Boy, do I identify with that!! Many tend to think that when Joseph was taken to Egypt as a slave, he moved through his trials and tribulations with a smile -- or, at the very least, quiet patience. The above verse seems to indicate he responded in much the same manner as Job -- except Job had age and experience on his side. It doesn't appear Joseph wailed and screamed his "poor mes" all over the prison...but became depressed and reflective. He probably felt abandoned and experienced a great void in his life...all the while knowing he HAD heard from God and that the promises WOULD come to pass--MUST come to pass.
It's one thing for iron to enter into our soul and another for our soul to enter into the iron. Iron entering our soul indicates external circumstances strangling, or trying to strangle, our "self." We still can maintain a sense of fight against the forces at our door. However, when our soul enters into the iron there is a definite sense of defeat; the inability to fight back. In the vernacular, it's a time to "roll over and play dead."
In most of my life there was always a fight; iron trying to enter into my soul. I was "tough", though; so the iron cut and scraped away the skin and even drew blood -- but the "fight" always was there to make up for the pain and despair. I may not have liked the circumstances that bit and tore, but I was not destroyed.
Then, in September, 1984, my soul entered into the iron. I still waited for the promise to be fulfilled. I still had a dim light on the inside of my heart that told me it would come to pass. Though there was such a large void in my soul, I had little will, little strength, to fight back. I knew the promise would come to pass -- but this time it would come to pass in God's time and without my help, my fighting. The pain wasn't even as intense as it sometimes was when the iron tried to enter my soul -- I was, in fact, largely numb, uncaring of the pain when it existed. But, beyond my normal life-system, my days were spent, hour by hour, at work and at home, in tears. A constant flood:Typing at my desk with tears falling on the papers; leaning on a sill in the Ladies Room, tears spraying onto the glass; hiding in an old stairway by the office, tears hitting the floor; tears falling into dishwater, sinking below the surface, and immediately becoming unrecognizable. The only time I avoided crying was when I was in front of my kids who were walking through this hard stretch with me. I wasn't able to never do it, though, and my son, 11 years old, occasionally saw it and with a compassionate heart, Steve sometimes snuggled up with me on the couch and held me and we cried quietly together, him for me, me for everything.
I didn't give up--so the fight against the iron in the past held me in good stead. I'd never given up before; I wouldn't give up then. I would mother and work and "church" and hang out with dear, caring friends, and do all the normal things as any walking, waking person did...and someday I would want to live again, simply because I WANTED to -- not because I HAD to. Someday my soul would exit the iron -- when God healed me sufficiently, or the promise came to pass. But until then...
I "lived and moved and had my being"
IN THE IRON.
IN THE IRON.
The crying stopped, suddenly, in late April, 1985. A month later, the iron shattered into tiny, dust-sized bits and blew out of me when God dropped Dave -- a loving, caring, giving man -- into my life. The pain no longer had control, healing poured through my body, soul, and spirit.
Joy became the winner then.