I had never seen a baby cry like that before.
I was just a servant girl. My name’s Leah. And I lived in one of the Egyptian homes closest to the riverbank. Pharaoh’s laws meant fear followed us everywhere—but that morning, hope floated past my front door.
The Nile didn’t care about cries or laws. It just rolled on, muddy and calm, carrying that strange little basket like a secret it couldn’t hold. I’d gone down to the water with an empty jug and a heavy heart. My cousin’s son had been taken the week before—just like all the other Hebrew boys. The soldiers didn’t knock; they didn’t ask. They just... came. And so, every woman I knew stopped singing. Every man walked with shoulders low. It was like our souls had forgotten how to breathe.
But that morning, as I stepped over reeds and nearly slipped on a slick log, I heard something that made me freeze: a soft, steady cry.
Then I saw it. The basket.
At first I thought it was just debris, tangled in papyrus. But then the top of it moved—and a baby’s wail broke through the stillness like thunder in a clear sky.
I knew I shouldn’t touch it. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t even supposed to be outside the way I was. But the cry didn’t stop. And my legs moved before my fear could.
I crouched low beside the basket just as a group of women appeared behind me. Rich robes, gold bangles, perfume thick in the air.
Pharaoh’s daughter was among them.
Her name was Ava. She was nothing like her father. Where his face was sharp and hard, hers was soft, almost sad. She looked at me, then down at the basket. I stepped aside. I expected her to call for a guard.
Instead, she knelt. Just like me.
“He’s a Hebrew baby,” she whispered, lifting him gently into her arms. “Someone tried to hide him… to save him.”
I nodded but said nothing. My throat burned.
One of her maids drew back. “Your father said—”
“I know what he said,” Ava replied, voice now iron at the edges. She looked at me again, as if searching for something. “Do you know someone who can nurse him?”
I did. I knew someone who had cried for days, thinking her son was gone forever. I nodded again, this time stronger.
“Then go,” she said, wrapping the baby in a soft cloth from her own robe. “Tell her he’s safe. Tell her—I’ll make sure of it.”
I ran so fast I dropped my jug and never looked back.
Later that night, I sat with my cousin as she cradled her son, too overcome to speak. I told her how Ava had taken him in, how G-d had moved the heart of Pharaoh’s own daughter, and how this tiny boy now had a name: Moses.
That name would shake kingdoms one day. But that night, it simply meant: drawn from the water. Rescued. Covered. Chosen.
I used to think G-d had gone silent in Egypt. That He’d turned away.
But now I know He was listening all along—starting with one baby’s cry.
And the miracle wasn’t just that Moses lived. It was that, somehow, in a place ruled by fear and pride, G-d made room for compassion. That was the first sign He was coming to rescue us.
We just didn’t know yet how big His plan really was.
I had never seen a baby cry like that before.
I was just a servant girl. My name’s Leah. And I lived in one of the Egyptian homes closest to the riverbank. Pharaoh’s laws meant fear followed us everywhere—but that morning, hope floated past my front door.
The Nile didn’t care about cries or laws. It just rolled on, muddy and calm, carrying that strange little basket like a secret it couldn’t hold. I’d gone down to the water with an empty jug and a heavy heart. My cousin’s son had been taken the week before—just like all the other Hebrew boys. The soldiers didn’t knock; they didn’t ask. They just... came. And so, every woman I knew stopped singing. Every man walked with shoulders low. It was like our souls had forgotten how to breathe.
But that morning, as I stepped over reeds and nearly slipped on a slick log, I heard something that made me freeze: a soft, steady cry.
Then I saw it. The basket.
At first I thought it was just debris, tangled in papyrus. But then the top of it moved—and a baby’s wail broke through the stillness like thunder in a clear sky.
I knew I shouldn’t touch it. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t even supposed to be outside the way I was. But the cry didn’t stop. And my legs moved before my fear could.
I crouched low beside the basket just as a group of women appeared behind me. Rich robes, gold bangles, perfume thick in the air.
Pharaoh’s daughter was among them.
Her name was Ava. She was nothing like her father. Where his face was sharp and hard, hers was soft, almost sad. She looked at me, then down at the basket. I stepped aside. I expected her to call for a guard.
Instead, she knelt. Just like me.
“He’s a Hebrew baby,” she whispered, lifting him gently into her arms. “Someone tried to hide him… to save him.”
I nodded but said nothing. My throat burned.
One of her maids drew back. “Your father said—”
“I know what he said,” Ava replied, voice now iron at the edges. She looked at me again, as if searching for something. “Do you know someone who can nurse him?”
I did. I knew someone who had cried for days, thinking her son was gone forever. I nodded again, this time stronger.
“Then go,” she said, wrapping the baby in a soft cloth from her own robe. “Tell her he’s safe. Tell her—I’ll make sure of it.”
I ran so fast I dropped my jug and never looked back.
Later that night, I sat with my cousin as she cradled her son, too overcome to speak. I told her how Ava had taken him in, how G-d had moved the heart of Pharaoh’s own daughter, and how this tiny boy now had a name: Moses.
That name would shake kingdoms one day. But that night, it simply meant: drawn from the water. Rescued. Covered. Chosen.
I used to think G-d had gone silent in Egypt. That He’d turned away.
But now I know He was listening all along—starting with one baby’s cry.
And the miracle wasn’t just that Moses lived. It was that, somehow, in a place ruled by fear and pride, G-d made room for compassion. That was the first sign He was coming to rescue us.
We just didn’t know yet how big His plan really was.
