Before You Chase a Dream Ask Whose Dream It Is | Joseph's Story and the Birth of Jesus

God's miracle through you needs a guardian, not a hero.

The burden I felt bound to bear has become the breath I didn’t deserve to breathe.

Blood. Cries. Confusion. A Baby. My Future Wife.

There was a gut-wrenching realization that I didn’t have what they needed on that cool night in a shepherd’s cave in Bethlehem. It ripped through my self-sufficiency like a lightning bolt through the tallest tree.

I can’t outlive the memory of standing by Mary, waiting for the baby to emerge into the darkness of that dire situation. A week’s journey from home and an unreachable distance from the safety of a mother’s arms and a father’s wisdom. My family’s presence had always comforted me with a sense of security. But not that night.

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Every contraction and outcry from my beloved rang wildly in my ears, causing tension in me that tore my heart to pieces. All I knew to do was pray to the Father and wait. There I stood, with nothing to offer, not at the hands of a midwife, or even the comfort of an enclosed, heated bedroom, a simplicity any woman deserved.

It was not the wait where you sit back and relax, knowing you have time to kill before action is required, but the kind of wait that seemed never to end. The kind that makes a man feel as helpless as a worm and as useless as yesterday’s trash.

As a boy, I always dreamed of being a righteous husband to an honorable woman. I hoped to become a hero to my future wife and a pillar of strength to my children. A man capable of providing for every challenge my family would face. And that night, I was neither of those. As a matter of fact, I felt I had led them into danger without the resources to give this innocent little baby a safe entry into this dangerous world.

I remember the day I came back from the carpenter’s shop just a few months earlier, when Mary spoke my name tenderly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the way she always did, as she trusted me with whatever she had to tell me. I still see how the light fell across her face that afternoon. Ordinary light. Ordinary air. Nothing warned me that my faith in her and in the God of my fathers was about to fracture.

“Joseph, I am pregnant by the Spirit of God. An angel appeared to me in the day.”

The words didn’t land all at once. They staggered. One thought at a time, each heavier than the last.

• Pregnant?

• Before the consummation?

• Before the night that would have made it make sense?

My chest tightened.

My mind raced ahead. I was trying to find a version of the story that didn’t carry the sting of rejection. A version that could be translated as something other than betrayal. But as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t make it work as anything other than a story with a tragic ending in which I was the victim, and she was the betrayer.

I wanted to believe her.

God help me, I did!

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Mary wasn’t careless. She wasn’t deceptive. She was steady. Respectful. Strong in a quiet way that didn’t need blind faith.

But belief isn’t just about radical trust. It comes with a cost. And the cost of believing her, as innocent as she had been, would mean living a life I’d never dreamed and sacrificing the honor I’d clung to since I was a little boy. An honor my father praised, one that made my mother glow with pride.

And then there was the cost of not believing. That was even greater. Losing the only woman I wanted to be with. Presenting myself to my people as a humiliated failure. As a man gullible enough to be deceived by an unfaithful and adulterous woman.

But deep in my heart, this did not describe Mary. Not my Mary. Not the one I had gone all in with because of her innocence and love for our future, not to mention for our God. She knew the importance of protecting the bloodline, for it might bring the coming Messiah. It was the most crucial purpose of every woman from our people. Hebrews were responsible for keeping the bloodline secure! That was the most tremendous responsibility of our existence.

The two worlds (believing and leaving) collided like waves crashing violently against the rocks along the shoreline.

Which pathway would prevail?

Which would define me for the remainder of my days? Belief or unbelief? Trust or logic? My emotions began to spiral.

• My reputation.

• My standing in my family.

• My future business.

• The trust of my community.

• The Law, and Mary’s consequences.

If her story were true, trust would no longer be safe. It would be dangerous. It would place me outside the lines I had spent my whole life respecting. It would change not just who I knew myself to be, but what I’d always worked so hard to become.

I said little. Silence felt safer than accusation, at least for a time. I watched her closely, hoping for some crack in the story or something that would let me choose the common-sense path without writhing in guilt to turn her over to consequence.

There was none.

I barely slept after that. When I did, my dreams were restless, crowded with voices I couldn’t quite hear. Logic argued on one side. Mercy whispered on the other. I weighed my options like stones in my hands.

Her public disgrace would protect my name. Quiet separation would protect hers. Either way, the future I had imagined was already past.

I decided to leave her quietly, to protect the woman I had loved from the public rejection and shame she would face if I chose the alternative.

It felt like the most righteous compromise.

• No spectacle.

• No stones.

• Just distance.

• Pain contained.

• Damage controlled.

I told myself that God would understand.

That night, as I prepared for a sleepless stretch full of torment in my soul, I lost control of my wakefulness, and my eyes drifted into sleep. And God answered. Even in my dream, I felt ashamed that I had not come to Him earlier, that I had turned my back on Wisdom itself in exchange for my attempt to stay in control of this tragedy just weeks before our consummation.

He came to me in an angelic vision. I knew it was the voice of the One True God whom our forefathers had served for centuries. He came not with rebuke, not with accusation, but with clarity that led to unexplainable freedom. Freedom to trust, but not just trust this woman I’d staked my life on.

A trust in a voice much more authoritative and true.

The voice of Truth itself.

A messenger stood before me in the dream. He was not asking for my opinion or inviting discussion. He was making a proclamation that the child was from the Holy Spirit. He told me not to fear. He told me to take Mary as my wife. I can’t quite explain the feeling of overwhelming fear and hilarious joy mingling together. I didn’t want the dream to end.

But it did.

I woke up trembling.

Not because I was afraid, but because I finally understood. This wasn’t about our righteousness. It wasn’t about our perfect betrothal. It was about my obedience. God was not asking me to explain the miracle. He was asking me to protect it, to shelter it, to steward this once-in-eternity gift.

The Tides Turned, and My Heart Melted.

When I told Mary I was staying, relief flooded her face so quickly it nearly undid me. I saw the weight lift from her shoulders. I saw faith exhale. And in that moment, I realized something profound.

God had trusted us.

• Two ordinary people.

• No pedigree.

• No ability to see into the unseen realm.

Just availability.

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The months that followed were not easy. People noticed. Whispers followed us like shadows. Some avoided my eyes. Others smirked. I learned quickly that obedience doesn’t silence suspicion. It simply teaches you to live without applause and to rest in the tension of questionable reputation and unmet expectations.

Mary carried the child with a quiet strength that both inspired and unsettled me. She didn’t even try to justify her circumstances, as if she didn’t care what others thought. She spoke little about the angel, but often about the Scriptures.

• Promises.

• Songs.

• Hope.

Sometimes I would catch her resting her hands over her belly, smiling at something unseen. I wondered what she knew that I didn’t.

Did she sense this baby’s destiny? Why didn’t I have that kind of resolve?

I often wrestled with guilt over not having the peace she carried or the faith to fully embrace this assignment from the God of our fathers.

The decree from Caesar came at the worst possible time. A week-long journey. Crowded roads. Mary heavy with child. Every instinct in me wanted to resist it.

Protect her.

Delay.

Find another way.

But God’s assignments don’t pause for comfort.

We traveled to Bethlehem slowly. Each mile tested my patience, my endurance, my faith. I watched Mary carefully, her breathing, her posture, the tightening around her eyes. I prayed more in those days than I ever had, though my prayers were less eloquent and seasoned with desperation.

Bethlehem was chaos.

Full houses. Frustrated faces. Doors closed before I could even finish asking. I felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, like I had failed to provide the one thing a husband should, AGAIN.

When someone finally pointed us to the cave, I felt a strange mixture of shame and resolve. If this were the best I could offer, then I would make it enough. I would trust in the provision of the One True God, even if it didn’t make sense to me. It was all I had to cling to.

The birth came fast.

Too fast for preparation.

Too fast for help.

Mary’s pain was immediate and consuming. I had never felt so useless. No training. No wisdom. I should have been able to take the place of my earthly father in a time of intense testing. I had watched his strength for years. But all I had to offer was my presence. Just hands to hold. Just prayers whispered between cries.

The cave echoed with her labor. Animal sounds faded into the background. Time distorted. Everything narrowed to breath and effort and the relentless push toward some kind of arrival.

It was as if we were in a season of Advent, the expectation of the arrival of someone notable, someone whose presence would radically change things. But how could this be with a little newborn baby, with no history or accomplishment or even perceived notoriety?

Not among the sound of trumpets or the shouts of followers anxious to lay eyes on the king, but among the sounds and smells of animals and rotted straw and the absence of people holding their breath.

I wanted to fix it.

Control it.

Take the pain for her. But this was holy ground I could not enter. My role was not to save her or the baby, but to observe a miracle that would usher in a Savior, even though I had no understanding of what I was guarding for years to come.

And then it happened.

Chaos was transformed into order in a split second.

Time split in two, creating a chasm between before and after with a simple baby’s cry.

A cry that was small, sharp, but full of life. Not just common life, but Life that carried Light, shattering the blackest darkness. With the cry of this baby, lies were crushed, armies of God’s enemy trembled, and death surrendered its hold on humanity.

But I didn’t know it yet, and that was the hardest part.

I wrapped the baby with shaking hands. His weight surprised me. It was not heavy, but real. Undeniably real. I placed him in Mary’s arms and watched her face soften into something I had never seen before.

Awe without fear. Joy without condition. No questions, only unquestionable peace.

I remembered the angel’s words.

Jesus. The Lord saves.

I said the name aloud, my voice catching on the last syllable. In that moment, I became something new. Not just a husband. Not just a carpenter.

A guardian of eternal redemption.

The cave did not change. The world outside did not pause. But everything inside me shifted. Faith that could not be measured conquered my doubt. Obedience that could not be justified to anyone else.

As I watched my son sleep, God’s promise breathing softly in straw and shadow, I understood that righteousness had never been about staying clean, but had always been about staying close. Close to the God of our fathers.

Trusting His timetable.

Submitting to His plan.

Embracing His affirmation over building my own kingdom of success and influence.

I spent the bulk of my years before that fateful night envisioning success and climbing a ladder of reputation and status. As clean and pure as it may have seemed to me, it was baptized in pride. I could have left behind a family legacy of successful carpentry and an impressive estate.

I could have written a story of success and status.

But what I lacked the ability to do was exactly what God had assigned and entrusted me to carry. And that night, in a cave that smelled of animals and earth, the Father trusted me, just to keep watch.

I was gifted with the task of simply being present when the King of all Creation came, ushering in not a kingdom of success and reputation, but a Kingdom of Love. A Kingdom of Hope. A Kingdom that will never end, where all is made right, and men and women for all eternity will rest in the Restoration of All Things.

That fateful night, as a young man with no story to tell, the burden I felt bound to bear became the breath I didn’t deserve to breathe.

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.” - Luke 2:14

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