There is no mighty hand or outstretched arm
waiting to smite down pharaohs or other types of 
misogynist strongmen, there is no magic suspension 

of the laws of nature that will empty the sea
long enough for 600,000 men to escape, followed 
by their possessions, the women, the mixed multitude.

There is often, however, a hand stretching out, 
someone who offers redemption without expectation of
worshipful devotion or sacrificial ritual,

another human being, also barely making it through,
who reaches out, reaches down, drags the straggler
through the deluge and rescues the forgotten from the pit.

Every year, in every generation, we tell the story,
the myth of miracles, the prayers we hope will save us, 
because this is our legacy

to reframe our suffering in the poetry of miracles, 
to sing joyfully in the face of sorrow, to add the 
uncounted and unheard to our retelling of the story.

But our greatest legacy is this, that every year, in every
generation, despite all evidence to the contrary, 
we are still hopeful enough to open the door for Elijah.

©4/13/23marthahurwitz