Wrestling the Angel

Wrestling the Angel

Jacob wrestled all night—

but was it God or an angel,

or his own guilt, his brother’s face,

the weight of every lie he’d told?

By morning, the name didn’t matter,

only the limp that wouldn’t heal,

the new name branded into bone.

This is how we know God—

by the bruises and the mysteries,

by the way we limp away

changed but not certain,

by the way He never gives His name,

never explains the scars.

The preacher said we’re supposed to be sure—

but all I have is silence,

a face I can’t see in the dark,

hands that press but do not crush.

This is faith, I think—

to wrestle until dawn,

to ask for blessing from a stranger

and walk away, aching and alive.