Joseph, the name of our grandfather.
We are family. We are kin. When we share our sounds and stories we offer them to you – to find yourself in them – and we invite you into this kinship, togetherness, belonging.
Joseph, a small town in eastern Oregon.
We grew up camping at the lake, staying at our Grandpa Jo’s farmstead playing cards on the porch, riding down his long dusty driveway in the back of a pick up truck, watching thunderstorm shows, flying over fields on tire swings. This is where we’re from. This is our land.
Joseph, a dream interpreter.
The ancient story of Joseph is compelling. He lived by his visions from God even in small beginnings – interpreting the dreams of fellow inmates in an Egyptian prison – he eventually became a high appointed officer to Pharaoh, directing the course of the nation. He believed in things. He hoped. Believing takes more courage than doubting, though doubting looks sexy and feels more powerful. Many of us set our aims low to avoid disappointment, but good narratives happen in the efforts and failings of hope. What are your dreams? What would it look like to believe in them?