She cradled her son gently, his skin smooth as wet clay. He nuzzled her neck, trying to cuddle closer. What would become of him? The man in the fields, the one covered with mud, said to trust the child only to God.
A ray of sun edged its way across the room to rest near his bed, and Jochebed realized he had almost outgrown his sleeping basket. Had Aaron and Miriam grown this quickly, or did each child grow faster than the last? Babies grew so quickly, each new blink and wiggle marking the flight of time.
If only she could step back in time to the years when the birth of a son was celebrated instead of mourned, to a day when friends and family gathered near, to a moment when she knew just what was expected of her.
If only she knew what to do now. If only Amram could escape and return. If only she could talk to her mother.
Jochebed closed her eyes to recall the comfort of having someone to turn to when she didn’t know how to manage. If Mother had been here, she would have known what to do. Mother had walked the floor when baby Miriam had been born too soon and again when Aaron could not seem to breathe. She had baked the Lord’s wisdom into her warm bread, and Jochebed ached with the emptiness of missing her.
Fingering the sleeping basket, Jochebed noticed how securely her mother had woven it. She had been a master weaver, twisting two strands so tightly her smallest baskets could hold water. How the Egyptians had envied her skill. Their work needed a coating of Nile mud—pitch—to hold water in … or to keep the water out.
A thought hovered on the edge of awareness, teasing her before escaping her grasp, leaving a sense of hope. Almost.
She traced the patterns on the basket and marveled at its perfection, its beauty. Mama had loved making things pretty—braiding hair, arranging the bread just so in a basket, gathering a handful of flowers to brighten the room.
But as strong as her baskets had been, her faith in the Lord had been stronger. The memories of nineteen years echoed in her mind. “The Lord will send deliverance. He will not forsake us. As He led us into Egypt, so He will lead us out.”
And perhaps He would, someday. But would the deliverer come in time to save her child? Time was running out, and hope was nowhere in sight. Lord, help.
Clasping her son and praying no one had heard him cry, Jochebed nestled his head against her heart and began the swaying rhythm known to all mothers—slave or Egyptian. He was so trusting, so innocent—as helpless as she felt. And she could not stop herself from kissing the top of his hair—its downy blackness softer than sun-warmed water.
For just a moment she forgot her recent beating, forgot slavery and sorrow and uncertainty. The constant drone of insects dimmed, and the stale odor of cooked cabbage gave way to the rustle of palm trees and the scent of wild jasmine. Jochebed could almost imagine the sky softening to sunrise as she knelt beside the Nile, babe in arms, seeing his delight as the morning came alive: egrets hovering above, calling to each other before swooping down to pluck their breakfast from the river; the sound of voices as women, balancing jars, arrived to draw the day’s water; and papyrus boats floating past, the wake behind them rocking the shore reeds.
An image rippled through her mind … blurry as if she tried to see her face in moving water, the form floating a fingertip out of reach, cresting with hope … joy skimming sorrow’s surface.
The clipped tones of an Egyptian voice shattered the dream. That voice was so close … too close. Had the tiny cries been heard? Since Aaron was with his sister, there would be no explanation for a child’s whimper. Let this day end.
Anxious to hide her son, Jochebed shook out the linens in his basket and checked for poisonous beetles before hiding the basket behind two stone jars. When Aaron and Miriam had been infants, their cradles had swung from the palm tree rafters, comforting them with its motion and protecting them from the deadly pests.
She listened to the sounds next door as she returned to work. She made no noise as she crossed the hard dirt floor. If guards entered, they would find her making baskets, alone.
The voices faded. For just a moment she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the mud wall. If only she could think without fear, perhaps she could see a way to save the infant.
But Jochebed was tired, worn from masking her feelings and worrying about betrayal. And even more than working long hours without sleep, more than keeping up with three-year-old Aaron while caring for an infant who could not be allowed to cry, she was weary from the battle within: torn between hesitating to touch this child so her fingers would never miss the feel of his skin and longing to hold him each sacred moment given; knowing each second of nearness would multiply her grief, yet still yearning to whisper a lifetime of love into his ear; trying to deny his baby scent while filling her eyes with every sleepy motion and toothless smile.
Feelings tossed like a leaf on the Nile—twisting, spinning—drenched in sun, lost from sight—her life, her thoughts whirling out of control.
At least weaving this basket took little thought. Twining the plait of hollow reeds around a basket’s ribbed framework was something she had done since childhood. Jochebed remembered sitting beside her mother in the dust, their knees touching as Mother worked with her first clumsy attempts at basketry. Mother had made it a game, naming each slender reed and then calling a name to teach the braiding pattern. “Mama, Bedde, Papa, Mama…” She could see Mama tightening a strand, tucking a loose end, calmly making everything better.
The emptiness of loss lingered. If only Mother were here now to make everything better. If she could just lean her head against her mother’s, Mama could tell her how to save this child and give Jochebed some answers.
Answers. Actually, she knew what her mother would say. “The Lord’s answer waits for your question.” Maybe. Her question was clear, but if He had an answer, either He wasn’t telling her or Jochebed couldn’t hear it through the churning fear.
Unexpectedly, tears slipped down her face and she wiped them away—surprised any remained. Since the birth of this child, there had been more tears than Jochebed thought possible, tears of grief and despair hardening into tears of anger and fear.
Fear not only for the child’s safety, but fear she would fail in keeping this trust, this gift of life, safe. Yet what could she, a Hebrew slave woman, do? Jochebed pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
All plans of secrecy and flight had been considered and discarded. She had neither influential friends nor wealthy family—they were just slaves: some, skilled artisans; some, laboring as beasts … all subject to calculating masters adept at creating misery.
And Jochebed was more than miserable. With Mother dead and her husband gone, she was alone … abandoned. My God, how can I go through this alone?
Reaching into the fear came … a memory. A realization. Mother’s thoughts? Mother’s words? No, another voice she hadn’t been listening for in a long time.
“The Lord our God will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Our God.
Not just Mother’s God, but hers … and the child’s.
An unexpected quiet wrapped around Jochebed. She didn’t want to move, afraid to lose its presence. Breathing deeply, she savored the stillness encircling her. She was not alone.
At last Jochebed picked up her work and began weaving the papyrus around each sturdy rib. The ribs were the foundation giving shape, strength, definition to each basket.
She had never thought of it before, but Mother’s belief in the Lord had defined her, giving her faith shape and strength. She had woven her life around His promises—even the ones that were long in coming, His unseen promises. Jochebed remembered her saying, “While it is yet dark, the Lord is working.”
As the basket took shape beneath her fingers, familiar pictures crisscrossed in Jochebed’s mind—thickets lining the river, a basket constructed so tightly it held water, a papyrus boat coated with tar and floating on the Nile, and Mother whispering, “The Lord’s answer waits for our question.”
Her hands stilled. Was it possible? Was this the Lord’s answer?
Jochebed already knew how to make the basket and coat it with tar. She could hide it among the reeds on the Nile. And then … What? Was this a delay of the inevitable? A crocodile could surface or the basket might flip over. A strong current might pull the basket midstream.
A time not so long ago floated into her memory. She and Lili and Shiphrah had walked along the Nile, searching for reeds far longer than planned, and stumbled upon the bathing place of the Egyptian princesses. It had been well hidden, surrounded with tall reeds and shaded by palm trees.
If she found it again, she could hide the basket there. Perhaps one of the Egyptian slaves would find it and take the baby home to raise as her own.
Jochebed twirled the leaf between her fingers, watching it go first in one direction and then in the other. If a leaf could think and feel, they’d have a lot in common.
Part of the time she trusted Shiphrah as much as she did herself, then something would happen and doubt would poke its suspicious nose through her trust.
It was like trying to balance on a river rock while being pulled and pushed from both sides. Eventually she’d fall one way or the other and hope she wasn’t hurt.
She knew, knew, Shiphrah never persuaded Lili to wear an Egyptian amulet in hopes of bearing a child. And the possibility of Shiphrah watching for runaway slaves was unlikely enough as to be ridiculous. Why did she treat her friend so poorly?
“Bedde?”
She startled at the sound of Shiphrah’s voice. Feeling guilty, she answered sharply. “What do you want?”
Shiphrah did not seem to notice the edge in Jochebed’s tone.
“I need to talk to you.” Shiphrah paused and stared, her eyes unfocused, her brow furrowed. “A few days ago I found out … Puah told me about her … And this morning I asked Ati … her face…”
“You’re not making any sense. You found out what, Shiphrah?”
“I told you—about her face.”
Exasperated, Jochebed sighed. “Whose face?”
“Puah’s. She told me about my father. It was because of me, Bedde.”
Dropping the leaf, Jochebed tugged at Shiphrah’s clothes until she sat down beside her. “What did Puah say? Can you tell me?”
“Aunt Puah told me more about my mother and about how Ati lost her finger.” Shiphrah nodded. “Our mothers were friends, too, Bedde, just like us.”
Jochebed’s eyes widened. “I never realized.”
“After I was born, my mother and Aunt Puah and sometimes Mama Elisheba arranged meetings in the marketplace to talk and visit. Then my father found out what they were doing.” She gave a tiny smile. “You and I even met once when we were too young to remember. It’s strange how our lives keep crossing.”
The smile faded. “He, Nege, hurt my mother so badly that Puah thought she would die and she was afraid he would kill me, too. She was trying to keep me safe and…”
Shiphrah’s voice wobbled. Stunned, Jochebed scrutinized her face. Shiphrah didn’t cry.
“All these years, I never knew anyone cared what happened to me, and now I find out Puah risked her life to save me from being hurt. Just now, Ati told me that Nege came looking for me and when he saw Puah holding me, he grabbed a knife and…” Shiphrah shook her head.
“She’s carried those marks on her face because of me, Bedde. She’s stayed single because the men can’t see past the scars, and the children make faces at her—I’ve seen them do it—because of me.”
“Shiphrah!”
“It’s my fault.”
“Stop. You can’t blame yourself!”
“How can I not? You don’t even know all of it.”
“Shiphrah, if Puah thought you’d feel this way, she never would have told you the story.”
“She didn’t. Ati did. Puah doesn’t know I know that part.” Shiphrah picked up the leaf Jochebed had dropped and began tearing it into little pieces. “That’s why I needed to talk to you. I don’t know what to do.”
Jochebed closed her eyes. If only her mother were here. She would have known what to say. Mama would have said … She thought of Mama working steadily, patiently, at whatever needed doing.
“I think I know what Mama would tell you to do, Shiphrah.” She hesitated, trying to put the words straight in her mind. “Keep doing what you are already doing. Remember her saying, ‘The Lord’s answers wait for our questions’?”
Shiphrah nodded. “I miss Mama Elisheba.”
For a moment, Jochebed could not speak. “Me, too.” She fanned her eyes to dry the tears. “Ask God if there is something else you should be doing, but for now keep loving your aunt as you do.”
“Should I tell Aunt Puah?”
“I wouldn’t let her know Ati told you about the scar. If Puah wanted you to know, she’d have told you.” Jochebed looked into the distance. “And Shiphrah, protecting you was a gift of love Puah freely gave. Grieve her with your guilt and you’ll dull her joy of giving.”
“Jochebed, there is something else you don’t know. I need to tell you that I’m the one your father—”
The door squeaked, and Miriam beckoned to her mother.
“Peace, Aunt Shiphrah. Mama, he’s waking up.”
Jochebed dusted herself off before pulling Shiphrah to her feet.
Whispering a quick prayer, Jochebed made her decision. “Shiphrah, can you come in? I want to show you something.”
“No! Absolutely not! Bedde, have you lost your mind?”
“If I can only remember the place … There’s no other way, Shiphrah.”
“There has to be.” Shiphrah paced across the room. “I know you can make the basket strong enough and coat it with pitch to waterproof it, but it could so easily tip over, or the crocodiles could … How do you know someone will find it before he starves to death or even who will find it?”
“I know the risks.” Jochebed’s voice quivered.
“What of the water snakes or a hippopotamus?” Her voice rose. “Bedde, you send him to certain death.”
Jochebed said nothing.
Frantic, Shiphrah twisted her hands. “We’ll hide. We’ll leave Egypt. Go to Canaan. Others have left. We can make it.”
“Two women with four children? You would leave Puah and Ati, take Joseph’s child from him?”
Shiphrah faltered. Jochebed continued to work the dough on the wooden trough.
“Bedde, do you remember when I lived with you and Mama Elisheba and just the two of us were playing in the river? I think Lili was with her sheep and your mother had a headache. Remember what we saw floating on the river?”
Jochebed exhaled. “No.” Then she paused, searching her mind for something of import. Shiphrah did not ask foolish questions. “Wait, yes, I do remember. You said it was a little boat, right?”
Shiphrah nodded.
“Didn’t it sink?”
“Yes, but I didn’t say a little boat. I said a baby boat. When I was a little girl, Ati told me her husband put their girl child in a baby boat and left it on the water. She wondered every day what happened to her baby.”
Shiphrah paced across the room and wrung her hands. “I can’t let you suffer like that. I can’t let you spend the rest of your life not knowing if Amram’s son is living or dead, wondering if he was rescued by a kind person or a cruel person, or if he even survived around the river’s bend. What if Amram returns someday and wants to see his son? What are you going to tell him?”
“Shiphrah…”
“Jochebed, if you follow through with this, if you dare risk this vulnerable, precious boy in such a foolhardy, dangerous, stupid way … I will not ever … I do not want to … I cannot … stand to even look at you again.”
“And why should I not take this single chance? So you can betray us and take a reward?”
Across the anger, the two women stared at each other.