WHY IS MIRIAM CALLED A PROPHETESS?

And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.
Sh’mot 15:20 From Torah Portion Beshlach – Exodus 13:17 – 17:16

I’m exhausted. Physical, mental, emotional, and even compassion fatigue have set in because I’m tired of the politics that seem to be pitting us against our neighbors, like so many pawns in a cosmic game of chess.

A few mornings ago, we were evacuating our own country under a cloud of terror. Screaming, angry, and devastated Egyptians in every household stood by helplessly as their eldest sons and animals gasped for breath and lost their lives. Before that, it was three days of darkness. Before that, locusts, hail, boils, dead livestock, flies, lice, frogs, and a bloody mess from the Nile … I’ll never forget. It is a decidedly bad time to be alive in Egypt. Decidedly. So, that’s a lot of turmoil to just walk away from, especially when it’s people I know and have loved all of my life. My boss, Anipe, the woman who gave me my first weaving job, who became a dear friend, and her daughters, Zahra and Mesi, we must now abandon in chaos and sadness as Sahkir, their big brother, succumbed too, from this awful Thing. I can’t offer any comfort, apologies, or explanations for the way this G-d of ours works. It’s been centuries that “our people” have lived in Goshen as “those shepherds”, and this is the country and culture we grew up in. Besides, we’re comfortable here. I suppose.

Except for the stories of The Land and the G-d of our Fathers, Avraham, Yitzhak, and Ya’acov; except for the way we pray with our head covered and make lentil soup this way for funerals because, “That’s the way we’ve always done it,” we consider ourselves, well… Egyptian in most ways. Sure we live in the Jewish neighborhood, and do the bitterly hard jobs of brick-making that the Egyptians won’t, but we’re no different really. People are people. Then, some months ago, everything got confusing and things snowballed and suddenly we became “Us” and “They” became “Them.” And no thanks to Moshe, things got much harder for us; much, much uglier and more dangerous for us, just walking down the street.

A couple of nights ago a plan came down from the Elders. We had to do something that was so audacious that I almost begged my husband not to do it. Painting our doorposts and lintel with the blood of a lamb or goat was about as offensive and disrespectful of our neighbor’s beliefs as we could get. One final act of defiance (and courage?) to make it clear we are not Egyptians and we have another Master that we now serve, was probably good enough to get us killed. Moshe told us it would actually save our lives, and he was proving to be right about everything, so we went with it. We had to eat quickly and that next morning I didn’t have time to let my bread rise. I threw some flour and water in my kneading trough hoping we’d find an oven or fire pit somewhere to bake it before lunch. And grabbing whatever we could carry, with our kids and animals, we left. We just, left. Did I lock the door? I packed a few extra tunics for my husband and a toddlers’ blanket not really sure when we’d be back. Maybe a few days. Maybe a week. Please Adonai, not longer than that, because none of us women want to admit that our just-blooming gardens won’t be tended. Although, deep inside, we knew our time of identifying as Hebrew-Egyptians, was over. We and our friends agreed to take some Egyptian boys whose parents were traumatized by the rest of the plagues. They knew that the only chance of survival for their eldest boy was to throw their hats in with us Hebrews, pack an extra pair of sandals for him, and kiss him quickly good-bye on that horrible night. As a result, we’re responsible for a very sad, angry, confused teen-aged boy who had a girlfriend back there, and prospects for a great future. He’s not grateful, but grumpy and dragging his feet. Maybe we can send him home once this is all over and things get back to normal.

But Miriam stuck her head in the door early that next morning and told me to pack my tambourine. I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue, but did it anyway because Miriam always had instincts that seemed solid. After all, she begged Yocheved and Amram, her parents, to reunite decades ago during that dreadful time of baby-killing in Egypt, with Tovia (now called Moshe-our-Deliverer) being the result. Now in the middle of the fear and this current chaotic upheaval, in the middle of trying to figure out what we’re going to feed these kids “out there” Miriam distracted me from my food list by insisting I pack that tambourine. I’m picturing the garlic cloves, onions and marjoram, that got left on the table and couldn’t be more irritated at her for stopping by just then.

But last night the worried look on her face betrayed the fact that she didn’t bargain for the drama on the sea shore after everyone was wedged between it and the enraged Egyptians approaching in their chariots. No. You see, she’s the prophetess, but I had a bad feeling from the start and that’s why I’d rather not have come at all. That’s why I gave her the stink-eye when Moses and Aaron took off for higher ground telling everyone to “Stand and watch!” there on the shore with no ship in sight.

Then the noise, the wind, the dream-like walk, and the stunned silence of hundreds of thousands of our friends and neighbors as we all pretended not to notice what was on our right and on our left. “Just don’t look at it! And DON’T TOUCH IT!” I whispered harshly to my fascinated 10-year-old son, Ephraim.

And this morning… this New Morning…

….. Shoshana, my daughter, and I are now getting about a half an hour of sleep while my husband and Ephry are helping the older people and stragglers come through. My tambourine is under my head as a pillow. And wouldn’t you know it? No family photo, no silver or gold earrings or bracelets, no kid’s favorite blanket, is more necessary than what’s vibrating in my ear as I awaken. I hear crashing waves, the men singing, Moshe canting for quite some time, then Miriam’s voice singing after them, while other women join in. I hear a New Song backed by tens of thousands of tambourines. I get up, Shoshana stunned, by my side, as our feet are carried away into a rhythm that will define our future and influence every piece of music we will ever hear again. By mid-morning we’re hoarse from singing and shouting and ready to have lunch. Miriam catches my eye, comes over and asks for an onion sandwich with extra garlic. We both laugh hard, and cry harder, and collapse onto the sand, gazing at the clear blue sky that’s hiding millions of stars behind a veil of Light. Tears stream down my temples as I discover that freedom smells and tastes like Salt. So I agree to the expanse of this new covenant and say yes to its terms of trust and obedience.

As we head into uncertainty, hunger, thirst, grumbling, pain, danger, or even tribulation, I will pack this tambourine, because I believe my dear friend, Miriam the Prophetess, that there will be singing and dancing on The Other Side.