There is a moment by the Nile that we read too quickly.
A princess comes down for a wash. She finds a basket in the reeds. She opens it, and the Bible says something surprisingly plain: “The little boy was crying and she felt sorry for him.” Then she adds the line that shows she understood the risk. This must be one of the Hebrew children.
She knew. That is the whole point. She knew whose child this was. She knew her own father had ordered his death. And her heart moved before her caution could catch up.
Egypt had been carefully taught what to see: a problem, a threat, a number. She looked properly and saw a crying baby. Compassion almost always begins there, with somebody refusing to look away.
What follows is not heroic in the way we imagine heroism. Every day that child lived in the palace, she was quietly disobeying her father. She never made a speech about it. She simply did the right thing and lived with the awkwardness. That is the part most of us dread. Not the danger, the awkwardness. The raised eyebrow. The comment on the way home.
And she did not do it alone. Miriam steps forward, and this powerful woman accepts help from a Hebrew girl. Kindness needs people brave enough to receive as well as give.
Job describes this life beautifully: eyes for the blind, feet for the lame, a father to the poor, help for strangers. None of it grand. A hand held out to someone outside your circle.
So think of one person your circle has quietly decided not to see. The neighbour. The new colleague. The one at church who always leaves early. Say good morning by name. Make the tea. Walk over.
You are not doing this to become good. You are already loved, already accepted, already home. Kindness is not how we earn our place with God. It is what happens when we believe we already have one.
She never knew she had rescued the man who would set a nation free. You will not see the end of your kindness either. God does.
Watch today’s five-minute devotional here: