One of my favorite things about teaching is, ironically, learning. More specifically, I love teaching in a Jewish elementary school because I frequently learn new things or come across new ideas pertaining to my faith and identity.

It’s Passover. We, the faculty, spend weeks exploring and discussing various aspects of the holiday, with our students and with each other, in leading up to it for our spring break. This year, one thing I learned – or possibly had forgotten and now relearned – was about Batya (or Bithia, depending on how one reads the text), Moses’ adoptive mother. Also known as Pharaoh’s daughter, she is famed for pulling Moses from the rushes and raising him as her own son. What I now know about her is that she actually departed Egypt with the Israelites and ended up converting to Judaism.

There are many characters and plot points in the Passover story, and it can be a lot to keep track of. Batya is easily overlooked. But I was struck this year by the idea of this woman’s life, the choices she made. What strength she must have had, to consistently behave in ways that were contradictory to how she was raised as a Princess of Egypt. She adopted a Hebrew baby boy in flagrant violation of her father’s decree that those babies all be drowned in the Nile. Not only did she save his life, she raised him in luxury rather than the slavery his people endured. When redemption for the Israelites was nigh, and the Egyptians were suffering through the plagues, she left the cushy palace to join her adopted son and his people on a difficult and dangerous journey through the wilderness. She even ended up converting to Judaism, rejecting the idolatrous polytheistic faith of Egypt which she’d been raised in. To hell with the dynasty — Batya consistently did what the fuck she wanted, what she judged to be right.

Batya’s story is a prime example of the strength of character it takes to choose one’s own path, to walk away from what is known and familiar in order to do what is right. It would have been easier for her to stay, to obey, to remain quiet. She did no such thing. Instead, she left a dynastic family which had grown toxic, sacrificing much material wealth and comfort in the process, and created a new life for herself that held meaning and purpose, and love among chosen family.

Jewish people have Hebrew names in addition to their English ones; we use our Hebrew names at certain times in prayer and for certain traditions. Usually, Jewish babies are given Hebrew names by their parents. My parents never got around to it, but my father had once told me that he would have named me Shaina. At least a decade later, on a college trip to Israel, I had a remarkable opportunity to have a naming ceremony there, and I took on the name Shaina Miriam. In the Passover story, Miriam is Moses’ sister, who always watches over him and helps him, not least because Moses has a speech impairment; as a sister who basically raised her brother who has disabilities, I related a lot to Miriam. I still do, I suppose, but over a decade after that naming ceremony, I find myself relating quite a bit to Batya too.

Figures like Moses and Miriam generally get top billing in the Passover tale. Hardly anyone ever remembers to spare a thought for Batya. This year, in learning more about her, I find her to be just as powerful a role model as any of the others. Today, it is she who I take inspiration from, her actions which gird and affirm my own decisions.

I think I’ve written about this before, but it bears repeating. There is a quote that’s often bastardized — “blood is thicker than water.” But, the full text reads, “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” The badly shortened version makes it mean the opposite of its original significance. In other words, it is our choices that matter more than our relational obligations.

Batya knew this. So do I.