Parshat Shemot6 min read

Midwives, Brothers, and Children Carried Redemption Forward

Shifra and Puah refuse Pharaoh at the birth room; Moses resists God for seven days at the burning bush; and children at the sea recognize God first.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Two Women Stood Between Pharaoh and the Boys
  2. Moses Argued With God for Seven Days
  3. Aaron Kissed Moses in the Wilderness
  4. God Revealed a Name the Patriarchs Had Never Heard
  5. The Children at the Sea Saw God First

Two Women Stood Between Pharaoh and the Boys

The order had been given. When an Israelite boy was born, kill him at the birth. Shifra and Puah stood in the birth room and did not obey. They told Pharaoh the Hebrew women were not like Egyptian women: they were vigorous, they gave birth before the midwife arrived. The king of Egypt believed this and the boys lived.

Shemot Rabbah read this as the foundation of everything. Before Moses was born. Before any sign was shown in the sky. Before the plagues began to move through the land of Egypt. Two women looked at a royal order and understood that there was a higher command than Pharaoh's in the room where life came into the world. Their decision was not dramatic. It was practical, immediate, quiet, and it turned the whole history of the Exodus on its axis. Without Shifra and Puah, Moses is not born. Without Moses, the sea does not part. Without the sea parting, Israel does not stand at Sinai. All of it rested on two women refusing at a birth.

Moses Argued With God for Seven Days

The bush burned and did not burn up. Moses turned aside to look and God spoke from the fire and told him to go back to Egypt. Moses said: "I am not a man of words." God said: "I will teach you what to say." Moses said: "send someone else." God said: "your brother Aaron is already on his way to meet you." Seven days at the burning bush. God's patience with Moses' reluctance was not ordinary patience. It was the patience of someone who had chosen this specific person for a reason that the person himself could not yet see.

The rabbis in Shemot Rabbah were not embarrassed by Moses' refusals. They found them instructive. A man who walked into his calling without hesitation would be a different kind of leader than a man who had to be persuaded. Moses' reluctance was the reluctance of someone who knew the weight of what was being asked. He had lived in Pharaoh's court and in Midian's wilderness. He understood both sides of the gap he was being sent to cross, and he did not want to cross it. His eventual crossing was earned through seven days of honest resistance, not through easy heroism.

Aaron Kissed Moses in the Wilderness

God told Aaron to go meet Moses in the wilderness. Aaron walked out into the desert without knowing exactly where his brother was, navigated by whatever guidance the tradition implies, and found him. When they met, Aaron kissed him. The text says it. The two brothers who had not seen each other for forty years, who had grown up in separate worlds, one raised in Pharaoh's palace and one raised in Goshen's slave quarters, met in the open desert and kissed.

The kiss matters because everything that was about to happen in Egypt required them to work together, and everything about their situations should have made that difficult. Moses had left. Aaron had stayed. Moses had power and access. Aaron had been living with the people in their degradation. The kiss sealed something that needed sealing before any word was spoken to Pharaoh. Brotherhood before mission. Reunion before commission.

God Revealed a Name the Patriarchs Had Never Heard

God told Moses His name: "Ehyeh asher Ehyeh, I will be what I will be," and said to tell the people: "Ehyeh, I will be, has sent me to you." Then God gave the four-letter Name, the Name by which He would be known in Israel forever. And then God said something startling: "I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but by My name the Eternal I was not known to them."

The patriarchs had lived their whole lives in covenant with God and had not known this name. Shemot Rabbah read this as a new dispensation. The God of the fathers was a God of promise, of slow unfolding, of futures that would arrive after the man who received them was gone. The God who was about to act in Egypt was something more immediate: the I-will-be that shows itself in events, in plagues, in water turned to blood, in a sea that opens. The new name was the name of a God about to act in history rather than promise into the future.

The Children at the Sea Saw God First

When the sea split and the walls of water stood on either side and Israel walked through on dry ground and the Egyptian army was swept away behind them, the tradition recorded that the children recognized God before the adults. The verse says: "this is my God and I will glorify Him." A child pointed and said: "that is God." Before the theologians could organize the experience, before the elders could formulate the proper language, a child looked at what had just happened and named it.

The Song of the Sea that followed was sung by everyone, but the initial recognition belonged to the children. The rabbis found this significant: the generation that had been born into slavery, that had grown up watching their parents laboring under Egyptian overseers, had not been fully formed into the habit of human fear. They could still see what adults had learned to overlay with caution. God was visible to them at the sea in a way that the older generation had to learn how to see again.

EgyptPatriarchsShemot RabbahMosesAaronMidwivesRed Sea
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From the tradition

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Shemot Rabbah 1:15Shemot Rabbah

The familiar version gives us about Moses, about the plagues, about the parting of the Red Sea. But what about the women who defied a king's cruel decree and saved countless Israelite babies?

The Torah tells us, "The midwives feared God and did not do as the king of Egypt had spoken to them, and they kept the boys alive” (Exodus 1:17). Simple enough. But as always, Jewish tradition dives deeper, unearthing layers of meaning and revealing the extraordinary courage of these women.

The verse continues, "The midwives feared God." And Shemot Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus, immediately connects this to a verse in Proverbs: “A God-fearing woman, she will be praised” (Proverbs 31:30). It’s like the Bible itself is applauding their bravery!

Here's where it gets really interesting. The text says the midwives "did not do as the king of Egypt had spoken to them [aleihen]." Now, lahen would be the more typical way to say "to them." But aleihen… well, it can also be a euphemism for sexual relations.

Rabbi Yosei bar Ḥanina offers a startling interpretation: Pharaoh demanded sexual favors from them! And they refused. Talk about standing up to power.

The text then asks a seemingly obvious question: since they disobeyed Pharaoh, don't we already know they kept the boys alive? Why does the verse repeat, “They kept the boys alive”? The answer? "There is praise within praise." It wasn't just passive resistance. They actively helped these families.

Some interpretations paint a picture of these midwives as angels of mercy. As we find in Shemot Rabbah, they would gather food and water from wealthy homes and deliver it to poor, new mothers. They sustained not only the babies but also the hope of a people facing unimaginable oppression.

But there’s even more. It's said that some babies were born with complications, facing terrible conditions. What did the midwives do? They prayed. They cried out to God, pleading, "You know that we did not fulfill Pharaoh’s command. It is Your words that we seek to fulfill. Lord of the universe, may this child emerge in peace!" And according to Rabbi Levi, God answered their prayers, healing the children and even saving mothers from death. "Therefore, 'they kept the boys alive [vateḥayena et hayeladim]' – vateḥayena, these are the mothers, hayeladim, these are the actual children." The midwives saved both.

The Rabbis even connect these courageous women to our patriarch Abraham. They adorned themselves with the action of their ancestor, that is Abraham. Just as the Holy One blessed be He attests in his regard: “For now I know that you are God-fearing” (Genesis 22:12), they said: ‘Abraham our patriarch, of blessed memory, opened an inn and would feed all the passersby, uncircumcised people, and we, not only do we not have enough to feed them, but to kill them? We will keep them alive.’: Abraham welcomed strangers into his tent. These midwives, facing death themselves, refused to kill innocent children. They chose compassion over compliance.

When Pharaoh realized his decree was being ignored, he summoned the midwives, demanding, "Why have you done this, and have kept the boys alive?” (Exodus 1:18).

These women, whose names the Torah doesn't even explicitly give us at this point (though late antique tradition names them Shifra and Puah), stood defiant. They become symbols of resistance, of faith, and of the power of ordinary people to change the course of history.

So, the next time you read the story of the Exodus, remember the midwives. Remember their courage, their compassion, and their unwavering faith. They remind us that even in the darkest of times, one person, one act of kindness, can make all the difference.

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Shemot Rabbah 3:14Shemot Rabbah

That feeling isn't exactly new. In fact, we see it playing out in one of the most pivotal moments in the Torah: Moses's reluctance to answer God's call.

It all unfolds in the book of Exodus, specifically chapter 4, verse 10. Moses, chosen to lead the Israelites out of slavery, protests, "Please my Lord, I am not a man of words, neither yesterday, nor the day before, nor since You spoke to Your servant; for I am slow of speech, and slow of tongue.”

A bit

The text in Shemot Rabbah, a classical collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus, dives deep into Moses’s hesitation. We are told that Moses addresses God as Adonai (אֲדֹנָי). The text points out that this name, spelled alef, dalet, nun, yod, signifies God's lordship. Moses is essentially saying, "You are the Lord of the entire world, and I'm the one you want to be your messenger?" It's as if he’s overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of the request.

The Sages, in Shemot Rabbah, tell us that for seven whole days, God had been trying to convince Moses to take on this monumental mission. Seven days of gentle nudging, persistent calling, and Moses… well, he resisted. He just didn't think he was up to it. All this until the dramatic encounter at the burning bush finally forced his hand. The Midrash (rabbinic commentary) counts Moses’s repeated refusals in the verse, noting "I am not a man of words," "yesterday," "neither [gam]," "the day before," "nor [gam]," "since," and "You spoke," totaling seven expressions of reluctance.

But what’s the real reason for Moses's reluctance? Was it just about a speech impediment?

Rabbi Pinḥas HaKohen (a priest) offers another layer. According to him, Moses wasn't simply worried about his elocution. He doubted whether words alone could be effective with Pharaoh. Why? Because, in Moses's eyes, Pharaoh was a slave himself.

Wait, a slave? Pharaoh?

Rabbi Pinḥas suggests that Pharaoh, and by extension, the Egyptians, were descendants of Ham, who was cursed with slavery in (Genesis 9:25). Alternatively, “the man” could refer to the typical Israelite slave. Either way, Moses is alluding to (Proverbs 29:19): “A slave will not be admonished with words.” Essentially, Moses believed that Pharaoh was beyond reasoning with. He felt that if he wasn’t going to inflict some kind of divine punishment, his words would fall on deaf ears. "If I am not going to afflict him," Moses seems to say, "I will not go."

God, of course, isn’t having it. He responds with a powerful rhetorical question: “Who makes a man's mouth, or makes a man mute, or deaf, or sighted, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now, go, and I will be with your mouth, and teach you what you shall speak.” (Exodus 4:11-12). God reminds Moses that He is the source of all abilities, and that He will provide Moses with the words he needs.

It's a profound moment. It highlights the tension between human inadequacy and divine empowerment. Moses sees his limitations, but God sees his potential. God’s response isn’t just a reassurance; it’s a fundamental lesson about faith, about trusting in a power greater than ourselves.

So, what can we take away from Moses’s initial reluctance? Perhaps it’s a reminder that feeling inadequate doesn’t disqualify us from being called to something great. Maybe it’s about recognizing that our perceived weaknesses can be transformed into strengths when we partner with something bigger than ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, it's about trusting that even when we feel like we're not "men (or women) of words," we still have a voice, and that voice, guided by something greater, can make a world of difference.

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Shemot Rabbah 5:1Shemot Rabbah

The Torah touches on this very human act in some surprising ways.

We find a fascinating exploration of brotherly love, and the significance of a kiss, in Shemot Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Exodus. It all starts with a seemingly simple verse from (Exodus 4:27): "The Lord said to Aaron: Go toward Moses to the wilderness. He went, and he met him at the mountain of God and he kissed him."

The Rabbis, in their insightful way, ask: what kind of brotherly relationship does this kiss represent? They tie this moment to a verse in (Song of Songs 8:1), "If only you were as my brother [who nursed from the breasts of my mother; I would find you outside, I would kiss you]." But which brother are we talking about here?

Shemot Rabbah runs through a list of less-than-ideal brotherly relationships, discarding them one by one. Could it be like Cain and Abel? Absolutely not. "Cain rose against his brother Abel and killed him!" That's hardly a model of brotherly affection. What about Ishmael and Isaac? Nope. "Ishmael hates Isaac," we're told. Then there's Esau and Jacob: "Esau hated Jacob." And what about Joseph and his brothers? "They hated him," and "His brothers envied him." Not exactly kiss-worthy scenarios, are they?

Instead, the Rabbis suggest that the relationship between Moses and Aaron is like that of Joseph and Benjamin. What makes this so special? "Who nursed from the breasts of my mother." Joseph and Benjamin shared the same mother, Rachel. This shared maternal bond created a unique connection. And it's this kind of deep, familial love that mirrors the reunion of Moses and Aaron, culminating in that kiss on the mountain.

Now, the Rabbis don't just leave it there. They explore the meaning of kisses in general. They teach us that "All kisses are indecent except for three: The kiss of greatness, the kiss of separation, and the kiss of reunion."

A "kiss of greatness" is one of respect and honor, like when "Samuel took the vial of oil, and poured it upon his head, and kissed him" (I Samuel 10:1), anointing him as king. A "kiss of separation" marks a parting, like "Orpah kissed her mother-in-law" ((uth 1:1)4) before leaving. And of course, the "kiss of reunion," as seen with Moses and Aaron, celebrates a joyful coming together.

Some even argue that "Even a kiss of closeness is not disgraceful," pointing to "Jacob kissed Rachel" (Genesis 29:11), his relative, as an example.

Shemot Rabbah even shares a story told by Rabbi Pinḥas, about a brother and sister living in different towns, Gush Halav and Beit Maron. When a fire breaks out in the brother's town, the sister rushes to him, embracing and kissing him. She explains, "I am not accustomed to come to you [and to kiss you], but I was afraid, as you are my brother and were in distress, and you emerged from it." This intimate, yet innocent, moment encapsulates the protective and loving bond between siblings.

The Rabbis bring us back to the verse in Song of Songs: "I would find you outside, I would kiss you" (Song of Songs 8:1). Where is this "outside"? It's in the wilderness, where Moses and Aaron, brothers reunited, share that profound and meaningful kiss.

So, what does all this tell us? Perhaps it's a reminder to cherish the bonds we have with our siblings, our family. To recognize the power of a simple gesture, like a kiss, to express love, respect, and connection. And maybe, just maybe, to see the sacred in the everyday moments of our lives.

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Shemot Rabbah 6:1Shemot Rabbah

Our sages explored this very human tendency in fascinating ways, especially when looking at the stories of Solomon and Moses. Our journey begins with a verse from Exodus (6:2-3): “God spoke to Moses and said to him: I am the Lord. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob as God Almighty, but by My name the Lord I did not make Myself known to them.” What's going on here? What does it mean that God revealed Himself differently to the patriarchs than to Moses? Shemot Rabbah (6) uses this verse to launch into a discussion about wisdom, madness, and the perils of thinking we're smarter than we are.

The text quotes Ecclesiastes (2:12): “I turned myself to behold wisdom and madness and folly; for who is the man who comes after the king to do what he already has done?” The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) understands this verse as referring to both Solomon and Moses, two figures who, in different ways, thought they could outsmart God.

First, let's God, in the Torah, gave kings specific instructions: "Only he shall not accumulate horses for himself…and he shall not accumulate wives for himself, and his heart will not stray, and silver and gold he shall not greatly accumulate for himself" (Deuteronomy 17:16–17). Solomon, brilliant as he was, thought he could circumvent these rules. "He shall not accumulate wives for himself," the Torah says, "isn’t that so 'his heart will not stray?' I will accumulate, and my heart will not stray!"

Big mistake.

According to the Midrash, at that moment, the letter yod – the smallest letter in the Hebrew alphabet – from the word "yarbe" (accumulate) went up and protested before God! It pleaded, "Master of the universe, didn’t You say that there will never be a letter negated from the Torah? Behold, Solomon is revoking me! Perhaps today he will negate one, and tomorrow another, until the entire Torah is negated." God reassured the yod, saying that Solomon and a thousand like him would be negated before even a calligraphical embellishment of the Torah would be. The Midrash connects this to the changing of Sarai's name to Sarah and Hoshea's name to Joshua, showing how letters do change, but within God's plan, not in defiance of it.

The consequences for Solomon were severe. The Midrash interprets (Proverbs 30:1), "The words of Agur ben Yakeh," to mean that Solomon "collected [iger] matters of Torah and expelled them [hekian]." He became known as "Itiel," which the Midrash cleverly interprets as "God is with me [iti El] and I will prevail," reflecting Solomon’s overconfidence. And what happened? "It was when Solomon grew old, his wives led his heart astray" (1 Kings 11:4). Ouch. Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai even said it would have been better for Solomon to be a sewer cleaner than to have that verse written about him!

So, Solomon’s story serves as a cautionary tale about the limits of human wisdom when it comes to divine decrees. But what about Moses?

The Midrash suggests that Moses, too, fell into a similar trap. God had already told Moses that Pharaoh would not let the Israelites go (Exodus 3:19) and that He would harden Pharaoh's heart (Exodus 4:21). Yet, when Pharaoh made the Israelites' labor even harder, Moses questioned God: “Why have You harmed this people?” (Exodus 5:22).

The Midrash argues that this questioning was also a form of "madness and folly." How could Moses, after being told what would happen, question God's plan? According to the Midrash, the attribute of justice (represented by the divine name Elohim) sought to harm Moses for this. However, God, seeing Moses's distress over the suffering of Israel, relented and treated him with the attribute of mercy (represented by the divine name Y-H-V-H, often pronounced Adonai).

What can we learn from these interpretations of Solomon and Moses? Perhaps it's a reminder that even the wisest among us, the most righteous among us, are not immune to the temptation of thinking we know better than God. It's a call to humility, to recognizing the limits of our understanding, and to trusting in a wisdom greater than our own. It is a lesson that understanding the Torah requires more than just intellect – it demands a recognition of something greater than ourselves.

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Shemot Rabbah 7:1Shemot Rabbah

The ancient rabbis certainly thought words held immense power, for good and for ill. to a fascinating interpretation of a verse in Exodus, as explored in Shemot Rabbah, a compilation of rabbinic commentary on the Book of Exodus.

The verse in question is (Exodus 6:13): “The Lord spoke to Moses and to Aaron, and commanded them concerning the children of Israel and concerning Pharaoh king of Egypt, to take the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt.”

The rabbis, in their characteristic way, don't just take the verse at face value. They ask: why is Aaron included in this command? What's the deeper meaning here? They turn to (Proverbs 14:23) for guidance: “In all toil there is profit, but the talk of the lips brings only lack.” The midrash, the interpretive tradition, sees a connection between these two verses – a connection that speaks to the power, and potential pitfall, of our words.

The midrash explains that when a person puts effort into Torah study, they are always rewarded. But what about idle talk? That, the verse in Proverbs tells us, brings only lack. To illustrate this point, Shemot Rabbah brings up the story of Joseph. Remember Joseph, with his dreams and his jealous brothers?

Joseph, according to this interpretation, was originally destined to spend only ten years in prison for speaking negatively about his brothers. But then, he asked the butler to remember him to Pharaoh ((Genesis 40:14)). Because Joseph placed his hope in a human being rather than solely in God, two more years were added to his sentence! We find this in (Genesis 41:1): “It was at the end of two years."

And what about Moses? Initially, the midrash suggests, Moses was worthy of receiving divine communication directly, and exclusively. But because he expressed reluctance, saying "Please…send by means of whom You will send" ((Exodus 4:13)), God told him: “Is there not Aaron your brother the Levite?” ((Exodus 4:14)). Because of Moses's hesitation and lack of confidence, Aaron was brought into the picture.

Similarly, when Moses said, "Behold, the children of Israel did not heed me…" ((Exodus 6:12)), even though he was worthy of performing all the miracles himself, the divine speech then came to both him and Aaron. As it is stated: “The Lord spoke to Moses and to Aaron.”

So, what’s the takeaway here? It's not just about avoiding gossip or empty chatter. It's about recognizing the immense power our words hold and directing them with intention. It’s about trusting in something greater than ourselves. This passage in Shemot Rabbah serves as a potent reminder that even our seemingly small utterances can have significant consequences, shaping not only our own destinies, but also the course of history. Are we using our words wisely?

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Shemot Rabbah 15:13Shemot Rabbah

The ancient rabbis felt that way about the Israelites in Egypt. generation after generation born into slavery. It's a crushing weight. But what if, suddenly, that debt was cancelled? What if the slate was wiped clean? That's the powerful image we find in Shemot Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus.

The verse in question is (Exodus 12:2): "This month shall be for you." What does it mean? The rabbis, in their inimitable way, find layers of meaning. This particular interpretation, found in Shemot Rabbah 15, draws a fascinating parallel to the reign of a king.

Rabbi Levi tells a story. Imagine a duke, a powerful figure, who is suddenly draped in the purple cloak of royalty. What does he do to mark this new beginning? He cancels tax debts, burns the promissory notes that bind his people, and either parades the legions in celebration or grants them leave. It’s a complete reset. A new era.

This, Rabbi Levi suggests, is what happened when God redeemed the Israelites from Egypt. Before the Exodus, the Holy One, blessed be He, had been, in a sense, in "exile" for twenty-six generations since Creation. He hadn't fully revealed His kingship. But Egypt changed everything.

How so? Just like that duke, God cancelled the debt of slavery. Remember the verse: "And the children of Israel went out triumphantly" (Exodus 14:8)? That wasn't just a physical escape; it was a spiritual liberation. The debt was paid.

Then, the rabbis say, He burned the promissory note. This refers to the verse: "The residence of the children of Israel that they lived in Egypt [was four hundred and thirty years]" (Exodus 12:40). But wait a minute! According to tradition, they were only actually in Egypt for 210 years. (That is, before God took them out early). The rabbis understand this as God cutting short the period of suffering, symbolically "burning" the full duration of the decree.

Finally, God took out the legions. Not earthly armies, but the Israelite people themselves, formed into a nation, ready to serve Him. And so, according to Shemot Rabbah, this was the true beginning of God's reign, fulfilling the verse from Proverbs (8:15) quoted by Solomon: "Through me kings reign." It was a moment of ultimate sovereignty.

What a powerful image. It’s not just about historical events; it's about the possibility of renewal in our own lives. Can we find ways to cancel our own debts – both literal and metaphorical? To burn the promissory notes that bind us to the past? And to embrace our own potential, our own "legions," to serve something greater than ourselves? That's the invitation of Exodus, an invitation that echoes through the ages.

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Shemot Rabbah 23:8Shemot Rabbah

Our story comes from Shemot Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus. It paints a breathtaking picture of divine intervention and the unwavering faith of a new generation. Rabbi Yehuda tells us it was the children, the very ones Pharaoh sought to destroy, who first recognized God at the Red Sea. But how?

The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), or interpretive story, recounts a remarkable tale. Imagine an Israelite woman, forced to give birth in the fields, away from the safety of her home. Overwhelmed but resolute, she would leave her newborn in God's care, entrusting the child's fate to the Divine. "Master of the universe," she would pray, "I did mine; You do Yours."

Rabbi Yochanan says that God Himself, in a manner of speaking, would descend. He would sever the umbilical cord, cleanse the child, and anoint them with oil. We find echoes of this in the prophet Ezekiel (16:4-5, 9-10), who speaks of a neglected newborn, abandoned and unwashed. "Regarding your birth," Ezekiel says, "on the day you were born, your navel was not cut. I bathed you in water. I clothed you in embroidery." These verses, according to the midrash, hint at God's direct involvement in nurturing these abandoned children.

Can you picture it? Two stone vessels placed in the infant's hands – one filled with oil, the other with milk. Deuteronomy (32:13) alludes to this, saying, "He gave him to suckle honey from a stone, and oil from a flinty rock." The children grew strong and healthy in the fields, nurtured by divine providence. "I caused you to grow like the growth of the field," says Ezekiel (16:7).

When these children finally entered their parents' homes, they were asked, "Who tended to you?" And their reply was consistent: "A certain handsome, outstanding young man would descend and provide all our needs." This figure, the midrash suggests, was none other than God Himself, described in the Song of Songs (5:10) as "clear-skinned and ruddy, more eminent than ten thousand."

Now, imagine the scene at the Red Sea. The Israelites are trapped, Pharaoh's army closing in. Fear and desperation fill the air. But then, these children, the ones nurtured by God in the fields, recognize Him. As the Shemot Rabbah tells us, they cried out to their parents, "This is the One who was doing all those things for us when we were in Egypt!" And in that moment of recognition, their faith ignited, and they proclaimed, "This is my God, and I will glorify Him!" (Exodus 15:2). The phrase "this is my God" is taken to mean that they recognized Him.

This midrash is more than just a beautiful story. It's a evidence of the enduring power of faith, even in the face of unimaginable adversity. It reminds us that even when we feel abandoned and alone, God is always present, nurturing us, and guiding us towards redemption. And sometimes, it's the most vulnerable among us, the children, who show us the way. What does it mean to recognize God in our lives? Where do we see the Divine hand at work? Perhaps, like those children at the Red Sea, we simply need to open our eyes and hearts to the miracles unfolding around us every day.

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