Forty women: 13. A Levite woman
Meet a nice man from the same tribe: Check.
Marry him: Check.
Have a child with him: Check.
Have a son with him: Check.
It’s all going according to plan. Except for one tiny little detail: the law says you’re not supposed to let your son live. The law says you’re supposed to kill him.
The midwives have refused to be responsible for killing the children, so now it’s supposed to be the mothers who do it. What a cruel, wicked, utterly ridiculous law. What mother is going to willingly put her baby to death?
And so for three months, you manage to hide him. You stifle his cries, you swaddle him in blankets, you avoid being seen by any of the Egyptians. You manage. But you know it can’t last. He’s getting bigger. He’s getting louder. He’s going to get found out.
You need a plan. And you haven’t many options. There’s only one place you can think of where he might be safe and you’ll need to be willing to let him go. You don’t want to. You want to hold him tight and never let him go, but if it keeps him safe, you’ll risk it. So you plan.
You weave a basket, big enough to hold him. You weave it tightly and then you coat it with tar to make it waterproof. You make it better than you’ve ever made anything before because your son’s life depends on it. And when it’s ready, you put your child in the basket and you take him to the place you’ve mapped out.
You can’t stay. It’s too dangerous. It’s too painful. You kiss him and leave him, but you set his sister to watch over him. And perhaps you pray, like you’ve never prayed before, asking your God to look after your child when you can’t look after him yourself. Trusting your God to look after your child when you can’t look after him yourself.
And God does.