The Road Runs Out

And Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. Genesis 32:34

At some point, the road runs out. You can convince yourself it won’t—build a life in the absence of being caught, like Jacob generating wealth, living in the afterglow of a blessing that wasn’t his own. But how often did he look over his shoulder? How often did he wake up in cold sweats, his peaceful sleep shattered by the image of Esau’s hands around his throat? How many moments were interrupted by that dull sense of dread, the knot tightening in his stomach? How many smiles did he unconvincingly pin across his face?

What happens to all that is left unsaid between us? Do our shadows not also get buried in the soil or cast into the wind? Do they not grow like weeds or travel further than we ever could? Do they not reveal themselves at the opportune time, like the tempter waiting for Christ in the wilderness?

Far better to follow the footsteps of Jacob—the patron saint of fools and thieves, gamblers and ragamuffins. Far better to find ourselves alone on the riverbank, ambushed by the One who never loses our scent—the Hound of Heaven, who never gives up His pursuit. Far better to wrestle with God and go away limping than to live in the shallow waters of denial, never finding something worth fighting for. It is, as Buechner put it, “an honor to be overcome by God.”

The fight looks like confession, and the dojo is as commonplace as your kitchen table or the side of the bed you wake up on each morning. The throwdown is the offering of simple words: truth in place of shadows, honesty instead of a façade. Do you want to wrestle with God? Then talk to Him with your real voice. Bring your actual life before Him. Write a psalm. Call a friend. Go to a recovery meeting. Go for a run. You could even go to church—just get in the way of it.

The worst thing you can do for your shame is make eye contact with another human being who holds you in belovedness, and watch nothing change in them as you share the truth of who you are. I know it’s hard, and it will cost you, but it will only cost you who you don’t want to be.

One thing about wrestling: it can’t be done in theory. Like making love—it’s intimate and physical and sweaty and entangled. Find some proximity to the thing you’re running from, upon the riverbanks of your loneliness and despair and work your dark night shift of the soul. Morning will come, as she always does, with a blessing and hash browns.

This blessing will be different. It won’t come at the expense of your peace or someone else’s birthright. It will leave you with a limp, but it will be yours. And it will be the evidence of being overcome by God. And He will rename you.