The Lesson of Leah

You can be forgiven if you don’t know much about Leah, Jacob’s first but least-favorite wife. Even my Bible heading names the section we’re discussing “Jacob’s Children”. Yet over the past few years this brief passage has become for me a lifeline, and Leah one of my faith she-ros. Let’s look at the lesson of Leah. 

(For context, read Genesis 29.)

We all know what it feels like to play second fiddle to someone who seems to have it all. One of the lessons I’ve learned as I’ve grown older is that every one of us has that experience. If you’re thinking of someone you’ve always felt second to, you can be sure that in some area of her life she has someone she’s always felt second to. It’s part of our human condition, a result of the Fall that leaves us constantly aware that something is lacking in us. 

Leah played second to her younger sister - and everyone, even her father, affirmed Rachel’s beauty and desirability over Leah’s. Laban wasn’t exalting Leah when he snuck her under the wedding veil - he was protecting himself from having to support a daughter he had decided wouldn’t be able to find a husband on her own. 

So Leah comes into a marriage to Jacob, the deceiver, under false pretenses. She lives her honeymoon week knowing it would be the only week she would ever have as Jacob’s only wife. She watches his disappointment at her, his undisguised eagerness for another woman, his willingness to sleep with her but not love her. Scripture names Jacob’s attitude toward her: Hatred. 

But Leah’s devastating marriage was only the beginning of her story. Reread Genesis 29:31-35.

When the LORD saw that Leah was hated, he opened her womb, but Rachel was barren. And Leah conceived and bore a son, and she called his name Reuben, for she said, "Because the LORD has looked upon my affliction; for now my husband will love me." She conceived again and bore a son, and said, "Because the LORD has heard that I am hated, he has given me this son also." And she called his name Simeon. Again she conceived and bore a son, and said, "Now this time my husband will be attached to me, because I have borne him three sons." Therefore his name was called Levi. And she conceived again and bore a son, and said, "This time I will praise the LORD." Therefore she called his name Judah. Then she ceased bearing.

God saw Leah. He gave her the honor - and in that culture it was an honor - of bearing Jacob’s first four sons. For once in her life, Leah found herself in first place in at least one arena of life. Rachel was even jealous of her (see Gen. 30:1). But childbirth wasn’t Leah’s ultimate salvation from her misery. The lesson I’ve learned from Leah truly begins as reality dawns on her that nothing, not even the honor of four sons to Rachel’s none, would earn her husband’s love. 

Leah names each of her sons, and through her words around their names we can see her heart change: 

• “Now my husband will love me” 

• “God heard I'm hated” 

• “Now my husband will be attached to me” 

• “This time I will praise the Lord”. 

Stop for a minute and look at Leah’s progression. She starts off as any bride would, just wanting to earn Jacob’s love (Reuben means “See, a son” - you can even hear her plea to Jacob in the name). She realizes God hears and knows of her situation, but it’s still not enough (Simeon sounds like “heard”). With Levi, she settles for just wanting Jacob to be attached to her (the meaning of Levi is “attached”). My heart breaks for her at this moment. She’s given up on love. She just wants Jacob to come to her for more than physical satisfaction. She longs for connection. 

Before you discount this lesson as meaningless because you’re not married or because your marriage is blissful, think about that longing. All of us as image bearers are created for connection - created to connect with God and with others in genuine, deep community. It’s such a deep longing, a good longing, that solitary confinement is considered the worst punishment and is generally saved for the worst offenders in prison. It’s a longing that prompts Christians to walk for hours to a church gathering in a country where church is illegal. It’s a longing that leads many into relationship addictions and keeps people trapped in unhealthy patterns. Somewhere inside of us, married or not, we all long for connection. And because we live in a fallen world, we’ve all been disappointed by its absence. We’ve all settled for less, like Leah was willing to do. And in that pain is where Leah’s lesson really takes root in my heart.

Because the last child gets a name with a different meaning, and a different response from his mother:

“This time I will praise the Lord” (Judah sounds like “praise”). 

Her last son, born after she was willing to settle for less, doesn’t get her the attachment she had hoped for. He gets her something different - a new perspective. She finally turns her eyes from Jacob - whether he loves her, hates her, is or is not attached to her - and looks upward. She finally sees the God who saw her in her affliction years earlier, who had compassion on an unwanted bride and opened her womb first. Her marriage to a deceiver, entered into with deception, never became what she hoped it would. But in that pain, in that brokenness, she got to a place where she was still ok. Where she could say “This time I will praise the Lord.” 

And that’s the lesson of Leah I’ve had to learn in my own disappointments - in marriage, in friendship, in church hurt, in moments of devastating emotional pain. When all my best efforts to “fix it” fell far short, when my own brokenness only made things worse, when all I could think about was what the other person might think of me now that I did X, Y, or Z - God kept watching over me, seeing my hurt, giving me precious gifts of mercy along the way - drawing me with cords of kindness until I could finally say, in the midst of another disappointment, “This time I will praise the Lord.”. 

We’re not quite finished with Leah’s story, though. 

(Read Matthew 1:2-3, 16; Luke 3:23, 33-34; Revelation 5:5.)

Judah - the son whose name sounds like “praise” - became the ancestor of the Messiah. Jesus Himself, God in the flesh, was descended not from Jacob’s favorite wife Rachel, but from the one Scripture says he hated - from Leah’s son Judah. Let that sink in. 

Leah, by turning to God in trust and praise at Judah’s birth, became part of the great story of faith - part of the people of God. Leah will be praising Him in the great throng of witnesses forever - her very real, but temporal pain behind her. She will look at Him from a different angle than the rest of us, though. Because to her, He will be family - a direct descendent from her precious boy Judah, whose birth taught her to trust in Him. Jesus is, among many other things, the Bridegroom to the church. He became the perfect Bridegroom His ancestor Jacob never could manage to be. God saw Leah’s tears, gave her children, and chose one of them as the ancestor for His incarnation. 

Whatever your relational pain and disappointment looks like today, whatever brokenness you sense from feeling like you are “not enough” to someone else’s “perfect”, wherever you feel unseen and even hated - may the lesson of Leah become your lesson. At the next deep pang of your heart, the next painful memory or recurring fear, ask God for the grace to say, “This time I will praise the Lord”. 

In the words of Eric Taylor in “Friday Night Lights” - “Clear Eyes - Full Heart - Can’t Lose.” He's got you. 

The Holy Space of Dying

For the last week of my mom’s life, I sat with my husband, my Daddy, and countless friends from church and life, in person and on the phone or across a screen, as we watched my sweet Momma decline sharply. We faced difficult decisions that felt like the proverbial rock and hard place. We were frustrated, exhausted, sad. But the closer we came to what we call “the end”, the more we experienced Hospice Room 102 as a holy place. These experiences were very much been outpourings of the Spirit, things we could not have envisioned and certainly not orchestrated. These are stories worth telling, because they are as much part of her story as the often-told stories of her birth, her healing from polio and tick fever, her love for my dad and her children. They are stories of grace in Mom’s life - grace from the hands of the Jesus she loves so much.

The final Sunday

We went early to hospice house to try to get one more worship service together as a family, even remotely. Mom was less responsive than even the day before, when 15 minutes was about all she could muster. However, her primary response was clearly JOY. She was happy and smiling almost all day - everyone commented on it. Her smiling face in photos with friends that day is a treasure. We got settled and brought up church. Early in the service we have a confession of sin, and our Director of Discipleship read it and introduced the resource we are using for the Confessions during February, Black History Month. Prior to starting that reading, she paused and did an impromptu a cappella rendering of “Precious Lord, Take My Hand”. This was always one of my Mom’s favorite hymns (and my grandfather’s very favorite) so I grabbed Mom’s hand and sang along. Later in the service, her “favorite preacher” brought the message. She seemed to recognize his voice, if not the meaning of the words. At one point, she was making a drinking motion, holding both her hands together. I asked her if her coffee was good and she said, “mmm hmmm”. I really think she felt like she was “at church”. It felt like a truly holy day. 

Stripping Away and the glory self

Monday morning we arrived for the first time before my Dad and I had my alone time with Mom. As an adult, I’ve not experienced my mom just handling my emotions without getting upset or trying to fix it or being anxious about it. However, as I was bawling like a baby, unable to contain my grief, she just looked at me and said “Rosa”, then closed her eyes and said “My Baby”, and then just rested while I cried. It was such a gift, a gift of her just being with me in my grief. I read a prayer that pointed me to Christ’s presence, peace, and love in the midst of grief and dying.

I realized as I processed it later that I was seeing a glimpse of my mom unhindered by worry and anxiety - a glimpse of what Tim Keller calls the “glory self”. I reflected on how I’ve seen this before, with my late husband and mother-in-law. It seems to me that as we get closer to death, the flesh is stripped away and what remains is the beauty of the Spirit within - the Spirit that works sanctification in us, fulfilling God’s promise that we will be like Jesus. In glimpses now, and fully on the other side of the veil between this world and life eternal. As my mom passes from life to life, through the veil of death, we are gaining glimpses - and they are holy.

Church in Hospice House

Tuesday was a day full of tears as Mom was now on the third day of no food and water, and we were given “hours or days” until her death. We met with one of our church’s pastoral staff regarding funeral preparations. We really faced the fact that death is an enemy. In a beautiful surrounding, with kind nurses, and language about “transitioning” and “comfort” it’s easy to forget, or to feel someone wrong when those tensions arise - but it is absolutely, theologically true that death is an ENEMY. In fact, it is the last enemy to be defeated. And yet defeated it will be - as Jesus’ resurrection proved, and my mom’s entry into life everlasting demonstrated. The cross has the final word, not death. 

After the meeting, the floodgates opened and unexpectedly we found ourselves with 10 people from our church in the room. I even jokingly called it CCC North. Two of us had the idea to sing and it turned into a full blown worship service! We sang “Oh How I Love Jesus”, the last hymn my mom remembered enough to initiate singing, and then “There is a Fountain”. We read a liturgical reading “For the Dying and their Friends” from Every Moment Holy, volume 2, and sang “Amazing Grace”. At the end, two more church friends came in and one closed in prayer. There were a lot of tears. God’s presence was real. It was just a holy time.

The Vigil

We had many come sit with us. In her last moments, Mom’s “grandson” snuggled with her. We had such good conversations with people, and several said call them whenever she passed so they could be with us. Mom’s cousin Bill and my friend Beth called her to say goodbye. Beth was the last “visitor” she heard from. 

After I took dad home we folded out the loveseat but we could not sleep. Before we went to bed I kissed Mom and told her that we were “spending the night” like she always wanted us to do.  Mom began having the death rattle and the nurse was in hourly to suction her. It was a long and rough night. Each time I was up I kissed her. Finally at 2 am Michaela and I both fell hard asleep. At 2:45 I woke up and didn’t hear her breathing. I nudged Michael, who also didn’t hear. I stood by her and didn’t feel her breath. I got the nurse, went to the bathroom, and came out and she confirmed the death. Michael & I wept together, tried to call people (who were understandably asleep), and then prayed together a “Liturgy for the Loss of a Beloved Parent” from Every Moment Holy. We then turned on the “City of Gold” CD (all about heaven) and just sat with her for a while. It really felt holy, until the moment I kissed her for the last time, put a coffee pod and rose in her hands, and walked out of the room in tears.

The Funeral

The week leading up to the funeral was a blur. Our culture throws so many tasks and decisions at the grieving! And yet, God was faithful. His people brought us food, took as much off our plates as they could, Michael helped me as much as possible. It was a holy and beautiful time of shared suffering. My first church service without Mom was filled with tears but not only mine. Others missed her too.

The funeral itself was amazing. People came from multiple states and stages of life. The service moved seamlessly from lament to joy, opening with “Precious Lord”, and closing with “Scars in Heaven”. We laughed. We cried. We mourned. We celebrated. It was holy and beautiful.

Reflections

For a believer, part of the victory over death is not that we don’t die, or that we don’t grieve. It’s that we grieve with hope, and that we see in the midst of the process what only God can do - sanctify us, show up with His presence, His peace, and His love, through His people. The holy space of dying becomes a foretaste of the victory over death we will all see on the other side of the veil. Thank you to all who walked alongside us in this journey.