I was the servant who packed Yaakov’s tent the night his brother approached with four hundred men.
My hands were trembling as I rolled up the woven mats. I kept glancing toward the hill where messengers had seen Esau’s camp rising—larger, louder, closer. Yaakov, the man I had followed since Padan Aram, was different that day. He was not the daring young man who had tricked his brother for the birthright, nor the clever shepherd who worked for Lavan twenty long years. He was quieter now. Heavy.
I was folding his cloak when he walked past me. Alone, without his staff. The air folded around him like a storm cloud. I’d never seen him leave the camp without a word.
I shouldn’t have followed him, but something urged me to. I stayed far behind, ducking behind rocks as we walked toward the empty ravine beyond the river Yabok. Moonlight slid over the stones, and wind whistled like it knew some secret.
Then I saw him fall.
But he hadn’t tripped. A man had appeared—no torch, no horse, just there—and he tackled Yaakov to the ground. The two of them wrestled, bodies twisting and straining. I froze. Was it a robber? An assassin from Esau? But no sword was drawn. Only silence, the sound of gravel and the grunts of two men locked in battle.
It seemed to go on forever. Minutes. Then more. An hour. I crouched behind a tree, eyes fixed on them, while the stars crossed the sky.
I cannot explain it, but I knew this was no ordinary fight. The man was... beyond strength. His arms rippled like streams of fire, yet Yaakov would not let go. He clung to his opponent like his life depended on it, like something holy depended on it.
Dawn painted pink across the sky when it happened.
The man reached out and touched Yaakov’s hip—just touched it—and Yaakov cried out, buckling and falling.
I covered my mouth—the pain echoed in his scream—but he still didn’t let go.
“Let me go,” the man said, his voice like the river’s roar. “The dawn is coming.”
“Not unless you bless me,” Yaakov said through clenched teeth.
The man paused. “What is your name?”
“Yaakov,” came the answer, rasping, raw.
“Your name will no longer be Yaakov,” said the man, “but Israel—because you have struggled with God and with men and have prevailed.”
Then he was gone. No footstep, no farewell. Just the first light of morning and Yaakov, limping and weeping, standing upright.
He looked up, and for a moment I saw peace on his face. Not the peace of safety. The peace of wrestling and not being destroyed. A new name, a new path.
When we returned to camp, Yaakov leaned on a staff, his body broken but his eyes blazing.
He met Esau later that day. Not as a trickster. Not crawling. But walking—limping, yes, but upright.
Now, whenever someone calls him Israel, I remember what I saw by the river. Not just a name. A becoming. And I pray that when my struggle comes, I’ll have the courage to wrestle until dawn.
I was the servant who packed Yaakov’s tent the night his brother approached with four hundred men.
My hands were trembling as I rolled up the woven mats. I kept glancing toward the hill where messengers had seen Esau’s camp rising—larger, louder, closer. Yaakov, the man I had followed since Padan Aram, was different that day. He was not the daring young man who had tricked his brother for the birthright, nor the clever shepherd who worked for Lavan twenty long years. He was quieter now. Heavy.
I was folding his cloak when he walked past me. Alone, without his staff. The air folded around him like a storm cloud. I’d never seen him leave the camp without a word.
I shouldn’t have followed him, but something urged me to. I stayed far behind, ducking behind rocks as we walked toward the empty ravine beyond the river Yabok. Moonlight slid over the stones, and wind whistled like it knew some secret.
Then I saw him fall.
But he hadn’t tripped. A man had appeared—no torch, no horse, just there—and he tackled Yaakov to the ground. The two of them wrestled, bodies twisting and straining. I froze. Was it a robber? An assassin from Esau? But no sword was drawn. Only silence, the sound of gravel and the grunts of two men locked in battle.
It seemed to go on forever. Minutes. Then more. An hour. I crouched behind a tree, eyes fixed on them, while the stars crossed the sky.
I cannot explain it, but I knew this was no ordinary fight. The man was... beyond strength. His arms rippled like streams of fire, yet Yaakov would not let go. He clung to his opponent like his life depended on it, like something holy depended on it.
Dawn painted pink across the sky when it happened.
The man reached out and touched Yaakov’s hip—just touched it—and Yaakov cried out, buckling and falling.
I covered my mouth—the pain echoed in his scream—but he still didn’t let go.
“Let me go,” the man said, his voice like the river’s roar. “The dawn is coming.”
“Not unless you bless me,” Yaakov said through clenched teeth.
The man paused. “What is your name?”
“Yaakov,” came the answer, rasping, raw.
“Your name will no longer be Yaakov,” said the man, “but Israel—because you have struggled with God and with men and have prevailed.”
Then he was gone. No footstep, no farewell. Just the first light of morning and Yaakov, limping and weeping, standing upright.
He looked up, and for a moment I saw peace on his face. Not the peace of safety. The peace of wrestling and not being destroyed. A new name, a new path.
When we returned to camp, Yaakov leaned on a staff, his body broken but his eyes blazing.
He met Esau later that day. Not as a trickster. Not crawling. But walking—limping, yes, but upright.
Now, whenever someone calls him Israel, I remember what I saw by the river. Not just a name. A becoming. And I pray that when my struggle comes, I’ll have the courage to wrestle until dawn.
