Exodus 2
The Birth of Moses
2 Now a man of the tribe of Levi married a Levite woman, 2 and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. 3 But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. 4 His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.
5 Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe, and her attendants were walking along the riverbank. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her female slave to get it. 6 She opened it and saw the baby. He was crying, and she felt sorry for him. “This is one of the Hebrew babies,” she said.
7 Then his sister asked Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby for you?”
8 “Yes, go,” she answered. So the girl went and got the baby’s mother. 9 Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this baby and nurse him for me, and I will pay you.” So the woman took the baby and nursed him. 10 When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, “I drew him out of the water.”
I tried to protect you.
Through the trial, through the fiery darts that rained down like spears from Pharaoh’s fury, I wrapped you in prayer and trembling hands. My heart bore the weight of a lion bleeding in silence, shielding his pride from the arrows of familiar hands. Yet, even in my desperation, I knew—I was not your only protector. I did all I could: I hid you as long as I could.
But the walls of our home grew too thin for the spiritual storm outside giving way to the tornadic fury.
So I gathered the bulrushes, soft but strong, weaving each reed with hope and trembling. Papyrus—light enough to float, sturdy enough to carry a calling. I sealed the seams with pitch and tar, the same way I sealed every whispered prayer, every “Lord, cover her,” with a husband’s faith.
That basket was not just a cradle; it was a covenant. The same one you spoke over her long ago: “His Masterpiece.” How poetic – Broken into Beautiful: I pick up pieces to create her basket of safety.
I placed you on the Nile’s edge, in the cradle of confidence. But the waters that bore my darkest season would bear life for you. For God wrapped His own wings around that frail little ark—an ark not unlike Noah’s, keeping judgment at bay. His Spirit hovered over those waters, just as He hovered at creation. He quieted the current. He commanded the reeds to stand like watchmen, guarding you until help came.
And then I walked away…[pause, reflect, breathe]
Not in abandonment, but in obedience. My arms let go, but my faith held fast. For the God who held you in the river would not leave you in the rushes.
You were hidden from the decree, but not from your destiny.
Because God’s plans were greater.
You were drawn out—not just from the water, but from obscurity, from danger, from fear. Pharaoh’s daughter lifted you, but it was God who raised you. And though she named you Moses, “drawn out,” I saw a deeper meaning: God was already calling you out—out of hiding, out of limitation, out of bondage. Just as He would one day use you to draw a nation out from the depths of slavery into the light of freedom. He says, “Big picture my child.”
Even now, as you journey—ministering, moving, maturing—I see the pattern again. You may feel surrounded by reeds or troubled by the tides, but God always finds someone of godly character to cover you, to protect you along the way.
I may not always walk directly beside you, but I will always kneel in intercession for you. I may not be in the Nile but my reflection is still there.
For I believe, as surely as the Nile carried your destiny forward, so will the Spirit of God guide you. And if you ever question His presence, remember this: before you ever stood on holy ground, you were already held by holy hands.
You are Moses.
Drawn out.
And now you draw others—out of confusion, out of despair, out of chains.
May your journey always remember its beginning.
And may your end be a reflection of the One who carried you from the river to the mountain.
No Pharaoh will ever hold you down.
Thankful,
Christian Armetta
My Deliverer 