— The Blessing in the Darkness

Isaac had grown old.
His eyes were dim.

The tent was full of evening.
Outside,
the wind moved over the dry hills of Beersheba,
the tamarisk his father planted
breathed and sighed,
and the stars came out one by one
over a man who could no longer see them.

Perhaps age had begun to teach him
another kind of seeing,
the kind that comes
when the eyes let go of the world
and the soul sits down by God’s fire
and listens.

He called Esau.

My son,
I do not know the day of my death.
Go into the field.
Hunt for me.
Bring me the food I love,
so that I may bless you.

But Rebekah was listening,
at the edge of the firelight,
holding in her body
the old word whispered before the twins were born,
the elder shall serve the younger.

Two young goats.
Esau’s best clothes,
smelling of sun and grass and the open field.
Goat skins on Jacob’s smooth hands and neck.

Let your curse be on me, my son.
Only obey my voice.

Who are you, my son?

Esau, your firstborn.
The Lord your God gave me success.

A lie,
spoken in the name of God.

How often the heart
tries to make even heaven
serve its desire,
pressing the holy name
over its own hunger
like goat skin over a smooth hand.

Come near.
Let me touch you.

The voice is Jacob’s voice,
but the hands are Esau’s hands.

The eyes could not see.
The hands were deceived.
The heart was uncertain.

He drew his son close,
and breathed in.

The smell of my son
is like the smell of a field
the Lord has blessed.

And for a moment
the whole earth came into the dark tent,
the wild thyme,
the barley,
the wet clay after rain,
the wind in the oak,
and the old man blessed
what he could smell
and could not see.

The dew of heaven.
The richness of the earth.
Grain.
Wine.
Nations bowing.

The words went out into the air,
like birds released from the hand,
and could not be called back.

Then Esau came in from the field,
the blood of the hunt still on him,
the stew steaming,
and Isaac trembled
until the whole tent shook,
the poles,
the curtains,
the lamp,
the stars beyond the door.

And Esau cried out
from somewhere deeper than anger,
from the place where a child first learns
whether there is love enough:

Bless me, even me, my father!
Have you only one blessing?

Perhaps this is one of the mysteries of our lives.

We believe there is only one blessing,
one place by the fire,
one portion of love.

So we grasp.
We deceive.
We push another out of the tent.

But God’s blessing
is not a loaf of bread
that grows smaller
when someone else takes a piece.

It is the dew.

It falls on every blade of grass in the field,
on the hunter’s path
and the shepherd’s tent,
and no blade is thirsty
because another drank.

It is the fire.

One coal lights another,
and the first coal
does not grow dim.

Love does not grow less
when it is shared.

None of them knew this.

So the family went out into the long night.

Jacob gained his father’s word
and lost his brother.
He gained the inheritance
and lost his home.
He received a future
and walked into the wilderness.

Esau sat under the stars
with his bow across his knees
and a grief that turned to fire.

Rebekah sent away the son she loved
and never saw his face again.

Isaac lay in the dark,
listening to the wind,
holding a blessing
that had already left his hands.

Everyone carried a piece of the truth.
Everyone carried a piece of the wound.

And yet,
the promise continued.

Not because the family was good.

Because God’s faithfulness
is larger than our failure,
the way the night sky
is larger than a single tent,
the way the sea
is larger than the stones thrown into it.

Grace does not call the deception right.
It does not call the wound a blessing.

It only refuses
to let our failure be the last chapter.

Somewhere past the familiar hills,
Jacob walks alone,
toward a stone for a pillow,
a ladder of light,
angels going up and down,
a voice saying,
I am with you,
and a night by the river
wrestling until the dawn.

The hand that grasped
will learn to open.

The brother he deceived
will run to meet him on the road,
and fall on his neck,
and kiss him,
and they will weep.

And Jacob will say,
to see your face
is like seeing the face of God.

The blessing was not the end.

It was the beginning
of learning what blessing means.

And I,
a tenelach,
sitting by God’s fire in the dark tent of my own old age,
my eyes dimmer now,
my hands still grasping more than I would like,
listen to the wind outside,
and breathe in,
and smell the field,
and know at last
there is dew enough
for every blade of grass.

Note: God who saw the blessing given in darkness and did not let the promise fail, forgive the grasping hand in me that fears there is not enough,
grieve with every Esau who cries, bless me, even me, and with every family divided over a single portion of love, and with Rebekah who never saw her son again,
meet me on the broken road as you met Jacob at the stone and by the river, and let me see my brother’s face as yours,
and teach my hand to open, until I know your blessing falls like dew and spreads like fire, and is never smaller when it is shared.