From the day Joseph arrived, people whispered about him—the Hebrew boy with strange dreams. But the morning everything changed, I was scrubbing the floor of Pharaoh’s prison, just outside the dungeon cell where Joseph slept. The guards mocked him. “Dreamer boy,” they said. “See any stars in here?” I didn’t laugh. There was something in Joseph’s eyes. Something unbroken.
My name’s Daniel. I was sold into slavery after my village was raided—my parents lost, my brothers scattered. I scrubbed floors for men who forgot my name the minute I spoke it. But Joseph… he asked. Not just my name, but how I was doing. As if it mattered.
One night, the prison went quiet. No shouts. No orders. Just two new prisoners, both former officials of Pharaoh: a cupbearer and a baker. Egyptians with fancy clothes and frightened eyes. Joseph looked after them. A Hebrew caring for nobles—that’s how upside-down the world had become.
Days later, I saw Joseph kneel beside their bunks, listening, like he wasn’t just a prisoner, but a priest. They'd both had strange dreams, nightmares that haunted them. That morning, Joseph said something that made me stop scrubbing.
“Dreams belong to G-d,” he said quietly. “Tell me, and maybe He’ll show us what they mean.”
I don’t know what kind of courage it takes to speak of G-d in a place like that—in a land that worshiped statues, in chains, surrounded by men who thought your G-d had forgotten you. But Joseph believed. More than that—he trusted.
Three days later, everything Joseph said came true. The baker was executed. The cupbearer restored to Pharaoh's table. Joseph asked for just one thing—“Remember me.” But the cupbearer didn’t. We waited. Days turned into months.
One morning, I found Joseph sitting by himself, staring at a crack of sunlight stretching across the floor. He didn’t speak much anymore. The hope in his voice had dimmed. I knew that feeling. That tired ache of being forgotten.
But G-d hadn’t forgotten him.
It was nearly two years later when the gates slammed open and soldiers stormed in. “Joseph,” one barked. “Pharaoh summons you.” Before he stood, Joseph turned and looked me in the eyes.
“Your pain is seen,” he whispered. “Just wait.”
I never forgot those words.
That night, the guards wouldn’t stop talking: Pharaoh had had terrifying dreams—cows swallowing each other, grain eating grain—and no one could explain them. But the cupbearer, finally remembering, had spoken of Joseph.
Joseph told Pharaoh the dreams were warnings from G-d: seven years of plenty, followed by seven years of famine. But Joseph didn’t stop there. He offered a plan to save the nation. Food storage, grain cities, wise leadership.
Pharaoh looked at Joseph—still dressed in rags—and did the impossible. He gave him command over all of Egypt. A foreign servant... second only to Pharaoh himself.
I wasn’t there to see the crown placed on his head, but I heard the cheers from the kitchen steps. It wasn’t just power he was given—it was trust. Leadership. Purpose.
Years passed. Egypt flourished. And one day, Joseph returned to that same prison—not as a prisoner, but as its rescuer. He found me in the outer courtyard.
He didn’t recognize me at first. But when he looked closer, he smiled and pulled me into an embrace.
“You remembered,” I whispered.
And Joseph said, “Because G-d remembered me.”
That day, I stopped scrubbing floors and began managing food stores under Joseph’s command. Famine did come—but Egypt fed the nations. Families were reunited. Even Joseph’s brothers came, too ashamed to lift their heads. Joseph forgave them all.
I watched it unfold—not from the sidelines, but from within. Not just rescue—but redemption.
The miracle wasn’t just that Joseph interpreted dreams.
It was that G-d turned a dungeon into a doorway.
I used to believe I was invisible. But now I know—when G-d calls someone, He sees everyone around them, too.
He saw me.
From the day Joseph arrived, people whispered about him—the Hebrew boy with strange dreams. But the morning everything changed, I was scrubbing the floor of Pharaoh’s prison, just outside the dungeon cell where Joseph slept. The guards mocked him. “Dreamer boy,” they said. “See any stars in here?” I didn’t laugh. There was something in Joseph’s eyes. Something unbroken.
My name’s Daniel. I was sold into slavery after my village was raided—my parents lost, my brothers scattered. I scrubbed floors for men who forgot my name the minute I spoke it. But Joseph… he asked. Not just my name, but how I was doing. As if it mattered.
One night, the prison went quiet. No shouts. No orders. Just two new prisoners, both former officials of Pharaoh: a cupbearer and a baker. Egyptians with fancy clothes and frightened eyes. Joseph looked after them. A Hebrew caring for nobles—that’s how upside-down the world had become.
Days later, I saw Joseph kneel beside their bunks, listening, like he wasn’t just a prisoner, but a priest. They'd both had strange dreams, nightmares that haunted them. That morning, Joseph said something that made me stop scrubbing.
“Dreams belong to G-d,” he said quietly. “Tell me, and maybe He’ll show us what they mean.”
I don’t know what kind of courage it takes to speak of G-d in a place like that—in a land that worshiped statues, in chains, surrounded by men who thought your G-d had forgotten you. But Joseph believed. More than that—he trusted.
Three days later, everything Joseph said came true. The baker was executed. The cupbearer restored to Pharaoh's table. Joseph asked for just one thing—“Remember me.” But the cupbearer didn’t. We waited. Days turned into months.
One morning, I found Joseph sitting by himself, staring at a crack of sunlight stretching across the floor. He didn’t speak much anymore. The hope in his voice had dimmed. I knew that feeling. That tired ache of being forgotten.
But G-d hadn’t forgotten him.
It was nearly two years later when the gates slammed open and soldiers stormed in. “Joseph,” one barked. “Pharaoh summons you.” Before he stood, Joseph turned and looked me in the eyes.
“Your pain is seen,” he whispered. “Just wait.”
I never forgot those words.
That night, the guards wouldn’t stop talking: Pharaoh had had terrifying dreams—cows swallowing each other, grain eating grain—and no one could explain them. But the cupbearer, finally remembering, had spoken of Joseph.
Joseph told Pharaoh the dreams were warnings from G-d: seven years of plenty, followed by seven years of famine. But Joseph didn’t stop there. He offered a plan to save the nation. Food storage, grain cities, wise leadership.
Pharaoh looked at Joseph—still dressed in rags—and did the impossible. He gave him command over all of Egypt. A foreign servant... second only to Pharaoh himself.
I wasn’t there to see the crown placed on his head, but I heard the cheers from the kitchen steps. It wasn’t just power he was given—it was trust. Leadership. Purpose.
Years passed. Egypt flourished. And one day, Joseph returned to that same prison—not as a prisoner, but as its rescuer. He found me in the outer courtyard.
He didn’t recognize me at first. But when he looked closer, he smiled and pulled me into an embrace.
“You remembered,” I whispered.
And Joseph said, “Because G-d remembered me.”
That day, I stopped scrubbing floors and began managing food stores under Joseph’s command. Famine did come—but Egypt fed the nations. Families were reunited. Even Joseph’s brothers came, too ashamed to lift their heads. Joseph forgave them all.
I watched it unfold—not from the sidelines, but from within. Not just rescue—but redemption.
The miracle wasn’t just that Joseph interpreted dreams.
It was that G-d turned a dungeon into a doorway.
I used to believe I was invisible. But now I know—when G-d calls someone, He sees everyone around them, too.
He saw me.
