When interpreting this story, everyone talks about Jacob and of course the man/angel/God. But what happens when we listen to those lurking in the margins?  What happens when we look for the forgotten ones who live behind the text?  
 
Over there! Can you see them?  Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, and Zilpah?!
 
Rachel’s face is puckered up like she’s just bit into a sour lemon. “Hello!!!  Hellloooooooo!” she calls, sounding like the lady who sold Avon products across the back fence when I was growing up. “Can you hear me? Hello!!! Can you hear me?!” Her voice gets louder with each call.  Leah jumps up and down beside her, waving her arms frantically. “We’re over here!!!!” she cries.  And there’s Bilhah who scoffs at Rachel, “Honey, you don’t know the first thing about being invisible…” Zilpah just blows a raspberry and doesn’t bother saying anything. She’s too used to being disposable.
 
“Finally!!!” Leah says as we draw near. 
 
All through that long night, we sit with the women, their sons, and children of other genders.  There’s an old woman there too.  She has stars in her eyes, tattoos on her face, and hands as worn as a tattered quilt.  She pats the dusty earth beside her and we sit awkwardly, our bodies unused to the hard ground.
 
They offer sarsaparilla tea and honey cakes. Rachel serves Zilpah and Bilhah first. “We’ve learned about right relations in this wilderness,” she says, handing us our cup.
 
At first, we all just listen to the fire crackle and hiss, sipping tea from the well-worn earthen cups. Maybe we’re shy.  Or maybe it’s been too long since they had a guest at their table. The old woman speaks then.  “Tell me,” she says, “tell me everything.”  And we do. 
 
We talk about our fears for our children and grandchildren and the fate of the planet.  We lament the rising wave of hate playing out across the bodies and lives of our trans and non-gender conforming siblings.  We share our loneliness and the way hopelessness keeps knocking at our door.  We tell of mental illness, family discord, failing bodies, and all the rest. We can’t quite believe we are talking so freely but the words pour out like water. Leah gently rubs our back as we talk. Bilhah leans her shoulder against ours. 
 
“Now you must listen to my daughters,” the old woman says.  And we do.  We hear about the day Bilhah and Zilpah were ripped from their families, their home, and sold into slavery. Our hearts break open and we weep. We listen as Rachel and Leah talk about their relationship – the decades of competition and rivalry - and the way it changed with a forgiveness practice. We hear so much more too.
 
As the fire dies, the old woman cups a gnarled hand around each of our cheeks in turn. “You are loved down to the very marrow. You carry my blessing in your bones. Remember this.” Now our tears take flight like great blue herons at the water’s edge.
 
All too soon, dawn rises and the camp starts to stir. Rachel peers across the river. “What’s himself been up to all night?” she asks. “Who cares?” Leah laughs.
 
The old woman just nods her head, smiling.

Author’s Note: I give thanks for Rev. Dr. Wilda Gafney’s Womanist Midrash which empowered this use of ‘sanctified imagination’ when approaching the sacred text.