The sky glowed orange over the Egyptian fields when I first heard the rumors. Whispers among the palace servants: “The king's guest speaks like a prophet,” one said. “He interprets dreams with the clarity of the stars,” said another. I was just a cupbearer—an invisible presence in the court—but I suddenly knew the name they were speaking.
Yusuf. The boy I had met in the prison cell years ago.
Back then, I was hopeless. Days blended into nights, chains into silence. But Yusuf shone like light in stone. Though wrongly imprisoned, he carried himself with grace, speaking of Allah ﷻ with such certainty it was hard not to believe. He had interpreted our dreams—mine and the baker’s. Mine meant survival. The baker... not so. I had forgotten Yusuf after I was freed—until Pharaoh’s cryptic nightmare shook the palace.
The king had dreamed of seven fat cows devoured by seven lean ones, and ears of grain—green and dry—woven into a mystery no one could unravel. That’s when I remembered. I ran to Pharaoh, guilt hot in my throat, and said, “There is a man... in prison.”
From that moment, Yusuf's rise was like a tide lifted by divine will. He listened to Pharaoh’s dream and, without hesitation, gave meaning: seven years of abundance would be followed by seven years of famine. He spoke it like he saw it unfolding before him. “Let someone wise store food for the hard years,” he said—and Pharaoh, stunned by his calm wisdom, chose him.
Yusuf, the prisoner, became the overseer of Egypt.
I witnessed it all. He never swaggered or boasted. He planned the granaries with precision and kindness, ensuring none went hungry. And then—on a dry, dusty day—his brothers came.
I hadn’t known who they were at first. They looked like travelers from distant lands. But when Yusuf saw them, a stillness swept over him. He knew. He recognized the men who’d thrown him into a well as a child, the ones who sold him into slavery. But instead of fury, what flickered in his eyes was... mercy.
He didn't reveal himself right away. I watched him test their hearts, asking for their youngest brother, keeping one behind. I saw his hands tremble when he finally wept in private, whispering the name of his father—Yaqub (Jacob).
And then came the moment he told them. “I am Yusuf,” he said simply, voice steady.
Silence.
They shrank back in shame, their faces drained. I expected revenge. But Yusuf only said, “No blame upon you today. Allah has forgiven you, and He is the Most Merciful.”
I think my breath caught at that. This man—once a slave, once forsaken—had power over those who wounded him. But he chose forgiveness, because his faith was never in people. It was in Allah ﷻ. From the darkness of a well, to the shadows of a prison, to the throne of Egypt—Yusuf’s journey was never his alone. Every step, every sorrow, was guided.
People talk about miracles as things that part seas. But I saw one in a forgiveness that healed a family and in faith that never wavered.
And for the rest of my years in the court, whenever hardship came…I remembered the boy from the prison, and how Allah never left him.
The sky glowed orange over the Egyptian fields when I first heard the rumors. Whispers among the palace servants: “The king's guest speaks like a prophet,” one said. “He interprets dreams with the clarity of the stars,” said another. I was just a cupbearer—an invisible presence in the court—but I suddenly knew the name they were speaking.
Yusuf. The boy I had met in the prison cell years ago.
Back then, I was hopeless. Days blended into nights, chains into silence. But Yusuf shone like light in stone. Though wrongly imprisoned, he carried himself with grace, speaking of Allah ﷻ with such certainty it was hard not to believe. He had interpreted our dreams—mine and the baker’s. Mine meant survival. The baker... not so. I had forgotten Yusuf after I was freed—until Pharaoh’s cryptic nightmare shook the palace.
The king had dreamed of seven fat cows devoured by seven lean ones, and ears of grain—green and dry—woven into a mystery no one could unravel. That’s when I remembered. I ran to Pharaoh, guilt hot in my throat, and said, “There is a man... in prison.”
From that moment, Yusuf's rise was like a tide lifted by divine will. He listened to Pharaoh’s dream and, without hesitation, gave meaning: seven years of abundance would be followed by seven years of famine. He spoke it like he saw it unfolding before him. “Let someone wise store food for the hard years,” he said—and Pharaoh, stunned by his calm wisdom, chose him.
Yusuf, the prisoner, became the overseer of Egypt.
I witnessed it all. He never swaggered or boasted. He planned the granaries with precision and kindness, ensuring none went hungry. And then—on a dry, dusty day—his brothers came.
I hadn’t known who they were at first. They looked like travelers from distant lands. But when Yusuf saw them, a stillness swept over him. He knew. He recognized the men who’d thrown him into a well as a child, the ones who sold him into slavery. But instead of fury, what flickered in his eyes was... mercy.
He didn't reveal himself right away. I watched him test their hearts, asking for their youngest brother, keeping one behind. I saw his hands tremble when he finally wept in private, whispering the name of his father—Yaqub (Jacob).
And then came the moment he told them. “I am Yusuf,” he said simply, voice steady.
Silence.
They shrank back in shame, their faces drained. I expected revenge. But Yusuf only said, “No blame upon you today. Allah has forgiven you, and He is the Most Merciful.”
I think my breath caught at that. This man—once a slave, once forsaken—had power over those who wounded him. But he chose forgiveness, because his faith was never in people. It was in Allah ﷻ. From the darkness of a well, to the shadows of a prison, to the throne of Egypt—Yusuf’s journey was never his alone. Every step, every sorrow, was guided.
People talk about miracles as things that part seas. But I saw one in a forgiveness that healed a family and in faith that never wavered.
And for the rest of my years in the court, whenever hardship came…I remembered the boy from the prison, and how Allah never left him.
