IT WAS EVENING WHEN THE BROTHERS arrived in Canaan. Zebulun leaped off his donkey and ran to Jacob’s tent. “Father, Father!” he shouted. “Come outside. We have food for everyone, and wonderful news.”
Jacob got up and walked out with him. The other ten sons were crowded around the tent’s entrance.
“Joseph is still alive!” Simeon shouted, and there was a chorus of excited yeses.
“He’s alive! We have seen him!” said Asher.
“Not only that,” Judah said, taking Jacob’s hand and gently stroking it, “but he is ruler over all Egypt.”
“It’s true, Father,” Benjamin said.
Jacob stared at them as if they were madmen. What were they saying? It was impossible. How could the dead come back to life? Was this some kind of cruel joke? He remembered the other news, so many years before: the blood-soaked garment, the vision (it had never left him) of Joseph torn apart by a wild beast, that beautiful young body torn apart and devoured. How could that not be? Had it all been a dream? Was this a dream now, the story his sons were telling? Life becomes death; death doesn’t become life. Or does it? When the seed is buried in the ground, it turns into a green stalk. Ah, but the metaphor is false. The seed hadn’t been dead. It had just been dormant: life in a slower form.
Still, they said that Joseph was alive, that he was a great lord in Egypt, the great lord. Could it be true? They had recognized him; they had spoken to him. And all this magnificence—the ornamented robes, each as splendid as the coat he had once given to Joseph, the bags full of silver, the donkeys laden with grain—it had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? He could see it and touch it. It, at least, was not a dream.
Trust them, the inner voice said. His heart eased. It might be true. It was too much to hope for, but it might be true.
My son Joseph may still be alive, he thought in dazed wonderment. I will go see him before I die.