The one who carried the Name into every day of the week was going home. On the road ahead waited Peace, with an army of men behind him.
He sent Amens ahead to his brother. They came back and said: Peace is coming to meet you, and he is not coming alone.
He was afraid. He split his household in two, so that if one half were struck the other could escape. Then he sent a gift ahead, flock after flock, and the gift was spelled with the same letters as his camp. He was sending himself ahead, one herd at a time.
That night he carried his family across the river and went back alone for some small jars he had left behind. A stranger caught him there, and they wrestled in the dust until the sky went gray. The stranger touched his thigh and it gave way. "Let me go," said the stranger. "It is my turn to sing." "Not until you bless me." So the stranger gave him a new name.
In the morning he limped toward Peace and bowed to the ground again and again. Peace ran to him and fell on his neck, and they both wept. "Keep your gift," said Peace. "I have plenty." "Take it," said the one with the new name. "Seeing your face is like seeing the face of G‑d."
Then came hard days: a sister taken in a strange city, an old nurse buried under an oak, a beloved wife dying on the road as her second son was born. At Beit El, where G‑d had spoken with him, he stood a stone upright and poured oil on it. On the road to Efrat he stood another one on her grave.
At the end their father died, and the two brothers buried him together. Then Peace took his household to the mountains and had kings long before his brother had one. His light came all at once. The light of the one with the new name comes slowly, a crack at a time, the way you bring someone out of a dark room. We have seen both kinds of dawn. The slow one stays.