— At the Table of Mercy
The grain ran out again.
Jacob opened the sack
and looked into its darkness—
as I sometimes look
into my own heart,
wondering how what once sustained me
has become
so little.
“Go back,” he said.
“Buy us a little food.”
And I think of all the mornings
I have risen
with only enough courage
to ask
for enough.
*
But Benjamin must go.
The father’s hand
tightened around
what remained of his joy.
I know that hand.
It lives in me—
holding the people I love
as though my fear
could shelter them.
Lord,
how quietly
I have confused
holding close
with keeping safe.
Jacob stood at the doorway.
His blessing followed his sons
farther than his eyes.
*
Then Judah spoke:
“I will answer for him.”
Once, he had found a price
for a brother.
Now he placed himself
behind a promise.
I sit beside those words.
There are parts of my past
I cannot call home.
There are words
I cannot gather back
into my mouth.
But someone still stands
within reach.
Perhaps repentance begins
when my hands
stop explaining themselves
and become willing
to help.
*
They carried honey,
balm,
spices,
almonds—
a little sweetness
the wounded land
had not forgotten
how to give.
And twice the silver.
Even hunger
must leave room
for honesty.
Jacob prayed:
May God grant you mercy.
I imagine the prayer
traveling among them,
unseen,
like warmth remaining
in a stone
after the sun has gone.
*
Joseph saw Benjamin.
Beneath the linen and gold,
something young
lifted its face.
His mother’s son.
The shape of a home
he had learned
to live without.
“Bring them inside,” he said.
“Prepare the meal.”
But the brothers
paused at the door.
They remembered the silver.
They expected chains.
How often
I have stood
before an open kindness
and searched
for the hidden price.
*
“Peace to you,”
the steward said.
Then Simeon came out.
Water was brought.
The animals were fed.
Dust loosened
from their feet
and clouded the basin.
I watch that water
in the quiet
of my imagining.
Someone had carried it.
Someone would carry it away.
Lord,
let my prayer
learn the weight
of a pitcher.
*
When Joseph returned,
Judah lifted his eyes.
They faced one another
across the gifts.
One saw a ruler.
One saw a brother.
Between them,
the years stood
like a door
neither had yet opened.
I have sat
across from those I love
with such a door
between us.
I have spoken
of ordinary things
and hoped
they could hear
what I could not say.
*
“Is your father well?”
Joseph asked.
“Is he still alive?”
Then he looked at Benjamin.
“God be gracious to you.”
His voice
could go no farther.
He left the room
and wept.
The man who opened storehouses
could not open his mouth
around this sorrow.
I am grateful
for that closed door.
For a place
where strength
could lay down its garments
and become
a wounded brother
again.
*
Joseph washed his face.
He returned.
“Serve the meal.”
I linger here—
between the water
and the table.
The sorrow
had not left him.
He had only made room
to carry something else.
A bowl.
A question.
The sight of his brothers
eating.
Lord,
when I have wept,
show me
where to return.
*
There were separate tables.
The old boundaries remained.
No confession.
No embrace.
No telling of the pit.
Yet bread passed
through the room.
Benjamin received
the greater portion.
The brothers looked
at one another
in wonder.
And Joseph watched.
I leave his watching
unexplained,
as I leave my hand
upon a stone
until I feel
the warmth
I did not notice
at first.
*
I cannot bless
the selling of a brother.
I cannot call the pit
a necessary road
to this abundance.
A child cried there.
No one answered.
Let that remain
within the story.
But let this remain also:
the child survived,
and when the hungry came,
his hands
could still give bread.
*
My own hands
are aging.
They have held
what they could not keep.
They have failed
to open.
They have opened
too late.
Tonight,
they rest beside a plate.
Someone moves
in the other room.
I have been waiting
for a sign
large enough
to change my life.
The bread
is within reach.
*
This is mercy
in the language of my soul:
not the past made harmless,
not the wound forgotten,
but a little room
within the heart
where another life
may enter.
Joseph washed his face
and returned.
I rise
with the bread
in my hands.
The story
is not finished.
There is someone
at the table.
*
Joseph’s name
is still hidden.
The bowls pass.
The lamplight trembles.
I hear someone
breathing beside me
and no longer know
where the prayer
begins.
My hands are empty.
I leave them
open.
A Prayer for Daily Strength
Lord,
meet me
at the beginning
of this day.
Before I take up
its responsibilities,
before my thoughts
run ahead
to everything
that might go wrong,
help me rest
for a moment
in Your presence.
You know
what I am carrying—
the worry I cannot quiet,
the decision I keep postponing,
the grief that returns
when I least expect it.
I do not need
to hide these things
from You.
Give me strength
for what is mine
to do today,
and wisdom
to recognize
what is not mine
to control.
When I feel overwhelmed,
help me slow down
and take
the next faithful step.
When I am afraid,
keep fear
from making
my decisions for me.
When I am tired,
help me receive rest
without guilt
and ask for help
without shame.
Give me Judah’s courage
to keep my promises
and take responsibility
for my choices.
Give me Jacob’s faith
to entrust the people I love
to Your care
when I cannot protect them
from everything.
Give me Joseph’s tenderness
to remain compassionate
without denying
my own pain.
When old hurts rise,
help me respond
with wisdom
rather than resentment.
Show me when to speak,
when to wait,
and when to step away.
If I make a mistake,
give me humility
to acknowledge it,
courage to make it right,
and grace
to begin again.
Prepare a quiet place
within me
where I can remember
that I am loved
before I accomplish anything.
Feed me there
with enough patience
for the next conversation,
enough courage
for the next decision,
and enough hope
to keep going.
Help me notice
the good I might overlook:
a meal,
a kind word,
a moment of laughter,
someone willing
to listen.
And when this day ends,
help me lay down
what remains unfinished.
Let me rest
without needing
every answer.
For today, Lord,
give me daily bread,
a steady heart,
and strength
for the next step.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
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