Genesis 32:22–31
I’ve been waiting by this river.
Watching him send everything across—
the flocks, the wives, the children,
all the wealth he bargained for.
Everything he owns goes ahead
to meet the brother he betrayed.
He thinks he’s being clever,
sending gifts in waves
to soften Esau’s anger.
He thinks he’s buying safety with his sheep.
But I see what he doesn’t see yet—
he’s been stripping himself down,
sending away every shield, every distraction,
until finally, there’s nothing left
between him and what he fears most.
He thinks he knows what’s coming.
Twenty years he’s rehearsed it—
what he’ll say to Esau,
how he’ll bow, how he’ll beg,
where he’ll run if forgiveness fails.
But I’m not Esau.
I’m not the brother he wronged.
I’m not the enemy he’s prepared to face.
I’m the reckoning he’s been running from
since he clutched his brother’s heel,
since he stole the blessing meant for another,
since he fled with his father’s curse
and God’s promise burning equally in his chest.
Tonight there are no gifts to send ahead,
no clever words, no ladder-dreams.
Tonight there is only the dark,
the river’s roar,
and what he must become.
Now I step out to meet him.
He fights like a man who thinks he can win.
Good. Let him think it.
Let him use every trick he knows,
every strength he’s hoarded,
every stubborn refusal to yield
that’s kept him alive this long.
We roll in the mud like beasts.
We grip and tear and gasp for breath.
Hours pass. Neither of us speaks.
He doesn’t ask who I am.
Perhaps he’s afraid to know.
I could end this whenever I choose.
But the blessing only comes through breaking,
and he’s not broken yet.
Not quite.
He still believes he’s fighting for his life.
He doesn’t know yet
that his life is what I’m giving him.
Dawn is coming.
I can feel it before I see it—
the first thinning of the dark,
the moment when I must let him go
or be seen, truly seen,
and that is more than he could bear.
Not yet.
So I do what I came to do.
What I’ve been waiting all night to do.
I thrust down hard.
I hear something tear.
He cries out—not in anger, but in shock,
the sound of a man discovering
he is not who he thought he was.
Now he clings.
Now, finally, he holds on
not to win, but because he cannot let go.
This is what I’ve been waiting for—
not his strength, but his desperate need,
not his victory, but his surrender.
“Let me go,” I tell him.
“The day is breaking.”
But he will not let go.
He wraps his ruined body around mine
and gasps into my neck:
“I will not let you go unless you bless me.”
Finally.
Finally, he asks for what he needs
instead of taking what he wants.
“Who are you?” I ask,
though I’ve known since before he was born.
“Jacob,” he whispers.
“No longer,” I tell him.
“Now you are Israel.
You have wrestled with God and with men,
and you have prevailed.”
I do not tell him the truth—
that he prevailed only because I let him,
that his victory is my gift,
that the new name is the old name broken open.
He asks my name.
I will not give it.
Some things cannot be spoken,
only wrestled with in the dark.
I bless him.
Not with words—words are too small—
but with my arms holding him,
then with my arms letting him go.
He will limp the rest of his life.
He will carry my mark in his body.
This is how he’ll remember:
the night he was broken into blessing,
the night he became who he was meant to be.
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