I won't let go until you bless me. Some translations say "I won't let go unless you bless me." But I am being optimistic. These are times for optimism. So we pray "I won't let go until you bless me" like Jacob did, wrestling with a dislocated hipbone and a nameless man in the night.

I wrestle with namelessness. I wrestle with a weakness. I wrestle with God, refusing to rest. Wrestle: to twist; I twist His words, His plans, His meaning, His intention. I manipulate until something, anything feels less painful than the last position. I refuse to cry Uncle! or call out Abba! I am wrestling with intention.

And He knocks my bones into dislocation. He moves things that feel right so that they are wrong. I protest. But He is God? He knows better?

He changes my name, I walk with a limp, I do not see the blessing. A name? This? This is the blessing that you give me when I have already stolen the birthright of my brother? I have already stolen a name and still you give me another? Who am I? Jacob, the thief? Esau, the fraud? Israel, the victorious?

But Who Are You?

I walk with a limp, my future walks with a limp, we will all walk with a limp, we will not eat the meat of the hipbone--this is our sacrifice and this is our Ebenezer. The scar of evening wrestling, the badge of victory, the mark of humility, the memento of the overcomer.

So my run is not speedy, my walk is impeded, and my name is still Victory: he who came through.

And, later, "you will know My Name. I'll tell you Myself."