My name is Rosalinda Makaiisai and I am a 40-year-old Filipino maid who worked for 12 years inside the palace of one of the most powerful princes in Saudi Arabia.

It was March 14th, 2019, a date I will never forget for as long as I live.

What happened on that day shook the entire royal family to its core.

It made doctors fall silent.

It forced an imam to launch an investigation, and it put my life in danger in ways I never imagined possible.

One afternoon, inside the private room of a dying 70-year-old royal woman, I did something that no servant should ever do.

I touched her, I prayed, and I spoke the name of Jesus.

Before you hear the rest of my story, I need you to prepare your heart.

What happened inside that palace shook the entire royal household to its core.

It forced powerful men to question what they believed.

It made doctors fall silent and it put my life in danger in ways I never imagined possible.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Let me start from the beginning.

I came to Saudi Arabia when I was 28 years old.

Back then, I was a young mother with two children and a husband who could not find stable work in our small province in Ley, Philippines.

We lived in a tiny house made of wood and hollow blocks.

And every month was a struggle to put food on the table.

When the opportunity came to work abroad, I did not hesitate.

I told myself it would only be for 2 years, just enough to save money, build a better house, and give my children a future.

2 years became five.

Five became 10.

And now 12 years later, I’m still here.

The agency sent me to Jedha, a coastal city along the Red Sea known for its humidity, its ancient history, and its wealth.

I was assigned to the household of Prince Khaled bin Fisel al-rashid, a man whose name carried weight across the kingdom.

His estate sat on a quiet palmline street in Alhamra, one of the most exclusive districts in the city.

The villa was enormous.

White marble walls, tall arched windows, fountains in the courtyard, and hallways so long it took me months to memorize them.

When I first arrived, I was terrified.

I had never seen such wealth in my life.

I had never walked on floors so polished I could see my reflection.

I had never lived in a place where silence was a rule, not a choice.

The household staff included over 20 workers from different countries, drivers from Pakistan, gardeners from Bangladesh, cooks from Indonesia, and fellow Filipinos who cleaned, ironed, and served meals.

We lived in small quarters at the back of the estate, separated from the main house by a narrow pathway lined with jasmine bushes.

Our rooms were simple.

Thin mattresses on tiled floors, small windows covered with curtains, and shared bathrooms that we cleaned ourselves after long shifts.

From the beginning, I understood the rules.

Do not speak unless spoken to.

Do not look directly at the royals.

Do not enter rooms you are not assigned to.

Do not question instructions.

Do not complain.

And above all, do not discuss religion.

Saudi Arabia is an Islamic kingdom.

The call to prayer echoes across the city five times a day and everyone in the household pauses when it sounds.

The royals pray on their elegant mats in private rooms.

The Muslim staff bow wherever they are.

And those of us who are not Muslims stay silent, heads down, waiting for the moment to pass.

I am a Christian.

I have been a believer since I was a child, baptized in a small church in Leaty, surrounded by family and friends who sang hymns that echoed through the coconut trees.

My faith was the one thing I brought with me to this foreign land, not in my luggage, but in my heart.

But here, I could not speak of it.

There were no churches for me to attend, no Bibles allowed in my suitcase, no crosses hanging on my wall.

If anyone discovered that I prayed to Jesus in my room at night, I could be reported, questioned, and possibly deported.

In the worst cases, I had heard of workers being jailed for practicing Christianity openly.

So, I learned to worship in silence.

Every night, after the house grew still and the lights in the main villa dimmed, I would sit on the edge of my mattress, close my eyes, and whisper prayers so soft even the walls could not hear them.

I spoke to Jesus as if he were sitting beside me.

I told him about my children back home, how my daughter was growing into a young woman, and how my son had started high school.

I told him about the ache in my chest that never went away, the loneliness that came from years of separation, and the hope that one day all of his sacrifice would be worth it.

He never answered audibly, but I always felt something, something warm, something steady, something that reminded me I was not forgotten.

During the day, I moved through the villa like a shadow.

I cleaned chandeliers that sparkled like diamonds.

I folded bed sheets softer than anything I had ever touched.

I polished silver trays, arranged fresh flowers, and scrubbed bathrooms until they gleamed.

The work was exhausting, but I never complained.

Every real I earned went straight to my family.

The prince himself was a busy man.

I rarely saw him except during formal gatherings or family occasions.

He was tall, always dressed in crisp white throbbes, and carried himself with the quiet authority of someone born into power.

He was not cruel, but he was distant like a cloud passing high above, unaware of the ground below.

His wife, Princess Nura, was stricter.

She had sharp eyes that noticed every crease, every smudge, every mistake.

If a pillow was not fluffed properly, she would call the head housekeeper and demand it be fixed immediately.

If a maid walked too slowly, she would snap her fingers and point toward the door.

I learned quickly to stay out of her way.

But there was one person in the household who treated us differently.

Shikica Fatima.

She was the prince’s 70-year-old mother, a woman with silver hair, soft wrinkles, and kind eyes that seemed to carry the weight of many years.

Unlike the rest of the royals, she spoke gently to the staff.

She remembered our names.

She asked about our families.

Once when I was dusting a vase near her sitting room, she looked up from her tea and said, “You have a good heart, Linda.

I can see it in your hands.

” I did not know how to respond.

No royal had ever spoken to me like that.

Shika Fatima spent most of her days in a private wing of the villa surrounded by embroidered cushions, golden lamps, and framed verses of the Quran.

She prayed faithfully, gave generously to charity, and was deeply respected by everyone in the household.

When she walked through the halls, even the strictest guards softened their expressions.

I admired her from a distance, never daring to speak beyond what was necessary.

But something about her stayed with me.

A quiet grace, a hidden sadness, a depth that I could not explain.

For years, life in the villa followed the same rhythm.

I woke before sunrise, worked until my body ate, prayed in secret, and slept with my children’s photographs pressed against my heart.

I told myself that God had placed me here for a reason, even if I could not see it yet.

Little did I know that the reason was coming, and it would arrive in the form of a miracle so powerful that the entire royal household would be shaken to its foundation, and my quiet, invisible life would never be the same again.

It was a Tuesday morning when everything in the villa changed.

I remember the day clearly because the sky was gray and heavy, as if the clouds themselves knew something terrible was about to happen.

I was in the laundry room folding towels when I heard the first scream.

It came from the private wing where Shika Fatima lived.

The sound was sharp and filled with panic, cutting through the usual silence of the estate like a knife.

I dropped the towel in my hands and stood frozen, unsure of what to do.

Within seconds, footsteps echoed through the hallways as maids, nurses, and guards rushed toward the source of the commotion.

I stayed where I was because servants like me were not allowed to run toward emergencies unless called.

But my heart raced with worry and my hands trembled as I waited for news.

Within an hour, the entire household knew what had happened.

Shika Fatima had collapsed in her sitting room without any warning.

One moment she was drinking her morning tea and reading from the Quran.

The next moment she was lying on the floor unconscious and barely breathing.

The nurses who attended to her said her face had turned pale and her body had gone limp like a doll.

They carried her to her bedroom and immediately called for the family doctor.

Prince Khaled arrived within minutes, his face tight with fear.

Princess Nura followed close behind, barking orders at everyone around her.

The villa that was once calm and quiet suddenly became loud with panic and confusion.

I watched from a distance as more people rushed in and out of the Shikica’s wing, and I whispered a silent prayer under my breath for the old woman who had once spoken kindly to me.

The family doctor examined Shikica Fodima for over an hour.

When he finally came out of her room, his expression was grim.

He spoke quietly with Prince Khaled in the hallway, but the news spread quickly among the staff.

The doctor said the Shikica had suffered a sudden neurological episode that had affected her entire body.

He said her muscles had weakened severely and her ability to walk had been damaged.

He could not explain why it had happened so suddenly or what had caused it.

All he could say was that she needed complete bed rest and constant medical attention.

The prince listened in silence, his jaw tight and his fists clenched.

I had never seen him look so helpless.

For all his wealth and power, he could not undo what had happened to his mother.

And as the days passed, it became clear that her condition was not improving at all.

The first week after the collapse was the hardest.

Shika Fatima could not leave her bed.

She could not sit up on her own.

She could not feed herself or even hold a cup of water without assistance.

Nurses were hired around the clock to care for her, and medical equipment was brought into her room.

machines that beeped constantly, tubes that carried fluids into her arms, and monitors that tracked her heartbeat.

The once peaceful wing of the villa now looked like a hospital ward.

The smell of medicine filled the air, and the sound of footsteps never stopped as nurses and doctors moved in and out at all hours.

The staff whispered among themselves, saying they had never seen the Shikica so weak.

Some of them cried quietly in the kitchen, mourning the loss of a kind woman who used to greet them with warmth and grace.

By the second week, the prince decided to bring in specialists from outside Saudi Arabia.

He flew in doctors from Germany, the United States, and Singapore, experts in neurology, internal medicine, and rehabilitation.

They examined the Shikica with expensive machines and conducted tests that none of us understood.

They held long meetings with the family behind closed doors, speaking in medical terms that sounded like a foreign language.

But despite all their knowledge and experience, none of them could offer a cure.

One doctor said her nerves had been damaged beyond repair.

Another said her muscles would never regain their strength.

A third said the best they could do was manage her pain and keep her comfortable.

Each report crushed the hope of the family a little more.

And with every passing day, the atmosphere inside the villa grew darker and heavier as if a thick cloud had settled over the entire estate.

After a month of being bedridden, the decision was made to put Shika Fatima in a wheelchair.

The doctor said it was the only way she could leave her room without risking further injury.

A special wheelchair was ordered from abroad, one with soft cushions, adjustable armrests, and wheels that glided silently across the marble floors.

The first time the nurses helped her into it, I happened to be cleaning a vase in the hallway nearby.

I saw her face as they lowered her into the chair, and my heart broke into pieces.

She looked so small, so fragile, so different from the dignified woman who once walked through these halls with quiet strength.

Her hands rested limply on her lap, and her eyes stared ahead with a sadness that words could not describe.

She did not cry, but I could see the pain hidden behind her silence.

It was the pain of someone who had lost control of her own body.

From that day on, Shika Fodima spent most of her time in the wheelchair.

The nurses would push her to the sitting room in the mornings so she could look out the window at the garden.

They would take her to the dining hall during family meals, though she barely ate more than a few bites.

And in the evenings, they would wheel her back to her room where she would lie awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

The family tried everything to lift her spirits.

Prince Khaled brought her gifts, expensive jewelry, rare perfumes, silk scarves from Paris.

Princess Nura arranged for Quran reciters to come and read soothing verses beside her bed.

Relatives from other cities visited with flowers and prayers, but nothing worked.

The Shikica’s eyes remained dull and her voice grew weaker with each passing week.

It was as if her spirit was slowly fading along with her body.

The household staff felt the weight of the situation deeply.

Many of us had worked in the villa for years, and Shika Fatima had always been the gentle presence that made our lives a little easier.

Now that she was suffering, the entire estate felt emptier and colder.

The laughter that once echoed in the kitchen disappeared.

The casual conversations among maids grew rare.

Even the guards who usually stood with stern faces seemed more solemn than before.

I found myself thinking about the Shika constantly during my chores, during my meals, and especially during my secret prayers at night.

I asked God why such a kind woman had to endure such pain.

I asked him if there was anything I could do to help her, even though I knew I was just a servant with no power or influence.

And every time I prayed, I felt something stir inside me.

A quiet nudge that I could not explain, but also could not ignore.

As the months passed, the doctors continued to visit, but their reports remained the same.

The Shikica’s condition was stable, they said, but there was no sign of improvement.

Her muscles were still weak.

Her nerves were still damaged.

Her body was still trapped in a state of helplessness.

The family began to accept that this might be her reality for the rest of her life.

Some relatives whispered that it was Allah’s will and that they should prepare for the worst.

The imam from a nearby mosque came to lead prayers in the villa asking God for mercy and healing.

Everyone bowed their heads and repeated the words with solemn voices.

But when the prayers ended and the imam left, nothing changed.

The Shikica remained in her wheelchair and the sadness in her eyes only deepened.

During this dark season, I noticed something happening inside my own heart.

The more I watched the Shikica suffer, the more I felt drawn to pray for her.

It was not a loud or bold feeling.

It was soft and persistent, like a gentle hand pressing against my chest and urging me forward.

Every night after the lights went out and the villa grew silent, I would kneel beside my mattress and lift her name to Jesus.

I did not know if my prayers meant anything.

I did not know if God would listen to a simple maid praying in secret for a Muslim woman.

But I could not stop.

Something deep inside me believed that Jesus saw her pain and that he cared about her even though she did not know his name.

And so I kept praying night after night, week after week, trusting that somehow my words were reaching heaven.

One evening as I was finishing my shift in the main hallway, I passed by the open door of a Shikica sitting room.

She was there in her wheelchair facing the window watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.

I paused for just a moment, not wanting to intrude, but something made me stop.

She turned her head slowly and looked at me.

For a long second, our eyes met.

She did not speak, and neither did I.

But in that brief moment, I felt something pass between us, something unspoken, something sacred.

It was as if she was silently crying out for help, and my heart was silently answering.

I bowed my head respectfully and walked away, but the moment stayed with me for the rest of the night.

I did not know it then, but that moment was the beginning of something that would change both of our lives forever.

That night, I could not sleep.

I lay on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment when the Shikica’s eyes met mine.

There was something in her gaze that I could not forget.

A silent cry, a hidden plea, a depth of sorrow that words could never capture.

I turned from side to side trying to find a comfortable position, but my mind refused to rest.

The clock on the wall showed it was past midnight and the villa had grown completely silent.

The other maids in the nearby rooms were already asleep, their soft breathing the only sound in the darkness.

Outside, the wind blew gently against the window, carrying the faint smell of salt from the Red Sea.

I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the Shikica sitting alone in her wheelchair, watching the sunset fade into night.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I remember was waking up suddenly as if someone had called my name.

I sat up quickly, my heart pounding in my chest and looked around the room.

Everything was still and quiet.

The other mates had not moved and the door was still closed.

But something felt different.

The air in the room seemed heavier, charged with an energy I had never felt before.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing, telling myself it was just a dream.

But deep inside, I knew this was not an ordinary moment.

My skin tingled with a strange awareness, and my spirit felt alert in a way I could not explain.

I sat there in the darkness, waiting, listening, sensing that something was about to happen.

Then I saw the light.

It started as a small glow in the corner of the room, so faint that I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

But within seconds, it grew brighter and brighter, filling the entire space with a warm golden radiance.

I wanted to scream, but my voice would not come out.

I wanted to run, but my legs would not move.

I could only sit there on my mattress, frozen in awe, as the light wrapped around me like a gentle embrace.

It was not like any light I had ever seen before.

It did not hurt my eyes or blind my vision.

Instead, it felt soft and peaceful, like the warmth of the morning sun after a long, cold night.

And as the light grew stronger, I felt all my fear melt away, replaced by a piece so deep that tears began streaming down my face.

In the center of the light, a figure appeared.

At first, I could only see an outline, a shape of a man standing tall and still, surrounded by the golden glow.

But as my eyes adjusted, the details became clearer.

He wore a simple white robe that seemed to shimmer with its own light.

His hair fell gently past his shoulders, dark and flowing.

His hands were open at his sides, and his face radiated a kindness so pure that I could barely look at it.

But it was his eyes that captured me completely.

They were deep and filled with love.

A love so vast and unconditional that I felt as if he could see every part of me.

Every secret, every wound, every hope I had ever carried.

I knew immediately who he was.

Without anyone telling me, without hearing his name spoken aloud, my heart recognized him instantly.

It was Jesus.

I tried to speak, but no words came out of my mouth.

My lips trembled and my hands shook as I pressed them against my chest.

The tears would not stop falling and my body felt weak under the weight of his presence.

He did not speak with his mouth, but his voice entered my heart like a gentle whisper carried on the wind.

It was not a sound I heard with my ears.

It was a knowing that filled my entire being, clear and unmistakable.

He called me by name.

Linda, he said, and the way he spoke my name made me feel like the most precious person in the world.

There was no judgment in his tone, no disappointment, no anger, only love, only tenderness, only the quiet assurance that he had always been with me, even in the loneliest moments of my life in this foreign land.

Then he showed me something I did not expect.

In my mind, I saw a vision as clear as a movie playing before my eyes.

I saw Shika Fatima lying in her bed, weak and frail, her body barely moving.

I saw the machines around her beeping softly, the nurses standing nearby with worried faces.

Then I saw myself walking into her room, approaching her bedside with trembling steps.

I watched as I reached out my hand and placed it gently on her arm.

And the moment my hand touched her skin, something incredible happened.

A light flowed from my fingers into her body, spreading through her like water soaking into dry ground.

Her eyes opened wide, her back straightened, and with strength that seemed impossible, she rose from her bed and stood on her feet.

The vision was so vivid, so real that I gasped out loud and covered my mouth with my hands.

I shook my head in disbelief, my mind racing with questions and doubts.

How could this be possible? I was just a maid, a simple woman with no power or authority.

I had no medical training, no special gifts, no connection to the royal family beyond my duties as a servant.

How could I walk into the Shikica’s room and touch her as if I had the right to do so? And even if I did, how could my touch bring healing to a woman whose body had been broken beyond repair? The doctors from around the world had failed.

The prayers of the imam had brought no change.

What made me think that I could do anything different? My heart filled with fear and confusion as I stared at the figure of light standing before me.

I wanted to believe, but the weight of my doubts pressed down on me like a heavy stone.

As if he could hear every thought racing through my mind, Jesus stepped closer to me.

The light around him grew softer, gentler, and his presence wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.

He did not scold me for my doubts.

He did not turn away from my fear.

Instead, he spoke to my heart with words that silenced every question and stilled every worry inside me.

Linda, he whispered, “It is not you.

It is me.

” Those simple words broke through the wall of my disbelief and settled deep into my spirit.

He was not asking me to heal the Shika with my own power.

He was asking me to trust him and to let his power flow through me.

I was only the vessel.

He was the source.

I was only the hand.

He was the miracle.

The tears continued to fall as I nodded slowly, surrendering my fears to his gentle authority.

I did not understand how everything would happen, but I knew that he was asking me to obey.

He showed me the vision once more, my hand on the Shikica’s arm, the light flowing into her body, her rising with strength and life.

And this time, instead of doubt, I felt a spark of faith ignite inside my chest.

It was small at first, like a tiny flame flickering in the wind.

But with every second that passed, it grew stronger and brighter, filling me with a courage I had never known before.

I realized that Jesus had not chosen me because I was strong or special.

He had chosen me because he loved the Shika and he wanted to reveal his power in a place where his name was not spoken.

Before I could say anything more, the light around Jesus began to fade.

He stepped backwards slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and his expression filled with a peace that assured me everything would be all right.

I reached out my hand instinctively, not wanting him to leave, but he smiled gently as if to say that he would never truly be far from me.

The golden glow dimmed gradually until the room returned to its normal darkness.

But even after the light disappeared, the warmth remained inside my chest.

It was steady and constant, like a small fire burning quietly in the center of my heart.

I knew that the encounter had ended, but I also knew that something had changed inside me forever.

I was no longer the same woman who had gone to sleep that night.

I sat on my mattress for a long time, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything except breathe and cry.

The tears were not tears of sadness.

They were tears of wonder, of gratitude, of a joy so overwhelming that my body did not know how else to respond.

I replayed the vision in my mind over and over again.

The shika rising, the light flowing, the impossible becoming possible.

I did not know when the moment would come.

I did not know how I would find the courage to walk into her room and place my hand on her arm.

But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Jesus had spoken to me.

Jesus had given me a mission.

And no matter how afraid I felt, I could not ignore what he had shown me.

When the first light of dawn began to creep through the window, I finally lay back down on my mattress.

My body was exhausted, but my spirit was wide awake.

I stared at the ceiling as the room slowly brightened and I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to the one who had visited me in the night.

I did not know what the coming days would bring.

I did not know how the miracle would unfold or what dangers might follow.

But the warmth in my chest reminded me that I was not alone.

Jesus was with me and whatever happened next, I would trust him to guide every step I took toward the moment he had revealed to me.

The days following my encounter with Jesus were filled with a strange mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

I went about my daily duties as usual, cleaning floors, folding laundry, polishing silverware, but my mind was never fully present.

Every time I walked past the hallway leading to the Shikica’s wing, my heart would beat faster and my palms would grow sweaty.

I kept asking myself when the moment would come and how I would find the courage to do what Jesus had shown me.

The vision replayed in my mind constantly reminding me of a task that lay ahead.

But the opportunity never seemed to arrive.

The Shikica’s room was always guarded by nurses and servants like me had no reason to enter unless specifically called.

I began to wonder if I had imagined everything or if Jesus was testing my patients before opening the door.

One week passed, then two.

The Shikica’s condition remained unchanged, and the heaviness in the villa grew thicker with each passing day.

The family had stopped bringing in new doctors because every specialist had said the same thing.

There was nothing more they could do.

Prince Khaled spent more time in his mother’s room, sitting beside her wheelchair and holding her frail hand in silence.

Princess Nura became even stricter with the staff, snapping at anyone who made the smallest mistake.

The tension in the household was unbearable and everyone moved carefully, afraid of adding to the sorrow that already filled the air.

I continued praying every night, asking Jesus to show me when and how to act.

And every night, the warmth in my chest reminded me that the moment was coming closer.

Then one afternoon, everything changed.

I was mopping the floor near the service entrance when the head housekeeper, a stern Filipino woman named 8 Kora, approached me with a serious expression.

She told me that one of the nurses assigned to the Shikica had suddenly fallen ill and could not complete her shift.

The other nurses were busy preparing medications and changing equipment, so they needed someone to sit with the Shika for a short while.

Aora said I was chosen because the Shikica had once mentioned my name kindly and they thought my presence might bring her some comfort.

My heart nearly stopped when I heard those words.

I nodded quickly trying to hide the trembling in my hands and followed Aora toward the private wing of the villa where the Shika waited.

The walk to the Shikica’s room felt longer than any walk I had ever taken in my life.

My legs moved slowly and my mind raced with a thousand thoughts.

Was this the moment Jesus had prepared me for? Was I really about to do what he had shown me in the vision? Fear gripped my stomach, and I wanted to turn around and run back to the safety of the laundry room.

But the warmth in my chest grew stronger with every step, pushing me forward like a gentle hand on my back.

I remembered the words Jesus had spoken to my heart.

It is not you, it is me.

I repeated those words silently as I walked, letting them calm my racing thoughts and steady my trembling spirit.

By the time I reached the door of Ashika’s room, I knew there was no turning back.

The room was dimly lit when I entered.

Heavy curtains cover the windows, blocking most of the afternoon sunlight and casting long shadows across the marble floor.

Medical equipment surrounded the large bed where the Shikica lay, beeping softly in a rhythm that matched her slow breathing.

The air smelled of medicine and lavender, a combination meant to soothe, but that only reminded me of how fragile life could be.

The Shikica was not in her bed when I first looked.

Instead, she was sitting in her wheelchair near the window, her back turned to me, her silver hair falling loosely over her shoulders.

She looked so small and delicate, like a flower that had wilted under the weight of a harsh winter.

My heart achd as I stepped closer, unsure of what to say or do.

I cleared my throat softly to announce my presence, and the Shikica turned her head slowly to look at me.

Recognition flickered in her tired eyes, and a faint smile crossed her lips, the first smile I had seen on her face in months.

She whispered my name, Linda, and motioned weakly for me to come closer.

I obeyed, walking toward her with careful steps, my heart pounding louder with every second.

When I stood beside her wheelchair, she reached out her thin hand and placed it gently on mine.

Her skin felt cold and paper thin, as if the life inside her was barely holding on.

She looked up at me with those sad, beautiful eyes, and said something that broke my heart.

She said she was tired.

Tired of the pain.

Tired of the machines.

Tired of being a burden to everyone she loved.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to her speak.

This was not the proud and dignified woman I had admired from a distance for so many years.

This was a broken soul crying out for relief, for mercy, for something that medicine and money could not provide.

I squeezed her hand gently, wishing I could take away her suffering with that simple touch.

And then, without warning, the vision from my encounter with Jesus flashed before my eyes once again.

I saw my hand on her arm.

I saw the light flowing into her body.

I saw her rising with strength.

The warmth in my chest exploded into a fire that spread through my entire being.

And I knew without a single doubt that this was the moment I had been waiting for.

I do not know where the courage came from.

Perhaps it was the fire burning inside me.

Perhaps it was the love I felt for this suffering woman.

Perhaps it was simply Jesus taking control of my fear and replacing it with his boldness.

Whatever it was, I found myself kneeling beside the Shikica’s wheelchair, my hands trembling as I placed them gently on her arm.

She looked at me with confusion, her brow furrowing slightly as she tried to understand what I was doing.

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and words came out that I had never planned to speak.

I said, “In the name of Jesus Christ, be healed.

” My voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper, but the words carried a power that seemed to shake the very air around us.

The moment those words left my lips, something extraordinary happened.

I felt a surge of energy flow through my hands, warm, electric, and alive, pouring into the Shikica’s body like water rushing into an empty vessel.

My eyes were still closed, but I could sense something changing in front of me.

The air in the room shifted.

The beeping of the machines grew faster, and then I heard a gasp, not from me, but from the Shikica herself.

I opened my eyes and saw something that made my breath catch in my throat.

Color was returning to her pale cheeks.

Her dull eyes were growing bright and clear.

Her frail hands, which had been limp and lifeless, were now gripping the armrest of her wheelchair with strength I had not seen in months.

Before I could react, the Shikica began to move.

She pushed herself forward in the wheelchair, her arms shaking with effort, but filled with a power that had not been there moments before.

I stepped back in shock, my hands still tingling from the energy that had flowed through them.

The Shikica placed her feet on the floor, feet that had not supported her weight in nearly a year, and slowly, impossibly, she began to rise, her legs straightened beneath her, her back lifted from the wheelchair, and with a strength that defied every medical report and every doctor’s prediction, she stood up completely.

She stood there in the middle of the room, breathing deeply.

her chest rising and falling with the fullness of life.

I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by what I was witnessing, tears streaming down my face as I whispered praises to Jesus.

The Shikica looked down at her own body as if seeing it for the first time.

She lifted her hands and turned them over, studying her fingers, flexing her wrists, testing muscles that had been useless for so long.

Then she took a step forward and another and another.

Each step was steadier than the last, each movement more confident and sure.

She walked to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains, letting the golden afternoon sunlight flood into the room.

She turned to face me, and her eyes, those beautiful tired eyes, were now shining with wonder and disbelief.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, the door burst open and one of the nurses rushed inside.

Drawn by the unusual sounds coming from the room.

The nurse froze in the doorway, her face pale with shock, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

She stared at the Shikica standing tall and strong in the middle of the room.

And then she screamed, a high-pitched sound that echoed through the hallways and brought more people running.

Within seconds, the room was filled with nurses, guards, and staff members.

All of them staring at the impossible scene before them.

The Shikica was walking.

The Shikica was speaking.

The Shikica was alive in a way she had not been for nearly a year.

Chaos erupted as people shouted orders, called for doctors, and scrambled to understand what had happened.

I remained on my knees in the corner of the room, my body trembling, my heart overflowing with a joy I could not contain.

Prince Khaled arrived within minutes, pushing through the crowd of people gathered at his mother’s door.

When he saw her standing by the window, bathed in sunlight, his legs nearly gave out beneath him.

He rushed to her side and grabbed her hands, tears streaming down his face as he called her name over and over again.

The Shikica embraced her son with arms that had been too weak to lift a cup of water just hours before.

The doctors who had declared her condition hopeless now stood in stunned silence, unable to explain what their eyes were seeing.

Machines that had monitored her failing body now displayed readings that made no medical sense.

The entire room buzzed with confusion, wonder, and a fear that no one dared to speak aloud.

Then the Shikica did something that changed everything.

She pulled away from her son’s embrace and turned to face the crowd gathered in her room.

Her eyes scanned the faces of nurses, guards, and servants until they landed on me, still kneeling in the corner with tears on my cheeks.

She lifted her arms slowly and pointed directly at me.

Her voice, strong and clear for the first time in months, spoke words that silenced everyone in the room.

She said, “This woman, she touched me and behind her I saw a man of light, brighter than the sun, more beautiful than anything I have ever seen.

He was standing right behind her.

The room fell completely silent.

Every eye turned toward me, and in that moment, I knew that the miracle had only just begun, and so had the danger.

The silence in the room lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

Every pair of eyes was fixed on me, and I could feel the weight of their stairs pressing down on my shoulders like heavy stones.

The Shikica’s words hung in the air, a man of light standing behind her.

And I knew that those words had changed everything.

Some faces showed confusion, others showed fear, and a few showed something darker, something suspicious.

I remained on my knees, too terrified to move, too overwhelmed to speak.

My heart pounded so loudly that I was sure everyone in the room could hear it.

I wanted to disappear into the floor to become invisible like I had been for the past 12 years.

But there was no escaping the attention that now surrounded me like a cage.

Prince Khaled was the first to break the silence.

He turned away from his mother and looked at me with an expression I could not read.

His eyes were filled with a mixture of gratitude and confusion.

But beneath those emotions, I sense something else.

Caution.

He was a powerful man, a member of the royal family.

And in this kingdom, anything that could not be explained by Islam was treated with suspicion.

He did not speak to me directly.

Instead, he whispered something to one of his guards who immediately stepped forward and asked me to stand.

I abed on trembling legs, my knees weak from kneeling and my spirit heavy with fear.

The guard led me out of the Shikica’s room and into the hallway where more staff members had gathered, whispering among themselves and pointing in my direction.

I was taken to a small sitting room near the service quarters and told to wait.

The door was closed behind me and I found myself alone in the silence, my thoughts racing faster than I could control.

What had I done? I had spoken the name of Jesus in a Muslim household.

I had prayed for a royal woman without permission.

I had performed an act that would be seen as either a miracle or a crime, depending on who was judging.

The warmth in my chest was still there, steady and comforting, but it could not erase the fear that gripped my stomach.

I sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, folded my hands in my lap, and began to pray silently, asking Jesus to protect me from whatever was coming next.

Hours passed before anyone came to see me.

The sunlight outside the window shifted from golden to orange to deep purple as evening settled over Jedha.

I heard footsteps passing by the door several times and muffled voices speaking in Arabic that I could not understand.

My stomach growled with hunger, but no one brought me food or water.

I did not dare to leave the room or call for help.

I simply sat and waited, my mind replaying the moment of the miracle over and over again.

I saw the Shikica rising from her wheelchair.

I saw the light flowing through my hands.

I saw her pointing at me and speaking of the man of light.

And with each replay, my fear grew stronger, mixing with the joy and wonder that still lingered in my heart.

Finally, the door opened and Kora stepped inside.

Her face was pale and her eyes were red, as if she had been crying or arguing with someone.

She closed the door quietly behind her and approached me with quick nervous steps.

She whispered that the entire household was in chaos.

The news of Ashika’s miraculous recovery had spread through the villa like wildfire and everyone was talking about what had happened.

Some of the Muslim staff believed it was a blessing from Allah, a sign of his mercy.

But others, especially the guards and the religious advisers, were asking difficult questions.

They wanted to know who I was, what I had done, and what prayer I had spoken over the Shika.

Aora told me that Prince Khaled had already sent word to a local imam requesting his presence at the villa.

My blood ran cold when I heard those words.

An imam in Saudi Arabia, imams held great authority over religious matters, and their word could determine the fate of anyone suspected of acting against Islam.

If the Imam believed that I had performed some kind of forbidden ritual or spoken the name of a god other than Allah, the consequences could be severe.

I could be questioned, detained, or even arrested.

My visa could be cancelled.

I could be deported and banned from ever returning.

Or worse, I could face punishment under laws that I did not fully understand, but had heard terrifying stories about.

A Kora gripped my hands tightly and told me to stay calm, to say nothing unless directly asked and to deny everything if possible.

But how could I deny what everyone had already seen and heard? The imam arrived the next morning.

His name was Shik Abdul Raman, and he was a tall man with a long gray beard and sharp eyes that seemed to see through everything.

He wore a white th and a red checkered headscarf, and his presence commanded respect from everyone in the villa.

I watched from the window of my small room as he entered the main gate, accompanied by two younger men who carried books and notebooks.

The staff whispered that he was known for being strict and thorough, a man who took religious matters very seriously.

My heart sank deeper into my chest as I realized that this was no ordinary visit.

This was an investigation and I was the one being investigated.

For the first two days, Shik Abdul Raman did not speak to me directly.

Instead, he interviewed the nurses, the doctors, and the staff members who had witnessed the Shikica’s healing.

He asked detailed questions about what they had seen, what they had heard, and what they believed had caused the sudden recovery.

The nurses described the medical impossibility of the event, explaining that the Shikica’s muscles and nerves had been too damaged to support her weight.

The doctors admitted that they had no scientific explanation for what had happened.

And the staff members, some reluctantly, some eagerly, repeated the Shikica’s own words about the man of light standing behind me.

Each testimony added another layer to the mystery, and each layer brought more suspicion in my direction.

On the third day, I was summoned to the main sitting room where Shik Abdul Raman waited.

Two guards stood by the door and Prince Collet himself sat in a chair nearby, watching silently.

My legs felt like water as I walked into the room.

My hands clasped tightly in front of me to hide their trembling.

The imam gestured for me to sit on a cushion across from him and I obeyed without meeting his eyes.

The room was silent except for the ticking of a large clock on the wall.

I could feel the imam studying me, measuring me, trying to understand who I was and what I had done.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority that demanded truth.

He asked me simple questions at first, my name, my country of origin, how long I had worked in the villa, what my duties were.

I answered each question carefully, keeping my voice steady and my words brief.

But then the questions became more difficult.

He asked me what I had been doing in the Shikica’s room that day.

He asked me what I had said to her when I touched her arm.

He asked me if I had recited any prayers or spoken any names that were not part of Islamic tradition.

My throat tightened and I felt sweat forming on my forehead.

I knew that the next words I spoke could determine my entire future.

The warmth in my chest pulsed gently as if reminding me that Jesus was still with me, still guiding me, still holding me in his hands.

I chose my words carefully.

I said that I had felt compassion for the Shikica and had simply touched her arm to comfort her.

I said that I had spoken a prayer from my heart, asking for her healing.

I did not mention the name of Jesus.

I did not describe the vision or the encounter I had experienced in my room.

But even as I spoke, I could see the doubt in the Imm’s eyes.

He knew there was more to the story than I was telling.

He leaned forward and asked me directly, “What god did you pray to?” The question hung in the air like a sword, ready to fall.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

My silence was louder than any answer I could have given.

Before I could respond, something unexpected happened.

The door of the sitting room opened and the Shikica herself walked in.

supported lightly by a nurse but moving with strength and confidence.

Everyone in the room stood immediately including the imam.

She waved her hand gently signaling for everyone to sit and then she turned her gaze toward me.

Her eyes were soft and filled with gratitude.

She spoke directly to the imam, her voice steady and clear.

She said that whatever had happened in her room, it had saved her life.

She said that she had seen a light brighter than anything she had ever witnessed and that the presence she felt was one of peace and love.

She asked the imam to treat me with kindness and not to punish someone who had shown her mercy.

The imam listened respectfully, but his expression did not soften.

He bowed to the Shika and said he would continue his inquiry before making any conclusions.

Prince Khaled thanked his mother and gently guided her out of the room, leaving me alone once again with the Imam and the guards.

The questioning continued for another hour, circling around the same topics, pressing me for details I refused to give.

When it finally ended, I was escorted back to my small room and told not to leave until further notice.

I sat on my mattress, exhausted and afraid, knowing that the danger was far from over.

The imam had not accused me publicly, but I could feel his suspicion growing stronger with every passing hour.

That night, as I lay in the darkness, a soft knock came at my door.

I opened it cautiously and found a man I had never seen before standing outside.

He was Nigerian, tall and calm, with kind eyes that reminded me of the warmth I had felt during my encounter with Jesus.

He whispered his name, Brother Samuel, and said he had heard about what happened in the villa.

He told me that he was part of a secret network of Christian believers who helped workers in danger.

He said the imam was preparing to request permission from Prince Kala to detain me for formal religious questioning.

And then he said the words that made my heart stop.

He said I needed to leave the villa immediately before it was too late.

Brother Samuel did not wait for me to respond.

He stepped into my small room and closed the door quietly behind him, his eyes scanning the space as if checking for hidden dangers.

He spoke in a low whisper, explaining that he worked as a driver for a wealthy family in another district of Jedha.

4 years he had been part of an underground network of Christian believers who secretly helped foreign workers facing religious persecution.

He said he had contacts throughout the city.

Filipinos, Indians, Nigerians, Ethiopians, all of them believers who risked their own safety to protect others.

When news of the miracle in Prince Kala’s villa reached his ears, he knew immediately that whoever had prayed for the Shika would soon be in grave danger.

He had spent the past 2 days gathering information and planning a way to reach me before the imam made his next move.

I listened to his words with a mixture of hope and terror.

Part of me wanted to believe that escape was possible, that there was a way out of the trap closing around me.

But another part of me hesitated.

I had worked in this villa for 12 years.

I had sacrificed so much to be here.

Years away from my children, years of loneliness and silence, years of sending money home to build a future for my family.

If I ran away now, I would lose everything.

My salary, my visa, my reputation, all of it would disappear in an instant.

And what about my children back in the Philippines? What would happen to them if I could no longer send money? The weight of these thoughts pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe or think clearly? Brother Samuel seemed to understand my hesitation without me speaking a word.

He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with compassion.

He said that he knew how much I had sacrificed and how difficult this decision was.

But he also reminded me of what I had done in the Shika’s room.

I had spoken the name of Jesus in a place where that name was forbidden.

I had performed a miracle that could not be explained by Islamic teaching.

And the Imam was not going to stop until he found the truth.

Brother Samuel said that if I stayed, I would face questioning that could last for weeks or even months.

I could be detained, imprisoned, or worse.

He asked me a simple question that cut straight to my heart.

He asked, “Is staying here worth losing your life for?” I had no answer.

My mind spun with confusion and fear, and tears began streaming down my cheeks.

I thought about my children, my daughter, who was now a young woman, and my son, who had just finished high school.

I thought about all the dreams I had carried with me when I first came to Saudi Arabia.

dreams of giving them a better future.

And then I thought about the encounter with Jesus, the vision he had shown me, the words he had spoken to my heart.

He had called me by name.

He had filled me with his power.

He had used me to bring healing to a dying woman.

Surely, he had not brought me this far only to abandon me now.

The warmth in my chest pulsed gently, and in that moment, I made my decision.

I looked at brother Samuel and nodded.

I told him I was ready to go.

We moved quickly and quietly.

Brother Samuel had already prepared a small bag with essential items, a change of clothes, some money, a bottle of water, and a simple headscarf to cover my face.

He told me to leave behind anything that could identify me or slow me down.

I took one last look around my tiny room.

The thin mattress where I had slept for 12 years.

The small photographs of my children taped to the wall.

The worn Bible hidden beneath my pillow.

I grabbed the photographs in the Bible and tucked them into my clothes to my heart.

Everything else I left behind.

Brother Samuel opened the door slowly, checked the hallway for guards, and then motioned for me to follow.

We slipped out through a service entrance at the back of the villa, moving through shadows and avoiding the security lights.

The night air was cool and salty, carrying the distant smell of the Red Sea.

We walked quickly through narrow pathways behind the villa, staying close to walls and fences to avoid being seen.

Brother Samuel seemed to know every corner and every shadow, guiding me with confidence through the darkness.

My heart pounded with every step and my ears strained to catch any sound of pursuit.

But the villa behind us remained silent, its lights glowing faintly in the distance as we moved farther and farther away.

After what felt like an hour of walking, we reached a small side street where a white van was parked with its engine running.

A woman sat in the driver’s seat, her face partially hidden by a headscarf.

Brother Samuel opened the back door and helped me climb inside before joining me.

The woman behind the wheel turned and greeted me softly in Tagalog.

Her name was a Mercy and she was a Filipina believer who had lived in Saudi Arabia for over 15 years.

She worked as a nurse in a private hospital, but her true mission was helping persecuted Christians escape dangerous situations.

She smiled warmly at me and said she had been praying for me ever since she heard about the miracle in the villa.

She told me not to be afraid because many brothers and sisters were working together to keep me safe.

Her words brought tears to my eyes once again and I whispered a prayer of thanks to Jesus for surrounding me with such faithful people.

The van pulled away from the curb and we began our journey into the unknown.

We drove through the quiet streets of Jedha for nearly an hour, avoiding main roads and checkpoints.

8 Mercy explained that we were heading to a safe house on the outskirts of the city, a small farm owned by a Christian family who had helped many workers in the past.

She said I would stay there until arrangements could be made to move me out of the country safely.

Brother Samuel added that the network had connections with embassies and humanitarian organizations that could assist with emergency travel documents, but he warned me that the process could take days or even weeks.

And during that time, I would need to remain hidden.

The imam would surely report my disappearance once he discovered I was gone and authorities might begin searching for me.

The safe house appeared just as the first light of dawn began to color the sky.

It was a simple structure surrounded by date palm trees located far from the noise and crowds of the city.

An older Indian man named Joseph greeted us at the gate with a quiet smile and let us inside.

The house was modest but clean with thin mattresses arranged along the walls and a small kitchen in the corner.

Several other people were already there, workers from different countries who had fled their employers for various reasons.

Some had faced abuse.

Others had been accused of crimes they did not commit.

And a few, like me, had encountered trouble because of their faith.

We were all strangers, but we shared a common bond, the love of Jesus and the hope of freedom.

For the first few days at the safe house, I rested and recovered from the exhaustion of everything that had happened.

The other believers took care of me with kindness and generosity, sharing their food, their stories, and their prayers.

I learned that many of them had experienced their own miracles, moments when Jesus had intervened in impossible situations and opened doors that seemed permanently closed.

Their testimonies strengthened my faith and reminded me that I was not alone in my journey.

Brother Samuel visited regularly, bringing news from the outside world.

He told me that the imam had indeed reported my disappearance and that authorities were asking questions at the villa.

But so far, no one had any clues about where I had gone.

As the days passed, news of a miracle in Prince Khaled’s villa began to spread beyond the walls of the estate.

Brother Samuel told me that workers throughout Jedha were whispering about the Filipino maid who had healed a dying royal woman with a single prayer.

Some called it a hoax.

Others called it witchcraft.

But many, especially the secret believers, called it a sign from God.

They said that Jesus had revealed himself in the heart of a Muslim royal household, and no amount of denial could erase what had happened.

The Shika herself continued to speak about the man of light she had seen, telling her relatives and visitors that the presence she felt was unlike anything in her 70 years of life.

Her words planted seeds of curiosity in hearts that had never considered the name of Jesus before.

Even more surprising was the news that came from inside the villa.

8 Mercy heard from a contact that several staff members had begun asking questions about Christianity in secret.

A nurse from Indonesia wanted to know more about the man of light.

A gardener from Nepal asked Brother Samuel for a Bible.

And one of the Filipino maids who had worked alongside me for years reached out to the network saying she had felt something change inside her since witnessing the miracle.

The healing of the Shika had not only restored her body, it had awakened a spiritual hunger in people who had lived their entire lives under the shadow of a different faith.

The miracle was spreading far beyond anything I could have imagined.

After nearly 3 weeks in hiding, the day finally came for me to leave Saudi Arabia.

The network had arranged for emergency travel documents through a contact at the Philippine embassy.

A trusted driver would take me to the airport in the middle of the night and I would board a flight to Manila before dawn.

The plan was risky, but everyone agreed it was the safest option.

Staying any longer would only increase the chances of being discovered.

On my last night at the safe house, the believers gathered around me to pray.

They laid their hands on my shoulders and lifted my name to Jesus.

asking him to protect me on my journey and to continue using me for his glory.

I wept as they prayed, overwhelmed by the love and sacrifice of these strangers who had become my family.

The drive to the airport was silent and tense.

I sat in the backseat of a small car, my face covered by a headscarf, my heart beating with a mixture of fear and hope.

Every passing vehicle made me nervous.

Every checkpoint made me hold my breath.

But Jesus was faithful.

We arrived at the airport without incident and brother Samuel walked me to the entrance, handing me a small envelope with money and a note of encouragement.

He hugged me tightly and whispered, “Go and tell the world what Jesus has done.

” I nodded through my tears and walked into the terminal, clutching my documents and my Bible close to my chest.

The flight home felt like a dream.

As the plane lifted off the ground and soared above the clouds, I looked out the window at the land I was leaving behind.

12 years of my life had been spent in that country.

Years of sacrifice, silence, and hidden faith.

But in the end, Jesus had used me in a way I never expected.

He had revealed his power in a royal palace.

He had healed a dying woman.

He had touched hearts that had never known his name.

And now he was bringing me home to my children, to my country, to a new chapter of my life that I could not yet see but trusted him to write.

Today, as I share the story with you, I am no longer the invisible maid who cleaned floors and folded laundry in a distant land.

I am a witness.

I am a testimony.

I am proof that Jesus can reach anyone, anywhere.

Even a 70-year-old Muslim woman confined to a wheelchair in a palace where his name cannot be spoken aloud.

The miracle in Jedha did not end with the Shika’s healing.

It continues to ripple through lives, crossing borders and breaking barriers.

And wherever the story travels, I pray it carries the same warmth that filled my chest on the night Jesus appeared in my room and called me by name.

Because that warmth is not just for me.

It is for everyone who hears and believes.