Dreams Blessed and Cursed

Blessed I

My father and mother always told me I had the gift of seeing the future through dreams since my birth. I don't remember my first dream, or when I first understood how profound a gift from God really is. When I was small, I didn't understand the complex and vast intricacies of my vivid, lucid dreams. When I woke up, I would lay there, eyes still closed, for a few more moments, just to cling on to the last fading vestiges of slumber's vibrant colours. Brilliant reds like the sky at dawn or dusk; vibrant yellows, browns, and oranges like the desert with its forever shifting faces. Greens so deep in hues that they could never be replicated in nature.

I cannot know if this extra vibrancy in colour is in part due to their divine origins, or if normal men knew such striking hues in their own slumber. How could I know, when all dreams I wandered through at night came from God? To explain the divine nature of my dreams to an ordinary man would be like trying to describe birdsong to someone born deaf. How could it be possible? Could even God find it impossible to explain? Perhaps, but I do not pretend to know all His ways and it would be folly to pretend to do so.

For all my childhood, I was blessed by dreams more beautiful than any man or woman's slumbers. There were not yet dreams that struck fear and confusion into my heart, nor anger into my brothers'. But one day, a shadow of doubt would cast long, stretched-out silhouettes, like those cast by the sun low on the horizon, over the once-vibrant world of my sleep.

Cursed I

The shadows of uncertainty burst into the shapes of wolves, snarling mouths baring white, sharp teeth. The wolf—that once had been a ram—snapped at me, growling deep in its throat, eyes flashing. I tore through pristine brown fields of wheat, desperate to lose the predators in the long, stiff stalks. The sun lost itself behind black clouds, dulling the colours to mere ordinariness. I didn't care, tripping and stumbling as I sprinted with wolves snapping at my heels, hot breath on flesh.

I woke yelling from the dream, hearing, before seeing, my brothers as they rushed to see what had happened. They grumbled when they—and I—saw we were all safe with no wolves to be found anywhere in the tent. Only father and mother didn't dismiss my dream—after all, they came from God. It did not mean I understood them—what was the meaning of the wolves? Why did that ram change into a fearsome predator? Even my own father did not understand, and he was closer to God than I.

For the first night since I could remember, I began fearing my dreams, afraid of them turning fearsome without warning. If I could have interpreted my own dreams—which I couldn't, though I could accurately read others'—I might have known what it meant, and who the wolves and ram represented.

For now, I became afraid of the unforeseen, unknown, and unpredictable, scared of my own dreams bestowed by God's own mind.

Blessed II

I had no need to be afraid, for the night of the self-same day, a wondrous dream revealed itself in the vibrant painted blue sky, swirling white clouds, and luscious fields of wheat. I stood still, my new robes more lurid in hue than in the waking world, with my brothers in a circle around me carrying bundles of harvest. As I observed, they all set their bundles down and began bowing before me as the bundle I stood on grew at an exponential rate, far greater than the healthiest wheat's growth. My brothers became no bigger than ants, and above me, a spectacular sight arranged itself in the heavens as stars gathered around the crescent moon, shining as bright as the sun. The arrangement of the heavens echoed the sight of my brothers bowing before me on the ground far below.

I need not be afraid anymore, I soothed myself on waking up, My dreams are wondrous and full of God's magnificence again.

Cursed II

Maybe I should have been afraid, for the dream saw me cast down into the ground by my own brothers. Now, in the chill of the desert night, I only had the company of the silent full moon far above me, hanging wordless, sightless, and deaf in the immutable black sky. I had long ago stopped calling for my brothers, who did not return. I don't know what they were going to tell father—if they fibbed, he would be angry at them for abandoning me. If they told the truth…of course they'd never tell the truth. Why would they? Father's ire would be fair to match that of a thousand wolves.

The sigh of a rope snaking down the hole caught my attention, and a flicker of anger took hold of my senses. My brothers left me shivering and abandoned for dead for literally hours, forcing me to endure the merciless heat of the sun filtering down to where I sat. Then I had to endure the freezing cold of night that bit into my bones, even despite how tightly I wrapped my torn coat around my shoulders.

My coat hanging in two shreds down my back, I gripped the rope with both hands and pulled myself, arm over arm, to the top of the hole, ready to confront my brothers. When I turned to cast my anger on them, I stopped short, befuddled. It wasn't my brothers who had rescued me, who looked at me now with cold, calculating eyes. Their faces leered at me in the dark, their hands clawing and manipulating me as they discussed my "scrawniness". Their nails dug into the flesh of my upper arms and wrists, twisting my arms this way and that. I struggled, forcing myself from their hold, a mix of fear and indignation warring in my shaking body. Despite my bold convictions that my brothers would come to save me, my words shook, exposing my inner terror.

But true to my words, my brothers did come at my shouts, and I threw myself on them, relieved at their perfect timing. Silent to my pleadings, they turned away, refusing to respond or react to my touches or their names. They never met my eyes, turning faces away as if wanting to pretend I didn't exist.

"Thirty silver pieces, as promised," declared a trader over a faint clinking of what sounded like metal.

My blood ran cold, colder than the desert's night, as a trader threw a pouch at my eldest brothers standing next to me. It was a pouch, the kind used for carrying silver.

"No…" I breathed, unable to take my eyes off the pouch.

Not one of my brothers moved or responded to my near-tearful pleas as the slave traders tied my wrists to a rope and dragged me away to a life of slavery.

Sold into slavery—by my own brothers.

No loving brother would ever sell their own blood into slavery.

Now I knew who the wolves in my dream were.

Blessed III

I could give the butler comfort, for I knew the meaning of his dream. I could give just a single spark of hope to light a despondent cell with inhabitants who long ago lost all hope. No sooner did I overhear his dream, I understood in perfection the symbolism of the grape vines and offering succulent wine to Pharaoh. Yet, even when I revealed to the butler that Pharaoh would free him in three days, the old man's face fell into despondency, lamenting if only it were true. I assured him it was all true, every word of it, he would see.

Cursed III

I could only give the baker grim news, for I knew the terrible mortality inherent in his dream. The pecking birds and fallen baskets of bread told of the king's still-burning ire against the baker. The king's displeasure against the man had grown into a final determination of this prisoner's fate: in just three days, he would be decapitated on order of the king himself.

Three days later, just as foretold, a guard dragged the baker away to be executed, his last words echoing in the cell long after his departure.

"It's not a gift, it's a curse!"

They were words I would not forget for a long time.

My dreams and my ability to reveal dreams' meanings weren't a blessing or a curse, I knew. They were a blessing and a curse. A cursed blessing. A blessed curse. How long before I could, if ever, fully embrace my gift for what it was, both good and bad? I both loathed and cherished it.

My hopes of the butler remembering me and telling Pharaoh of my gift were dashed as a day turned into a week, and the weeks into three years. For the next three long years, I was forgotten to everyone, even the butler. He too had forgotten me all together, but at least he was free, unlike me. At least he was alive, unlike that poor baker.

Will I ever be free?

One day, when I believed all hope of release lost, Potiphar opened the cell door, announcing he had been commanded to take me to the palace before Pharaoh. Potiphar explained the king's butler had remembered I possessed the gift of interpreting dreams, as lately the Pharaoh's slumber had been disturbed by unsettling imagery. Imagery that not even the wisest of Pharaoh's magicians and dream interpreters could explain. Their final hope rested in a Canaanite slave locked away, forgotten in a cell for three years.

Blessed IV

As with the unfortunate baker and fortunate butler, I knew at once what Pharaoh's dreams—both identical in meaning—foretold for Egypt. Seven years of abundance and plenty to be followed by seven years of unyielding famine without a single healthy stalk of wheat to be seen. Thanks to father's scholarly teachings, I knew how to assure the king's worries at once with recommendations on properly preparing for the famine. But it was the final assurance of Potiphar's trust in me that finally assured the king that Egypt's fate was in safe hands.

And it was in these seven years of bounty I became Pharaoh's vizier, married Asenath, and became a father to two sons, both healthy and bright. Each day held joy, so long as my new family was there. These years were perfect in contentment and daily delight. Egypt could rest assured in knowing the looming seven years of famine would be that much easier for the stored grain in grain stores would see us all through to its end.

When the famines began their scourge all through the land of Egypt, each day was still a little easier for the presence of Asenath and our two sons, and our years of preparations in advance during the time of bounty.

What I did not see, even in the most elaborate of dreams, that one day a half-forgotten dream from over ten years ago would at last reveal its meaning.

Blessed II.I

Like the sheaths of wheat in that half-forgotten dream, my eleven—no, twelve—brothers bowed to the floor in my presence. I had risen, as I had on my sheath of wheat—far above them in status and power. With Pharaoh's backing, I could order their execution or imprisonment. I could command them banished from Egypt, forbidden to receive a portion of surplus wheat. With the final approval of Pharaoh, I could use my power to do whatever I wished with the brothers who had sold me into slavery.

But I didn't—not until I knew that they truly regretted their actions. Looking at Benjamin, I knew at once that he had not known a day of work in his life, except for looking at scrolls all day while his kin were covered in sweat. Would they allow him to be thrown into slavery, since he was the favourite one? Father had clearly used Benjamin to try and…replace me in a way. According to Benjamin, his mother—our mother—had died giving birth to him, and it was she who would reason with father when he went too far with his insistence that I be protected or within his sight at all times. Surely his brothers would revile him for being the favourite, as they had done to me. So when no one was looking, I slipped my golden cup into his sack of grain, intending on testing just how much his brothers had changed—if they had changed at all.

The following morning, an outcry arose from the entrance chamber as the brothers were escorted inside by guards, all protesting in a multitude of voices. On hearing their raised words, I revealed myself, speaking with cold tones, demanding to know who stole my precious golden cup. Their surprised, protesting reactions seemed sincere enough, but I wasn't convinced—not yet. Glaring into their eyes as I tore their bags open with my dagger, I made my way deliberately from brother to brother, until I reached Benjamin.

"Benjamin," I growled, "the favourite one."

A forward stab and a jerk downwards with my knife ripped the thin fabric, grain spilling out until my golden cup exposed itself and rolled out onto the polished floor. Gasps rose from several of the brothers, including Benjamin. He staggered back a step, eyes wide with horror and confusion.

"I—I didn't take it!"

I whirled to address a guard. "Take him."

On command, the guards rushed to Benjamin and grabbed him by the upper arms, pulling him back behind crossed spears.

"No!"

Several brothers leaped forward, but the guards levelled the spears, threats in their eyes.

"Take me instead!"

"No, take me!"

"Take me!"

Their desperate pleas to go in Benjamin's place seemed sincere, but I wanted to make absolutely certain.

"Why?" I asked, grabbing the front of Benjamin's tunic, "Why should you care if I take him, beat him, make him a slave?"

As you did to me. Wouldn't you do it again?

"Because I will not make my father suffer…again." Simeon said, eyes full of regret.

Now the crowd of brothers mellowed, their expressions turning sombre, even regretful. The sudden change in the brothers' mood was enough to make me release Benjamin.

"Again?"

With halting words, they explained how they had a younger brother who they'd sold into slavery, and how their father never got over the loss of his youngest son. But what truly convinced me of their sincerity was the fathomless regret inherent in Simeon's last words.

"For twenty years, we have lived with that guilt…if anyone is to be punished, it should be us."

I knew then I forgave them for all the guilt and sorrow they had endured for twenty years, believing me to be in slavery, if not dead. And in that moment, I remembered the dream with the bowing sheaths of wheat and the ring of stars around a bright, shining crescent moon.

My dreams are truly a blessing from God, for they have brought me my brothers once again.