Chalk it up to bad reading, but I’ve always considered Rachel to be the matriarch of Israel—maybe because Jacob chose her. Maybe because her son Joseph is such a prominent Bible figure.

But after a re-read this week, I think it’s obvious God chose Leah.

Two big arrows point that way:

1. Rachel dies giving birth and is buried by the side of the road—alone. Leah dies later and is buried in the family tomb beside Abraham and Isaac, their famous wives, and her husband Jacob.

2. Jesus comes through Judah—Leah’s son.

In true God form, the less-loved, not-chosen one receives the blessing, and the story is better because of it.

Last night I prayed in the closet. I guess saying I prayed in the closet kinda thwarts the purpose behind praying in the closet, but whatever. That’s where I was. 

I prayed about connecting, about how I wanted to be open to God and how I hoped God would be open to me. I admitted I’m not sure if God intends for me to be a writer. But I said every bit of me just wants to speak His message, to enter into the Word and speak the Word I inhabit, the Word that—crazy thought—inhabits me.

Anyway, at some point in that prayer, I became convinced I wasn’t in the closet alone. So convinced I refused to open my eyes lest I see what was in the closet with me. I pictured an angel, just a guy really, sitting beneath Justin’s suit pants, listening to me with his knees pulled up to his chest.

Finally, after maybe a full minute of apprehension, I opened my eyes. No guy.

But still…