When the Sea Splits on Shabbos: A Shvi’i shel Pesach Reflection on Courage, Emunah, and the Sacred Journey of Parenting Through Pain

Introduction: The Night the Sea Stood Still

This year, Shvi'i shel Pesach — the day we recall the Splitting of the Sea — falls on Shabbos, the day of sacred stillness. It is a rare and holy convergence: geulah and menuchah, redemption and rest, breakthrough and surrender — woven together in one breath.

One commemorates the impossible becoming possible. The other teaches us to release our grip and trust what we cannot see. Together, they whisper a deeper message — not just to our nation, but to every parent standing at the edge of their own sea.

And this year, the sea feels particularly stormy.

Across the globe, antisemitism is rising, louder and more brazen than many of us have seen in our lifetimes. Our children are exposed to hatred and confusion — online, in classrooms, in conversations. Even those who seem stable carry invisible weight. And the vulnerable among them? They are being pulled in every direction — by fear, by shame, by voices that chip away at their worth and their identity.

We, as parents, feel it in our bones. We ask: How do I protect my child’s soul in a world that feels so unsafe? How do I stay anchored when I, too, feel like I’m slipping beneath the waves?

There are no simple answers. But the story of the Splitting of the Sea, especially when it occurs on Shabbos, offers us a map. A map of movement and stillness. Of action and surrender. Of fear and faith. A map not only for nations crossing oceans — but for mothers and fathers, walking through tears, hoping for light.

Because what happened that night at the edge of the sea — and what it means when it happens on Shabbos — holds a message for every parent longing to believe that healing is still possible, and that redemption, even now, is still on the horizon.

Part 1: The Sea Doesn’t Split Right Away

Chazal teach (Shemot Rabbah 21:10) that when Bnei Yisrael stood before the Yam Suf, the sea did not immediately open. It stood like an immovable wall. The waters churned. Fear surged. Behind them, Pharaoh’s army thundered. In front of them — only impossibility.

And then came Nachshon ben Aminadav.

He didn’t ask for reassurance. He didn’t wait for a sign. He stepped forward — ankle, knee, waist, chest, neck — until the water touched his soul. Only then, say Chazal, did the sea finally split.

Rav Soloveitchik zt"l (Reflections of the Rav, on Kriyat Yam Suf) explains that this moment wasn’t one of spectacle — it was a quiet act of inner greatness. Nachshon didn’t wait for a miracle. He became the miracle. His act of courage, born from trust, was the catalyst for national redemption.

The Ramban (on Shemot 13:16) notes that the miracles of the Exodus were not merely for that generation. They were planted like seeds in the soil of our collective soul — reminders to trust Hashem even when the path ahead looks impossible, and His presence feels hidden.

For many parents today — especially those raising teens in pain — this story feels all too real. You’ve tried. You’ve cried. You’ve researched every resource, prayed every prayer, reached out to rabbanim, therapists, educators — and still the waters don’t move. The resistance, the silence, the unpredictability — it wears you down.

And then Shvi’i shel Pesach whispers: You’re Nachshon now.

Every time you sit at a Shabbos table with an extra place set — even though your child hasn’t joined you in weeks — you are stepping into the sea. Every time you text “I love you” to a teen who doesn’t answer, every time you greet them with kindness after a rough day, every time you choose faith over despair — the waters feel it.

You may not see it yet, but Hashem sees every step.

The Zohar teaches that Hashem doesn’t just split seas — He softens hearts. And sometimes, the sea that needs splitting isn’t outside us, but within: the sea of disappointment, of guilt, of fear. When you walk forward despite the unknown, you are transforming that inner sea into dry land — for yourself, and for your child.

You are not asked to split the sea. That’s not your task. But you are asked to keep walking.

Because sometimes the breakthrough doesn’t happen when the child changes. It happens when the parent keeps loving — when it makes the least sense and demands the most strength.

Part 2: Shabbos and the Redemptive Pause

Shabbos arrives not with thunder, but with a whisper: "You don’t have to do it all. You’re not carrying this alone."

In a world obsessed with doing, fixing, measuring, and proving, Shabbos is an act of quiet rebellion. It tells us: set down your burdens. Let go of the illusion of control. Return to who you are.

The Sfat Emet (Shabbat 5632) teaches that Shabbos is not merely a day of rest — it is a return to essence. It reveals the pnimiyut, the inner light that has been buried under noise and exhaustion. On Shabbos, that light quietly says: you are still whole.

This message is essential for parents of teens in pain.

Because during the week, we scramble. We analyze every word. We consult experts. We try so hard to fix what feels broken. And often, we end the week more drained than we began.

But then comes Shabbos, and with it, an invitation: To stop running. To sit. To breathe. To bless. To remember.

Even if your child doesn’t light candles. Even if they walk out the door right after Kiddush.

Even if they are distant or angry or silent — the holiness of your home is not undone.

The Zohar (Vol. II, 88a) teaches that on Shabbos, we are gifted with a neshamah yeteirah — an extra soul. This soul is not only spiritual, but emotional. It expands our capacity to carry pain with grace, to feel the presence of Hashem even in the ache, to hold onto hope even in the silence.

And this year, we need that gift more than ever.

The outside world feels loud and unstable. Antisemitism rises. Moral clarity blurs. Our children, even the ones who appear composed, are absorbing fear, confusion, and pressure from all sides. And the fragile ones? They are struggling to stay afloat.

We, too, feel overwhelmed. And yet — Shabbos anchors us.

Even in exile, even in a home that feels fractured, even when everything inside us feels uncertain — Shabbos says:

"There is still beauty. There is still breath. You are still beloved."

The Aish Kodesh, writing from the depths of the Warsaw Ghetto, taught:

“We can still choose to sing, even in the darkness, because our song does not depend on our circumstances. It depends on the spark of the soul that never dies.”

That is the quiet power of Shabbos.

It is not a denial of pain — it is a sanctification of presence. It reminds you: you do not need to fix your child in this moment. You only need to love. To sit at the table. To light a candle. To hold space.

It’s not magic. But it is sacred.

Because sometimes healing begins not when we find answers — but when we stop running from the questions. Not when our child transforms — but when we create one moment of peace in the middle of the storm.

Shabbos is that moment.

Part 3: Singing at the Sea — Before the Journey Ends

When Bnei Yisrael emerged from the sea, they did not wait until they reached the safety of the Promised Land to sing. They sang there — still wet, still trembling, still surrounded by wilderness.

The Mechilta (Beshalach 4) notes that the phrase "אָז יָשִׁיר מֹשֶׁה" — "Then Moshe will sing" — is written in the future tense. Why not say, "Moshe sang"? Because the song at the sea was not just a response to the past. It was a declaration of faith in the future.

Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin (Pri Tzaddik, Parshat Beshalach) explains that true song does not wait for perfection. It rises even when the picture is incomplete. That is why, he writes, the song of the sea was the first communal song of the Jewish people — because it was the first time they sang not despite the trauma, but through it.

For parents of struggling children, this is a life-changing paradigm.

It is so easy to withhold joy until the healing is complete. We tell ourselves we will rejoice when our child returns, when the pain is gone, when the fear lifts. But the Torah doesn’t wait. The song comes in the middle of the journey, not the end.

If your child smiled today — even briefly — that is a song. If they showed up to dinner, made eye contact, or asked a question — sing that moment.

Not because everything is perfect. But because even a flicker of connection is part of the melody of redemption.

The Sfat Emet notes that the root of the word "שירה" (song) shares meaning with "שׁוּר" — to look, to see. Song is vision. It means seeing differently. To sing is to see through the cracks and glimpse the light already forming.

When a baby is born, we give a name not when they walk, but when they cry. When we light the first candle of Chanukah, we say the full Hallel — not because the house is aglow, but because there is light in one window.

So too with your child. They are on a journey. So are you. Every step forward — even the tiniest one — is worthy of your praise.

As Rabbi Nachman of Breslov famously said: (Likutei Moharan I:282)

"If you believe you can destroy, believe you can repair. And if you believe in despair, believe in a joy that hasn’t yet arrived."

This is not naïve optimism. This is holy defiance. This is emunah in motion.

When you sing in the middle of the sea, you are not denying the pain. You are declaring that pain will not have the final word.

Part 4: Hashem Will Fight for You

As Bnei Yisrael stood at the edge of the Yam Suf, with terror pressing behind them and an unyielding ocean before them, Moshe turned to the trembling nation and said words that have echoed across Jewish history:

ה'ילחם לכם ואתם תחרשון"

Hashem will fight for you, and you shall be silent." (Shemot 14:14)

At first glance, it sounds like a call to passivity. But the Netziv of Volozhin (Ha’Emek Davar on Shemot 14:14) explains: this silence is not a void — it is a form of faith. It is not surrender out of despair, but surrendering into trust. It is the silence of someone who knows their cries have been heard, even if the answer has not yet arrived.

It is the silence of a parent who has said all there is to say. Who has begged, pleaded, done the research, called the experts. Who has reached the edge where words no longer help, and all that remains is aching presence.

This silence isn’t empty. It is full. Full of love. Full of longing. Full of prayers that rise without sound. And it is in that sacred quiet that Hashem begins to fight for you.

Today, many parents feel voiceless.

They no longer recognize the world their children are growing up in. They feel judged, misunderstood. They see values they cherished mocked. They watch as social media, peer pressure, and ideological confusion pull their children away from the roots they tried to plant.

Sometimes, heartbreakingly, their own children speak with voices that reject everything they hoped to pass on.

And yet — Hashem still fights for you. And for them.

The Talmud (Sotah 11a) teaches that when Pharaoh decreed the death of every newborn boy, it was not military action or political strategy that saved the people. It was the silent cries of the Jewish mothers — Yocheved, Miriam, and the daughters of Israel — that ascended to Heaven. These cries had no audience but G-d. And that was enough.

So if you feel like no one hears you — Hashem does. If you fear your child has drifted too far — Hashem hasn’t lost sight of them.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that just as the sea hides treasures beneath its surface, every soul — even one storm-tossed or wrapped in apathy or anger — contains unfathomable divine beauty. Hashem sees that spark, even when you can’t.

And sometimes, Hashem hides Himself — not to abandon us, but to walk beside us in the dark.

The Zohar (Zohar, Vol. II ) writes that Hashem is closest to us in times of hester panim, when His face seems hidden. Just as the Shechinah accompanied us into exile, so too did He walk with us through the sea, holding the waters back not with noise, but with silence.

If you feel like you’re losing the battle — it may be because it isn’t yours to win.

Your job is to love. To stand present. To listen. To pray. To believe.

The battle? That’s His. And He never loses.

You are not alone. Not in this storm. Not in this generation. Not in your fear.

Hashem is still making a way through the unknown.

Even when it’s quiet. Even when nothing seems to move. Even when all you can do is stand still — and hope.

Conclusion: From the Sea to the Sanctuary

“You may not be able to control the journey, but you can shape the tone of the home that holds it.”

The sea was never the end of the story. It was the beginning of a deeper becoming.

After the roar of the waves and the silence of surrender, after the trembling steps and the song of survival — came the journey through the wilderness. It was there, in the vast and confusing in-between, that something extraordinary began to take shape.

From the sea, they walked toward Sinai. And from Sinai, to the building of the Mishkan — a home for the Shechinah, built not in heaven, but on earth. Not by angels, but by human hands, hearts, and mistakes.

The Sfat Emet teaches that the Mishkan was not built in spite of their struggles, but because of them. The gold and silver were not the only building materials — so were the tears shed in Egypt, the fear that lingered in the desert, the longing for connection, and the courage to keep going. The pain of exile became sacred beams. The faith of the journey became holy bricks.

This is your story, too.

Every sleepless night. Every whispered prayer.

Every act of courage that looks like folding laundry or lighting a candle.

Every time you set the Shabbos table not knowing who will sit.

Every time you show up with love in the face of resistance — you are building something eternal.

You are not waiting for a miracle. You are becoming part of one.

Your home may not look like a sanctuary right now. But holiness does not depend on appearances. It depends on presence. On showing up. On patience. On faith that the story is not finished yet.

So if you are still walking through the sea — keep walking. If you are in the silence — know that Hashem is fighting for you. If you are tired — let Shabbos hold you. And when your child takes even the smallest step forward — sing.

Because your journey is sacred. And your faith is not only carrying your child forward — it is building the sanctuary they will one day return to.

A Blessing for You

May this Shabbos of redemption bring calm to your storm and peace to your home.

May it soften the ache in your heart and awaken hope in places that have grown quiet.

May Hashem fight the battles you no longer have strength to fight.

And may you feel His presence, even in the silence.

May every tear you’ve cried, every step you’ve taken through the sea, be counted in Heaven —Not as weakness, but as sacred courage.

May you find moments of rest, even in the waiting.

Moments of light, even in the unknown.

And moments of song, even before the story is complete.

And may the day come soon —

when you and your child will sing a new song together.

Not from the far side of the sea, but from a place of healing,