Jacob rose up that night… and passed over the ford Jabbok. And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until daybreak. — Genesis 32:22, 24

Hub airports are peculiar places. You’re no longer where you began, but you’re not yet where you’re going. Hardly anyone books a ticket to the hub city; we’re all just passing through. Still, the airline insists: you can’t reach your destination without stopping here first.

Jacob found himself in just such a hub—not in an airport, but by a river called Jabbok. He wanted Bethel, the place of blessing, the place of God’s promise. But before Bethel came Jabbok.

Jabbok means to empty. And that’s exactly what God did. He stripped Jacob of his cleverness, his strength, his self-reliance. The man who had always found a way forward suddenly found no way out.

And isn’t that how God works with us? We long for Bethel—the joy, the blessing, the presence of God—but first He leads us through Jabbok. Through the place where we are emptied before we are filled.

That night Jacob learned what many of us eventually learn.

At Jabbok, God meets us personally. Jacob sent his family across the stream and stood alone for the first time in his life. No mother to plot for him. No gifts to soften the road ahead. Just Jacob. Just God. If you’ve ever sat in a hospital waiting room after the visitors left, or driven home in silence after the phone call you dreaded, you know the place. Loneliness has a way of stripping us down to what matters most—and that’s where God shows up.

At Jabbok, God wounds in order to heal. One touch to Jacob’s hip, and his strength collapsed. From then on, he limped. What looked like weakness was actually mercy: Jacob would never again walk without leaning. And neither do we. Our limps—diagnoses, heartbreaks, losses—become holy reminders that our strength was never the point.

At Jabbok, God hears desperate prayers. “I will not let You go unless You bless me,” Jacob cried. No eloquence. No script. Just a gasp of desperation. And God listened. Heaven always does.

At Jabbok, God calls us into honesty. “What is your name?” God asked. The last time Jacob had answered that question, he lied. This time he whispered the truth: “I am Jacob. The deceiver.” Only when he dropped the mask could God give him a new name.

And at Jabbok, God leaves His mark. Jacob left with both a blessing and a limp. A new name—Israel—and a reminder with every step that he had met God and would never be the same.

Maybe you are at your Jabbok. Alone. Wounded. Clinging. Confessing. Marked forever by His touch.

If so, remember: the God who met Jacob meets you too. He breaks to bless. He empties to fill. He wounds to heal.

So stop wrestling. Start clinging. Stop pretending. Start confessing. Stop running. Start leaning.

Bethel is waiting. But the road runs through Jabbok.