The Pit

Tough day.

Tough week.

Tough year.

Tough years.

The question pounds against the walls of my chest: When does this season end? When does the tide finally shift? When do I see the first flicker of change?

And then—Joseph comes to mind.

Joseph, shivering in a pit that smelled like earth and betrayal.

Joseph, straining his ears, waiting for the sound of brothers’ footsteps returning, only to hear silence stretch into forever.

The moment they did come back, hope rose in his throat—only to choke him as they pulled him out, not for freedom, but for sale.

How many days did he count in chains, watching his life shrink to walls that mocked his dreams?

How many times did he lose track of time itself, wondering if the sun would ever shine differently on his face?

How many hands would claim ownership of him before he remembered who he belonged to?

Then—a glimmer. Favor in Potiphar’s house. A sense that maybe, just maybe, God hadn’t forgotten. Hope unfurled cautiously, like a flower in frost.

But the moment he chose right—the moment integrity cost him—he was thrown back into darkness.

Prison.

The pit again.

Misunderstood.

Lied on.

Forgotten.

And yet, every pit carved room for promise. Every betrayal stripped away illusion. Every prison taught him to lean into Presence. Joseph didn’t know it then, but the very pit that was meant to bury him became the soil for the palace.

And here I am—wondering how many more pits, how many more chains, how many more unfair blows. But maybe the pit is proof. Maybe the delay is divine. Maybe the pain is midwife to purpose.

God does not waste the pit.

He does not abandon in the prison.

He does not forget the dream He Himself planted.

And though I ache for the shift, for the change, for the day my own prison doors swing open, I choose to believe that the pit is not the end of my story.

If Joseph’s pit became the path to the palace, then maybe my pit is just the beginning of favor I cannot yet imagine.