reached Joseph, his voice trembled with pride and pain. “A fruitful bough by a spring… archers bitterly attacked him.” I knew the story. We all did. Joseph, sold to Egypt, elevated by God. A boy torn down and raised up again. The words poured with power: “By the Mighty One of Jacob… may He help you.”
And then Benjamin—my master’s youngest—“a ravenous wolf.” I shuddered. The boy who once clung to his father's leg would become a fierce warrior?
When the last blessing was spoken, silence fell like a fog. No one moved.
I wasn’t one of the twelve tribes. I was no son. Just a servant. But outside that tent, I felt something awaken in me. I realized that God had a path for each of them, detailed in Yaakov's words. And maybe, just maybe, for me too.
That night, I lay beneath the stars, those same stars God showed Abraham so long ago. I thought of each tribe, each destiny. I thought of my own namelessness.
And yet, I had heard the voice of God echo through a father’s final breath.
Perhaps, I thought, blessing wasn’t only for those inside the tent.
Perhaps the blessing was also in hearing, in believing, and in choosing to walk toward the destiny God has for me—even without a tribe to carry my name.
I was only a servant then—barely more than a boy, really—assigned to carry baskets of food to the tent of our father Yaakov. It was an ordinary morning, the kind that passes like a sigh. But inside that tent, something sacred stirred.
Yaakov—Jacob, our father—was nearing the end of his days. Each of his twelve sons had been summoned. I wasn’t allowed inside, but I lingered just outside the tent flap, pretending to adjust the basket of dates and bread I'd brought.
Then I heard him speak.
The tent was quiet, but his words carried strength, as if they came not from a weak man but from a soul burning with the fire of prophecy. He was blessing each son—not just with kind words, but with visions of what they and their children would become.
I heard him begin with Reuben, his firstborn. “Unstable as water,” he said. My chest tightened. A father’s blessing should be soft like wool, but these words were sharp. Was it disappointment? Was it warning? I couldn’t tell.
Then came Simeon and Levi—my stomach knotted. “Let not my soul enter their council.” I froze. Was this still a blessing?
But when he reached Judah, the tone changed. “The scepter shall not depart from Judah…” The air shifted. Yaakov spoke of leadership, of kings and strength. I closed my eyes, picturing a day when Judah’s descendants might rule with wisdom and might.
On and on he went—Zebulun near the sea, Issachar like a strong donkey, Dan judging his people. Each son received more than words. They were given identity. Purpose. Destiny.
I didn’t know what stirred deeper—my ears or my heart.
When he reached Joseph, his voice trembled with pride and pain. “A fruitful bough by a spring… archers bitterly attacked him.” I knew the story. We all did. Joseph, sold to Egypt, elevated by God. A boy torn down and raised up again. The words poured with power: “By the Mighty One of Jacob… may He help you.”
And then Benjamin—my master’s youngest—“a ravenous wolf.” I shuddered. The boy who once clung to his father's leg would become a fierce warrior?
When the last blessing was spoken, silence fell like a fog. No one moved.
I wasn’t one of the twelve tribes. I was no son. Just a servant. But outside that tent, I felt something awaken in me. I realized that God had a path for each of them, detailed in Yaakov's words. And maybe, just maybe, for me too.
That night, I lay beneath the stars, those same stars God showed Abraham so long ago. I thought of each tribe, each destiny. I thought of my own namelessness.
And yet, I had heard the voice of God echo through a father’s final breath.
Perhaps, I thought, blessing wasn’t only for those inside the tent.
Perhaps the blessing was also in hearing, in believing, and in choosing to walk toward the destiny God has for me—even without a tribe to carry my name.
