Yocheved took her infant up in her arms and swaddled him in her own clothing. For a full year now, Pharaoh had been seizing every boy that was born. She had managed to hide her own precious child for three moons, but she knew that her time with him was coming to a close. She could no longer hide him at her breast, or in her house. Already her neighbors were asking questions, and it would not be long before Egyptian soldiers made their way into her home and snatched him away from her.
The boy smiled at her and reached out, but she held him close, trapping his arms by his side. He squirmed for a moment, but then nestled against her breast. "My good, tender son," she crooned, "Don't be frightened. I have only one thing for you. Once chance that you may live." She nodded to her other two, sweet Miriam and clever Aaron, and they too drew in close. "I pray we meet again." She closed her eyes and sent up a silent plea. Deliver us, O Lord, her heart cried.
She guided her children through the soldier-infested streets. She knew her children had often run down these stairs, and trusted them not to fall, so she threw all of her attention to stealth. Often, she would hear the marching run of Pharaoh's men, and she would pull back. Sometimes her children stopped as she did, and others she had to hold them still. She heard a woman's scream, and it took every ounce of her willpower to keep from rushing to the aid of her bereaved sisters.
It was only by the grace of the Lord that she made it to the riverbank unnoticed. She looked one more time over her shoulder, then brought her son into the light. Miriam knelt at the water's edge and opened the basket. Yocheved held her child, unable to let him go. How could she? What proof did she have that the Nile wouldn't claim him anyway?
No. She could not think that way, or she would drive herself mad. Her God had not allowed harm to come to this child – surely He would protect him from the river, just as He had protected him from Pharaoh.
She forced herself to smile as she lowered the babe into the basket. It broke her heart to draw her hand out of his wee fist, but still she smiled. She would not have his last memory of her besmirched by bitter sorrow.
She allowed herself one last, tender kiss before lowering the wicker lid, but as her child's face was covered, she closed her eyes and turned her head. It was too much to bear.
She lifted the basket and waded into the river. She guided it along in front of her until she was sure the current was strong enough to take her child away from Pharaoh's soldiers. Away from her.
She almost faltered then, almost snatched her son back and rushed ashore, but the current took him away. It was slow yet, and it would be nothing to rush after. But Yocheved held herself in place, now allowing her tears to fall freely. Once again, she sent up a prayer to her Lord, begging him to keep her son safe, to keep him away from Pharaoh and his men. Her prayer lasted until the small wicker basket was long out of sight and her legs were weak from fighting the current. Somehow, she could not bring herself to move from this spot – this, the last thing connected to her sweet, beautiful baby.
The day went on, and the tears of childless mothers continued to flow. Against the cacophony of cries, sobs, and retching, a single voice rose in keening lament over any other sound. Then it turned to a plea.
"Deliver us!"