Imagine a pit in the ground. Not a fancy excavation site with safety rails and bright yellow cones. Just a hole. Deep enough to crush you. Dark enough that the sky disappears into a smudge of dirt above. In the ancient Near East, these pits were often dry cisterns—stone-lined holes dug for water storage. When they ran empty, they became graveyards for the forgotten. Or places to throw things you didn’t want to see.
Joseph was thrown in one of these. By his brothers. While his father watched, or at least failed to stop it.
Most of us read Genesis 37 through 50 as a success story. A rags-to-riches narrative where the downtrodden slave ends up second-in-command of Egypt. And sure, that’s what happens. But if you only see the promotion, you miss the point entirely. You miss the why.
We’re in late autumn now. The leaves are hitting the pavement, crunchy and brittle underfoot. It’s that time of year when we look back. We audit the year. What happened? Who hurt us? Where did things fall apart? And usually, we find a few pits. A job that ended badly. A relationship that died quietly. A promise broken by someone we trusted.
Joseph’s story isn’t about how he got out of the pit. It’s about what he did with the dirt from it.
The Pit Wasn’t an Accident
There is a popular sermon cliché that goes: "God uses the bad things for good." We say it when someone loses their job. We say it in hospital waiting rooms. It feels comforting, maybe a bit too neat.
But this narrative is messier than that.
For twenty years, Joseph didn’t see a plan. He saw pain. First, the pit (Genesis 37). Then, slavery in Potiphar’s house. Then, a false accusation that landed him in prison (Genesis 39). He sat in that cell for two years. Two full years of silence from God. No angel appeared. No burning bush. Just the clatter of prison wheels and the smell of damp stone.
If you’ve ever waited on God, you know this feeling. It’s not dramatic. It’s static.
Joseph tells the butler and the baker in prison that he will interpret their dreams. He says, "Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell them to me" (). He’s trying to stay faithful. But when the butler forgets him, Joseph doesn’t rage at God. He griesfs. And then he waits.
This is the part that breaks me, honestly. I used to read Joseph as a man who knew better. As if he had a theological roadmap in his back pocket the whole time. But I don’t think that’s true. I think Joseph was confused. I think he wondered if the dream of the sun, moon, and stars bowing to him was just a fever dream he had in the pit.
The breakthrough doesn’t come until Pharaoh has a nightmare that no one can solve. That’s when Joseph is pulled from the dungeon (Genesis 41). And even then, he doesn’t say, "Look, I told you so." He says something far more profound.
He interprets the dreams. He saves Egypt from famine. And when he finally stands across the room from his brothers—his brothers, who are now bowing to him—he weeps. He speaks to them privately, so his father won’t see. And here is the verse that anchors everything:
"It was to send me ahead of you for your preservation. For these two years a famine has continued in the land, and there is yet one more year..." ()
He doesn’t say, "You did it for the best." He says, I was sent.
There is a difference. "For your preservation" acknowledges the suffering without erasing it. It doesn’t pretend the pit was a good place to be. But it reframes the trajectory.
Providence Isn’t Passive
Here’s where we need to get real. Non-denominational faith often wrestles with how much control God has over specific events. Do you believe God micromanages every atom? Or do you believe He works through human choices, even the terrible ones?
Joseph’s account leans heavily into the idea that God works through us. The brothers chose to sell him. Potiphar’s wife chose to seduce him. Pharaoh’s cupbearer chose to forget him. These were human decisions, often selfish and cruel.
But Joseph looks at the wreckage of those choices and sees a thread connecting them to Egypt’s survival. He doesn’t blame God for his brothers’ actions, but he trusts that God was weaving a purpose into the chaos.
This is a hard thing to hold in your hands. It’s like trying to catch water. You have to trust the net even when you can’t see what’s inside it yet.
I’ll be honest: I’ve struggled with this "providence" theology in my own life. When bad things happen, it’s easy to feel like God has abandoned the ship. Or worse, that He caused it. Joseph’s response was neither abandonment nor divine causality of bad actions. It was presence. He was with him in the pit. He was with him in the prison.
That presence is what turned a tragedy into proof of grace. Not because the pit was good, but because God didn’t leave him there forever.
Releasing the Grudge: A Daily Practice
So, how does this land in your ordinary Tuesday? You’re not standing across a room from the person who betrayed you. (Unless you are. In which case, take a breath.)
Gratitude isn’t just saying "thank you" for the big wins. It’s recognizing the small, stubborn threads of connection in your own life.
Think about a moment this year that didn’t make sense. A door that closed. An opportunity that evaporated. Now, imagine looking back on that moment five years from now. Not to change what happened, but to see where it led.
Practically, this looks like a shift in language. Instead of saying, "Why did this happen to me?" try asking, "What is God showing me through this?" It’s a subtle shift. One asks for an explanation; the other asks for perspective.
One practice I’ve found helpful is what I call "pit journaling." When something hurts, I write it down. Not the polished, edited version. The raw, ugly, angry version. I let myself be mad at God for a week. Then, when the anger cools, I re-read it and look for the grain. Is there a lesson? A boundary I needed to learn? A dependency on human validation that broke?
Joseph didn’t forgive his brothers by pretending the knife wasn’t real. He forgave them by acknowledging what they did, and then choosing to see what God was doing with it.
"You intended evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring about the survival of many people." ()
That’s the final verse. The brothers are terrified, thinking Joseph will finally get his revenge once Jacob is gone. He reassures them. And he points to the survival of many. Not just himself. The scope expands.
Your pain has a scope, too. It’s not just about you. It’s about who comes after you. The children you raise with patience because of your pain. The friends you listen to because you know what it’s like to be unheard. Your brokenness, healed by God, becomes a bridge for someone else.
The Autumn of Your Year
It’s getting dark earlier now. The days are short. We’re winding down, packing away the summer clothes, looking toward winter and the holidays. It’s a natural time to look back.
But don’t just look for the highlights reel. Look at the pits, too. The places where you felt crushed.
You don’t have to fix them all today. You don’t have to have the theological answer for every single scar. Joseph didn’t, not until later. Just acknowledge them. Say, "That hurt." And then whisper the truth Joseph learned: God was there.
This week, pick one thing that bothered you recently. Something small. A rude comment from a coworker. A missed connection with your kid. Write it down. And then, for the rest of the week, when that memory pops up—and it will—don’t let it turn into a wall. Let it be a window. Look through it. Ask yourself, "What is this teaching me about God’s character? Or my own?"
You might not find a grand purpose. You might just find peace. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.
The pit is not the end of the story. It’s just where the next chapter starts, in the dark, with God holding your hand even when you can’t feel His.
So take a breath. The year is ending, but your story isn’t. And whatever pit you’re sitting in right now? The door is still open. All you have to do is let Him pull you up.
