Sometimes, Hashem writes history in a way that announces itself with thunder – moments that stop the world in its tracks. But sometimes, the most transformative shifts happen quietly; in kitchens, in whispered tefillos, in the steady choices women make when no one is watching. And only later do we discover that these were the moments on which everything depended.
Here’s a fact we learn in elementary school: Chazal teach us that we were redeemed from Mitzrayim בזכות נשים צדקניות – through the merit of righteous women. It is a phrase we know well. But if we pause long enough to ask what that really means, we begin to realize that this wasn’t about extraordinary women living extraordinary lives. It was about ordinary women under impossible circumstances choosing emunah, courage, and care.
The women of Mitzrayim lived under relentless pressure. Their bodies were exhausted, their daily lives terrifying, their futures uncertain at the very least. Pharaoh’s decrees were not only about physical destruction; they were an attempt to crush hope itself. To convince the Jewish people that there was no point in dreaming, building, or believing in tomorrow. And it was precisely there – inside the darkness – that the Nashim Tzidkaniyos chose life.
The Midrash tells us how Jewish women would go out to the fields to their broken husbands, bringing food, warmth, and mirrors. They reflected something essential back to them: You are still you. We are stillus. And our story is not over.
Those mirrors became the keilim, the vessels of redemption. Because geulah does not begin with exiting. It begins with envisioning. To see beyond what is, into what could be. The women of Mitzrayim looked at a world that insisted on despair and quietly answered, “Something bigger is happening here and I want to be part of it”.
This is why the story of Shifrah and Puah is so instructive.
We often think of them as heroic figures because they defied Pharaoh and saved Jewish babies. And they were. But Rashi draws our attention to something else entirely.
He explains that these were not just names, they were descriptions.
Shifrah was called Shifrah because she beautified the baby – cleaning, soothing, tending, making the newborn comfortable and cared for. Puah was called Puah because she would coo, rock, and gently speak to the baby, responding to cries with warmth and presence.
Isn’t that strange? I actually remember learning this in school and thinking how odd this was – we are talking about women who risked their own lives to save the futures of these babies… and these are the actions that are chosen for posterity – the lotion, the rocking, and the soft sounds? Why are they named for the way they made the babies feel, rather than for the fact that they literally saved their lives?
But perhaps that is exactly the Torah’s message. The redemptive power of women does not only live in moments of visible heroism. It lives in the vulnerability of choice, and the tenderness in response. In refusing to let life be experienced as harsh, frightening, or lonesome.
As women, we do this every day.
We smooth edges.
We anticipate needs.
We create warmth where things could have ”.שהיתה פועה ומדברת והוגה לולד- פועה .שמשפרת את הולד- שפרה“ remained cold and functional. And so often, we don’t even register it as meaningful. It’s “just what we do.” Hashem knows. He notices it all.
The names that echo through eternity are not only earned through dramatic, history-altering moments, but through small, repetitive acts of care that affirm – quietly and consistently – that life matters. And maybe that is how geulah really comes.
One of the most striking images Chazal give us is that the women left Mitzrayim with tambourines. They packed instruments of celebration before the sea split. Before the miracles were visible. Before there was anything concrete to celebrate. That detail changes everything.
Those tambourines teach us that emunah is not a passive belief, it is an active preparation. It is living as though Hashem’s promises are already unfolding, even when we don’t yet see how. The women did not wait for redemption to rejoice. Their rejoicing helped bring about the redemption.
Our Mitzrayim today may look different. The nisyonos are quieter, more internal, less visible. But the avodah is remarkably similar.
To build when it feels vulnerable, to nurture connection when withdrawal would be easier. To choose hope when cynicism feels safer. To serve Hashem with equal measure of softness and strength.
We often think of geulah in very big terms – national, historical, miraculous. Seas splitting. Exiles ending. Mashiach arriving. The national geulah is real, but its timing is in Hashem’s domain. Our avodah to pave the way for national geulah lies in the smaller, personal redemptions that happen every day.
When a woman regulates herself instead of reacting, that is a geulah. When she restores connection after rupture, that is a geulah. When she brings calm into a tense space, faith into uncertainty, dignity into struggle – that is a geulah.
These moments may never make it into a history book. But they build something eternal. Shifrah and Puah didn’t wait for history to change before they acted. They brought redemption into the moment they were standing in. And that is still the work of women today.
I want to remind us all that as we approach Pesach, we are not only remembering a past redemption – we are actively striving for a future one. Every act of lived emunah, every quiet choice for life, every moment of care in the hidden places of our lives becomes part of the unfolding geulah.
Not loudly or dramatically.
But unmistakably.
And one day, when we look back, we may discover that the quiet strength we thought was ordinary was exactly what changed everything.
This article was found in Nekuda Tova Nashim Tzidkaniyos / Pesach.