March 2–8 ❘ Leah at the Edges, Rachel’s Response

Leah at the Edges

If you measured my life
by low points and high,
all my loves and jealousies
recorded as scripture of extremes,

you’d miss times of stillness,
daily cycles when I fed
and clothed, cleansed
and smoothed out roughness.

You wouldn’t see the hours
I bore with wounds one can’t
ask friends to fast and pray for
because there is no cure for life,

no dramatic rescue for one
merely stuck in everyday mud.
But maybe you don’t need
to feel the weight of all this water

underneath each cresting wave.
Maybe there is truth enough
to glean from spare detail
and beauty enough at the edges

to sketch a face with tender eyes
that you can be pleased with,
as though you had returned
from a long journey
and seen the face of God.

Rachel’s Response

Maybe our father persuaded Leah,
told her men only want
one thing—maybe two—
and if she gave those to Jacob,
he’d come around.
She was young and naive,
as I was. I can’t blame her
for loving Jacob past reason,
as I did.

But was it a small thing
that she took my husband,
my promised place as the first?
Wasn’t it enough that she mocked
my famine with her fullness,
but her wolves must also devour
my lamb? As older sister,
she should have protected me,
not turned enemy.

In the end, it doesn’t matter
where fault first took hold—
in my father, my sister, me.
We forgave. We lived and let live.

And when I died,
you should have heard Leah.
Her sobs emerged from a place
deeper than sorrow.
Her groans poured forth unbidden,
as though she were giving birth
to another chance for deliverance.

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