I am Prince Yousef, 30 years old.

On August the 10th, 2021, my father ordered that I be set on fire for reading the Holy Bible.

But as the flames rose around me, Jesus sent an unexpected rain that quenched the fire and saved my life.

Let me tell you how the son of God saved a Jordanian prince.

I was born in a man Jordan into one of the royal family’s closest circles.

My father is a respected cousin of the reigning king and our family carries weight in both politics and religion.

From birth I was raised with privilege.

I studied in the best schools in Aman.

Learned Arabic, English and French and traveled often to Dubai, London and Paris.

To the world my life looked perfect.

I lived in a mansion in Abdun where marble floors and servants filled every corner.

But deep inside I was empty.

I followed all Islamic rules, prayed five times a day, fasted during Ramadan, gave zakat, and attended every Friday prayer at the mosque.

But even with all these acts, peace never stayed in my heart for long.

Life was comfortable.

Yet my soul quietly achd for something I could not name.

Every morning I woke before dawn to perform fuzzer prayers with my father.

Our home had a small private mosque where our imam Sheik Khaled would lead us.

I recited every word perfectly, bowing and rising as I had done since childhood.

After prayer, I often stood by the window, looking over the quiet streets of Aman.

The call to prayer echoed from the mosque across the city and the sky turned pink with sunrise.

People would think I was blessed beyond measure.

Yet, I often wondered why I still felt restless.

My friends envied my life, my cars, my position, and the respect I received wherever I went.

But inside, I was a prisoner of expectations.

I was told what to believe, what to say, and even how to think.

I feared Allah’s anger more than I ever felt his love.

My religion felt like a duty, not a relationship.

I kept these thoughts hidden because no one in my family would understand.

My father was deeply respected in Islamic circles and my mother came from a line of scholars.

From a young age, I was taught that questioning Islam was dangerous.

So, I buried my doubts and focused on fulfilling my role as the obedient son.

My family expected me to work with the royal administration soon, maybe as a foreign affairs adviser.

My life seemed written before I could even choose.

At 26, I began to notice small pale spots on my skin, first on my hands, then on my neck.

At first, I ignored them.

I thought maybe it was stress or an allergic reaction.

But as the weeks passed, the spots grew larger, and I felt a strange numbness in my fingers.

No medicine or cream worked.

A quiet fear began to build inside me.

When I finally visited a private doctor in Aman, he looked worried.

He told me to do more tests in Erbid where specialists could examine me carefully.

After several visits, blood tests and skin samples, the truth came out.

The doctor sat in front of me with a heavy face and said, “Yesef, I am sorry.

You have early signs of leprosy.

His words struck me like thunder.

I couldn’t breathe.

I had only heard of leprosy in old religious stories, not in modern Jordan.

The doctor assured me that it could be controlled with long treatments, but fear and shame filled my mind.

How can a royal family member have this? I thought, what will my father say? What will people think? The disease was rare and carried a strong stigma.

I begged the doctor to keep it secret and he promised full confidentiality.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I stared at the ceiling of my room thinking about everything I could lose.

My family’s reputation was built on pride and perfection.

If anyone outside the palace knew I was infected, it would become a scandal.

I kept rubbing the spots on my skin as if I could erase them.

When I told my father in private, he went silent for a long time.

Then he said, “We must protect the family’s name, Yousef.

No one can know about this.

You will stay away from the public until you recover.

” His tone was firm but not cruel.

He immediately ordered a private team of doctors to manage my condition.

A few days later, I was moved quietly to one of our family’s country houses near Madaba, far from the capital.

It became my world of silence.

In that quiet place, time stopped.

The servants who stayed with me were few, carefully chosen and loyal.

Every morning I took pills, applied ointments, and prayed for healing.

I cried out to Allah every night, performing long da prayers, begging for mercy.

Weeks turned into months, but nothing changed.

My skin grew worse, and the patches spread to my arms and shoulders.

I felt like a walking shame.

My family rarely visited.

Only my father came sometimes to encourage me.

He told me not to lose faith that Allah was testing me.

But deep inside I began to wonder why Allah was silent.

I had done everything right.

Prayers, fasting, charity, obedience.

Yet he didn’t answer.

My faith felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

After 6 months, my father arranged secret trips abroad for treatment.

We went to Switzerland, then Turkey, and later Germany, visiting top dermatologists.

Every time the results were the same.

The disease is under control, but not cured.

I started to hate the mirror.

My reflection looked older, weaker, and tired.

I avoided people, afraid of their eyes.

Even the servants avoided touching me.

I could feel their fear.

In those months, loneliness became my closest companion.

I spent hours staring at the window, watching the birds fly free while I remain trapped.

Sometimes I thought maybe Allah has abandoned me.

Other times I told myself this was punishment for some hidden sin.

Still, I kept praying, repeating verses from the Quran, hoping one would bring comfort.

But it only reminded me of duty and fear, not love or peace.

It was during that period that a new servant arrived.

Her name was Grace, a quiet woman from the Philippines.

She worked in the kitchen and sometimes brought me my meals.

I noticed something different about her.

While others looked at me with pity or discomfort, she looked at me with kindness.

Her presence brought calm into the room.

She never spoke much, but she always said, “Sir, I am praying for you.

” I assumed she meant Islamic prayers, so I thanked her politely.

One evening as she served tea, I asked her, “Grace, you are always peaceful.

Aren’t you afraid to come near me? She smiled and said softly, “No, sir.

My God gives me peace.

” Her words stayed in my mind long after she left the room.

“Her God,” I thought.

Is her God different from mine? A few days later, when she cleaned my study, I noticed a small cross hanging from her neck.

I asked, “Grace, are you a Christian? She looked frightened and whispered, “Yes, sir, but please don’t tell anyone.

In Jordan, open Christian talk in royal service could bring serious trouble.

” I nodded and said, “Don’t worry, I will not tell.

” That short conversation changed everything for me.

I started thinking about her courage, how she spoke about her faith with such calmness.

My curiosity grew, but I was also careful.

I knew I shouldn’t ask too much about Christianity.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her peace.

Why did she seem to know something I didn’t? I had everything, money, position, respect, but she, a servant far from home, seemed to have more peace than I ever knew.

Days passed and my condition worsened.

I tried to distract myself by reading, writing, and listening to the Quran recitations, but nothing brought comfort.

The nights felt heavier.

Sometimes I sat by the window and whispered, “Allah, where are you?” No answer came.

The doctors continued their visits.

The imams sent written prayers.

But my soul grew colder.

Only Grace’s quiet presence seemed to bring a little light to my days.

She treated me like a person, not a patient.

I didn’t know it then, but she would soon become the bridge between my despair and a hope I never imagined.

At that point, I was a man of wealth, but without purpose, a believer without peace, and a prince slowly fading away behind palace walls and secrets.

I didn’t know God was already preparing to meet me in my suffering.

That was how my journey began.

From luxury to isolation, from certainty to questions, from pride to quiet brokenness.

I had no idea that the disease that made me hide would become the path that led me to truth.

I thought my life was ending, but it was only the beginning of something greater.

In the silence of that house near Madaba, I had lost everything that made me feel strong.

Yet in that same silence, a small light was waiting to shine.

I was about to discover that even when the world turns its back, God still sees the lonely heart.

But at that time, I only knew pain, shame, and unanswered prayers.

The prince the world respected was slowly disappearing.

But deep within, another man was being prepared.

One who would soon learn the true meaning of mercy and healing.

The days in the house near Madaba slowly turned into months.

I lost count of time because every day felt the same.

I woke up to the same silence, ate the same meals, and stared at the same olive trees outside my window.

My body was getting weaker, but the pain inside my heart was worse than the pain on my skin.

I wondered if life would ever return to normal.

I thought of my friends in Aman, laughing, working, and living freely while I stayed hidden, like a secret no one should discover.

I had once been part of the royal dinners, meetings, and social visits.

Now I was a forgotten man.

The palace no longer called.

I told myself that perhaps this was Allah’s way of humbling me, but I did not know how much longer I could endure the silence that surrounded me.

Sometimes I sat outside in the evening to watch the shepherds passed by with their flocks.

The sun would set over the hills, painting the sky orange and red.

Those moments were peaceful, yet they made me feel even lonier.

I prayed every day hoping for a miracle, but nothing changed.

The Imam who came once a week brought words of encouragement, but no real comfort.

He would remind me that Allah tested his servants through suffering and that patience would bring reward.

I tried to believe him, but my heart grew tired of waiting.

When he left, I felt empty again.

The only person who made my days a little lighter was a Grace.

She never spoke much about religion, but her kindness was constant.

She would leave small notes with verses written in English, words about hope and faith, but I could not understand them fully.

One afternoon, I was reading one of those notes when I heard Grace humming quietly in the kitchen.

The melody was soft, unlike any Arabic song I knew.

I asked her what song it was.

She said it was a Christian hymn called Amazing Grace.

The name sounded strange to me, but the tune touched something inside.

It speaks about being lost and then found, she said with a shy smile.

Her words made me curious.

Found by whom? I asked.

She answered gently.

By Jesus? I froze for a moment.

That name had always been respected in Islam as a prophet.

But she said it differently as if he were more than a prophet.

I wanted to ask more but stopped myself.

Talking about Jesus in this way could bring trouble.

Still, that simple song stayed in my mind long after she stopped humming.

A week later, Grace came to my room carrying a tray of food.

She noticed the pain on my face as I rubbed my arms.

She said softly, “Sir, may I pray for you?” I was surprised.

“You want to pray for me?” I asked.

She nodded.

Yes.

To ask Jesus to heal you.

Her courage shocked me.

In our culture, a Christian servant asking to pray for a Muslim prince was unheard of.

But I was desperate and too tired to argue.

I nodded slowly.

She placed her hand near mine, not touching, and whispered words I barely understood.

She spoke about love, mercy, and healing in the name of Jesus.

I felt a strange peace in that moment.

Something I had not felt in a long time.

When she finished, she smiled and said, “Thank you for letting me pray.

” Then she left quietly.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her prayer.

It was short and simple, but it felt alive.

When I prayed to Allah, I followed rules, washing, facing Mecca, repeating Arabic verses, but I never felt warmth.

Her prayer felt like a conversation with someone she truly knew.

I wanted that closeness.

The next day, I asked her, “Grace, why do you believe Jesus can heal?” She looked around to make sure no one was listening and said, “Because he healed many who came to him, even lepers like you.

” The word struck me, “Lpers like me?” I repeated.

She nodded.

It is written in the Bible.

Jesus touched a man with leprosy and healed him completely.

My eyes widened, touched him, but that is forbidden.

She smiled.

Jesus was never afraid of sickness.

He came to bring healing and forgiveness.

Her words kept echoing in my head all day.

That evening, I searched online for what she said.

I found stories about Jesus healing the sick, the blind, and even lepers.

I read about his compassion and how he treated people who were rejected by society.

The more I read, the more something inside me stirred.

I remembered how the Imam always spoke of Allah’s greatness, power, and punishment, but not much about his closeness.

Yet in these stories, Jesus seemed close, gentle, and full of mercy.

I did not understand everything, but I felt drawn to know more.

I didn’t tell anyone.

I feared what would happen if my family discovered I was reading about Christianity in Jordan, especially among royals.

Such curiosity could be dangerous.

Still, I couldn’t stop reading.

For the first time in months, hope began to rise inside me.

One afternoon, Grace came with a small black book.

She looked nervous as she handed it to me.

“This is a Bible,” she whispered.

Please be careful with it.

Read the story of Naman in 2 Kings chapter 5.

I took it slowly, my hands shaking.

I knew owning a Bible secretly was risky.

I promised to keep it hidden.

That night, when everyone was asleep, I opened it to the story she mentioned.

It was about a great soldier from Syria who also had leprosy.

The prophet told him to wash seven times in the river Jordan and he was healed.

I read those lines again and again.

I looked out my window and realized that the same Jordan River flowed not far from where I was sitting.

The thought gave me chills.

Could this same God heal me too? From that night, I began reading the Bible secretly.

The words were different from anything I had known.

They spoke about love, forgiveness, and faith in ways that the Quran never did.

I read the verses about Jesus healing 10 lepers and telling them to show themselves to the priests.

I read where he said, “Come to me all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

” My heart trembled.

It was as if the words were speaking directly to me.

I felt like a thirsty man drinking water for the first time.

I didn’t understand everything.

But I knew one thing.

I wanted to know this Jesus personally.

I started praying quietly at night, not in Arabic, but in my own simple words, asking him to show me the truth.

Weeks went by and I became more drawn to the Bible.

Every time I read, I felt light in my heart.

I began comparing what I learned with what I had been taught in Islam.

The Imam said, “Allah forgives only if you do enough good deeds.

” But Jesus said, “Forgiveness is a gift, not something you earn.

” That truth confused yet comforted me.

I also noticed how Jesus cared for people society rejected, the poor, sinners, even enemies.

It was so different from what I had seen growing up where people were judged by their status and wealth.

The teachings of Jesus spoke to the emptiness in my soul.

I started memorizing small verses so I could repeat them during the day without anyone noticing.

My body was still sick but my heart was slowly waking up.

Despite this new hope, fear remained.

I knew that if my father or the palace found out about the Bible, it could destroy everything.

Christians in Jordan lived freely, but a royal relative accepting Jesus would be seen as betrayal.

Grace reminded me often, “Be careful, sir.

Read when no one is around.

” I hid the Bible inside an old Quran case.

No one would think of looking there.

Every night I read by candle light, whispering prayers I didn’t yet understand.

Sometimes I cried without reason.

It felt as if someone unseen was listening, comforting, and waiting for me to believe completely.

I began to see that maybe my isolation was not a curse, but a door.

The disease that brought me shame was leading me towards healing.

not just of the body but of my soul.

That realization frightened and excited me.

I didn’t tell Grace everything I felt but she seemed to know.

Uh one day she said, “Yeseph, Jesus is calling you to trust him.

” I didn’t answer, but deep inside I knew she was right.

I was standing between two worlds.

the one I had always known and this new light slowly entering my heart.

I didn’t know where it would lead me or what it would cost, but I couldn’t turn back.

Every page of the Bible felt alive.

Each word seemed written for me.

My exile was no longer just about sickness.

It had become a the place where God was speaking softly through his word.

I didn’t yet realize that my greatest miracle was drawing near.

For now, I was only learning how to listen to the voice that spoke peace into my silence.

After grace told me that Jesus was calling me to trust him, my nights became different.

I started reading the Bible not only for comfort but with hunger.

I wanted to understand who Jesus really was.

I read about his birth, his kindness, and his miracles.

I underlined words that spoke to me, especially the ones about love and forgiveness.

Sometimes I would close the book and whisper, “If you are real, show me who you are.

I no longer prayed to Allah the way I used to.

” My lips still said his name, but my heart was reaching for something else.

I was afraid of what that meant, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop.

Every night, I felt as if someone invisible sat beside me, listening to my heart.

The silence of the house now felt holy instead of empty.

Grace continued to help me quietly.

She never pushed me, but always answered my questions with patience.

One day, I asked her, “Grace, why do Christians call Jesus the son of God? Doesn’t that mean they think there are many gods? She smiled and said, “No, sir.

There is only one God.

But Jesus is God’s word made flesh.

He came to show us what God’s love looks like.

” I didn’t fully understand, but her explanation didn’t sound strange anymore.

It felt peaceful, like truth whispered gently.

That night I went back to the Gospel of John and read, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

” I stopped reading and closed my eyes.

Could it be that Jesus was not just a prophet, but God’s own word? Something deep inside told me yes.

As I read more, my heart started to change.

I noticed how I began to see people differently.

Before I had looked at servants, guards, and strangers as people below my status.

Now when I looked at them, I saw human souls loved by God.

I found myself thinking about forgiveness, too.

I remembered old arguments with my cousins and how proud I had been.

The Bible said, “Forgive others as God forgave you.

” Those words touched me deeply.

I felt I needed to make peace with everyone, but I didn’t know how.

I also began praying in a new way.

I no longer used memorized Arabic words.

I just spoke simply like talking to a friend.

Sometimes I said, “Jesus, thank you for loving me.

Please help me know you more.

” Those prayers felt alive.

I started to sense warmth in my chest whenever I prayed that way.

My body also began to feel lighter.

The pain in my skin reduced and the burning sensation that once made me cry at night became softer.

I didn’t know if it was the medicine or something else, but I knew I was changing.

One evening while reading the Bible, I came across the verse where Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.

” I stared at those words for a long time.

If that was true, then the way to God was not through laws, fasting, or fear, but through Jesus himself.

My heartbeat fast.

This was a dangerous thought in Islam.

Saying something like that was kufurer disbelief.

But I couldn’t ignore what I felt.

I whispered, “Jesus, if you truly are the way, then show me.

I want to follow you.

” That prayer marked the beginning of a secret faith growing inside me.

I started to believe that Jesus was more than a healer or teacher.

He was the one who could forgive my sins.

The more I read, the more my fear of Allah’s anger began to fade.

For the first time, I felt loved, not judged.

Still, I couldn’t tell anyone.

I knew the cost.

If my father or the royal family found out, they would consider it betrayal.

My father once told me, “Leaving Islam is worse than death.

” Those words now echoed in my mind every day.

But something inside me whispered stronger than fear, “Do not be afraid.

” I didn’t realize it then, but that was the voice of faith beginning to grow roots in my heart.

One night, while I was reading by candle light, Grace knocked softly and came in with worried eyes.

“Sir,” she whispered, “Please be careful.

Someone saw you reading last night through the window.

” My heart raced.

“Who?” I asked quickly.

“One of the guards,” she said.

“I told him, you were reading a medical book, but you must be more careful.

” I hid the Bible immediately.

For hours, I couldn’t sleep.

My mind was full of fear.

I prayed, “Jesus, protect me.

Don’t let them take away this truth from me.

” That night, I had a dream.

I saw myself standing beside a large river.

Its waters were clear and shining.

A voice said, “Wash and you will be clean.

” I woke up crying.

I knew it was not just a dream.

It was a message.

After that dream, I began to pray more boldly.

I didn’t hide my prayers from Jesus anymore.

Sometimes I walked outside and whispered, “Thank you for loving me even when I didn’t know you.

” One day I told Grace about my dream.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Sir, that was the Holy Spirit speaking to you.

” She said, “God is showing you that he wants to heal you completely like he healed Nmon.

” I asked her, “Do you really believe that Jesus can heal me today?” She answered, “Yes, sir.

He can, but you must believe with all your heart.

” Those words echoed in my soul.

“Believe with all your heart.

” I realized I had been reading about Jesus, but had not fully trusted him.

That night, I made a decision.

I would put my faith in him completely.

I went to my room, locked the door, and fell on my knees.

For the first time, I spoke to Jesus with no fear, no formal words, and no Arabic verses.

I said, “Jesus, I believe you are the son of God.

I believe you died and rose again.

Please forgive my sins and heal me.

I give you my life.

” Tears poured down my face as I spoke.

I felt as if a heavy weight was lifted off my shoulders.

A strange warmth covered my body like gentle fire, but it didn’t hurt.

It healed.

My heart beat faster and peace filled the room.

I cried for a long time.

When I finally stood up, I knew something had changed inside me forever.

I was not the same Yousef anymore.

Something holy had entered my life.

From that night, I began to notice something even more amazing.

The spots on my arms started fading little by little.

The numbness that had stayed for months was gone.

My skin, which had been dry and rough, became smooth again.

I looked in the mirror and could hardly believe my eyes.

The doctors had said there was no cure, but my body was changing.

I didn’t tell anyone yet, not even Grace.

I wanted to be sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Over the next few days, the healing continued.

My strength returned.

I could walk freely again without pain or fear.

Deep down, I knew this was not medicine or science.

This was Jesus answering my prayer.

I fell to my knees again and said, “Thank you, Lord.

You have healed me.

” Still, I was careful.

I wore long sleeves to hide my arms and continued my normal routine.

Grace noticed the light on my face and asked, “Sir, what happened?” I smiled and said softly, “He heard me.

” She understood immediately and whispered, “Praise God.

” We prayed together that day quietly but with tears of joy.

My healing became our secret miracle.

But inside, I knew this secret could not stay hidden forever.

My life had changed.

My faith was no longer a whisper.

It was becoming a fire in my heart.

I didn’t know that soon this fire would test me in ways I never imagined.

For now, I only knew one thing.

I once was sick and hopeless, but now I was healed and alive because of Jesus.

When I woke the morning after my prayer, the sunlight felt warmer than ever before.

It touched my face through the curtains like a gentle hand.

I stretched my arms and looked at my skin.

The dark marks that once covered me were fading more.

I rubbed my arm again and again to be sure.

They were smooth.

I ran to the mirror and almost cried.

The redness was nearly gone and my face looked healthy.

My heart filled with joy that words could not describe.

I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.

You really did this.

” For months, I had begged Allah for mercy and heard silence.

Now, after one simple prayer to Jesus, healing had begun.

I wanted to shout to the whole world, but I knew I had to stay quiet.

The walls of the house could still carry secrets that might destroy me.

Grace noticed the change first.

When she brought breakfast, she looked at me closely and gasped.

“Sir, your skin,” she said softly.

“It looks different.

” I smiled and told her everything.

How I prayed, how peace filled my body, and how the spots were fading.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she said, “Jesus has touched you.

” She lifted her hands and whispered a short prayer of thanks.

We both stood there in silence, smiling like children who had found treasure.

For the first time in many months, the house that once felt heavy with sickness was filled with joy.

I ate with appetite, laughed again, and even walked in the garden.

The birds sang louder that morning.

Or maybe my ears could finally hear them again.

Every flower looked brighter.

I realized that life itself felt new.

The doctors who came that week were surprised.

They examined my skin and asked what new medicine I had taken.

I told them nothing.

Only wristam prayer.

They wrote notes and shook their heads calling it a rare recovery.

I smiled quietly.

I knew the truth.

They saw medicine.

I saw a miracle.

I wanted to tell them about Jesus.

But stopped myself.

Not yet.

In Jordan, especially among people close to the royal family, such words could bring danger.

So I simply said, “Maybe God showed me mercy.

” They nodded politely, unaware of how deep those words were.

After they left, I knelt by my bed and thanked Jesus again.

My prayer was simple.

Lord, I will never forget what you have done.

Use my life for your will.

I didn’t understand what that promise would later cost me.

Each day, my strength returned.

I started walking outside the villa again.

The air smelled fresh, and the fields near Madaba looked golden under the sun.

Farmers passed by waving from a distance.

No one knew that the man behind the walls had been healed by the power of Jesus.

At night, I read the Bible with more excitement than ever.

Verses that I once read with curiosity now felt alive.

When I read where Jesus said, “Your faith has made you well,” tears filled my eyes.

It was as if he spoke directly to me.

Grace joined me in reading sometimes translating the English words into Arabic so I could understand better.

Together we prayed thanking Jesus for his love.

I felt free again, not only in body but in spirit.

My heart that once felt cold was burning with faith.

But along with my joy came a quiet fear.

How long could I keep this secret? My father would soon ask for medical proof to declare me cured.

The palace doctors would come.

If anyone learned that I was reading the Bible or praying in Jesus’ name, it could bring trouble for both me and grace.

I thought about how strict our family was about Islam.

We had a private imam who led us in prayer and reminded us of Allah’s laws daily.

My father had built a new mosque near Karak and often donated to Islamic charities.

To him, our faith and honor were the same.

I knew he would never understand my new belief.

He would call it betrayal.

Each night I asked Jesus for wisdom, praying, “Show me what to do now.

Teach me how to live for you without fear.

” One afternoon, I sat by the window watching clouds move over the hills.

The sky grew dark as rain began to fall gently.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Lord, for the rain.

” In that quiet moment, I remembered all the nights I had cried for healing.

I realized that the sickness had not been a curse, but a gift that led me to the truth.

I thought of Nan who washed in the Jordan River and was cleansed.

My own healing had happened right here in Jordan, too.

The same God who healed Naman had healed me.

I stood there with tears of joy.

Grace came in and saw me crying.

She asked, “Sir, are you in pain?” I smiled and said, “No, Grace.

These are tears of peace.

I finally know who God is.

” Days later, I wrote everything that happened in a small notebook.

I wanted to remember every detail, the pain, the prayers, and the miracle.

I didn’t want to forget how Jesus met me in my darkest moment.

I wrote, “I was blind inside, but now I see.

I was dying, but now I live.

” Writing made me realize that healing was not only about my skin.

Jesus had healed my heart.

The fear that ruled me for years was gone.

I could finally sleep without nightmares.

The constant guilt that came from trying to please Allah through the rules disappeared.

In its place came peace, deep and real.

Sometimes I woke up at night just to whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.

” I didn’t need long prayers.

A few simple words were enough.

Then came a day I will never forget.

I decided to test my healing completely.

I went for a walk beyond the house toward the small stream that ran through the valley.

The path was rocky, but I walked easily.

I dipped my hands into the cool water and smiled.

For months, even water touching my skin had caused pain, but now it felt refreshing.

I looked up at the sky and said, “Jesus, I believe in you with all my heart.

” As I said those words, the sun broke through the clouds, shining directly on the water.

It felt like heaven was smiling.

I knelt down and prayed again, thanking him for everything.

At that moment, I knew I was completely free.

I had been healed not by power or position, but by grace.

When I returned home, I told Grace everything that happened by the stream.

She listened with tears and said, “Sir, you must never forget this.

” One day, people will need to hear it.

” Her words touched me, but I still felt afraid.

“Grace,” I said.

“If anyone finds out, they might punish us.

” She nodded.

“I know, but the truth of Jesus is stronger than fear.

” I admired her faith.

She was just a servant in a foreign land.

Yet her courage was greater than mine.

That night, I prayed again, asking Jesus to give me the same courage.

I didn’t know that my faith would soon face a fire that would test everything I believed.

For now, all I knew was gratitude.

My body was healed, my spirit alive, and my heart belonged fully to Jesus.

Weeks passed peacefully.

My father sent word that he wanted to visit soon.

He had heard from the doctors that I was recovering well.

I felt nervous.

I didn’t know how to face him.

When he arrived, his eyes softened when he saw me healthy again.

Yousef, he said, praise be to Allah.

You look strong.

I smiled but said nothing.

I couldn’t lie, yet I couldn’t tell him the truth either.

He spoke about returning me to Aman soon.

My heart pounded.

I knew that going back would mean facing the Imam and the rest of the family again.

They would expect me to join prayers and act as before.

I prayed silently, Lord, if you are sending me back, then go with me.

I didn’t realize that his answer would come through something far beyond my imagination.

That evening, as the sun set behind the hills, I stood outside watching the horizon.

The sky was red and gold, reminding me of the days when my skin burned from disease.

But now the fire inside me was different.

It was faith.

I remembered how Jesus had said, “I am the light of the world.

” Those words echoed in my heart.

I wanted to keep that light burning no matter what.

Grace joined me outside and said, “Sir, whatever happens next, remember that Jesus will never leave you.

” I nodded.

Her words were simple, but they stayed in my heart.

I didn’t know that the fire of my healing would soon turn into a real fire of testing.

Yet even then, I had peace.

I believed that the same Lord who brought to rain to heal my soul could do it again if danger came.

That night, before sleeping, I opened my Bible again.

The pages felt warm under my fingers.

I read the verse where Jesus healed a man who had been sick for 38 years.

Jesus asked him, “Do you want to be made well?” The man said, “Yes.

” And Jesus told him to rise and walk.

I whispered, “Yes, Lord, I want to stay well.

” I closed the Bible and lay down.

My heart was calm.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of death, shame, or rejection.

I felt safe in the hands of Jesus.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but I trusted him completely.

My healing was real, and my faith was stronger than ever.

In the silence of that night, I felt Jesus presence so close, as if he was sitting beside me, guarding me for the storm that was coming.

When morning came, my heart was calm, but I could feel that something was changing around me.

My father’s visit had brought new attention to my recovery.

The palace doctors wanted proof that I was cured, and news of my quick healing began to spread among the staff.

Some servants whispered that my recovery was a miracle.

Others said I had found a secret medicine from abroad.

None of them knew the truth.

I wanted to keep it that way, but secrets never last long inside royal walls.

A few days later, a letter came from Aman ordering me to return home.

I was to attend a family gathering to celebrate my recovery.

My father said it was time for the public to see me again.

I felt uneasy.

I had peace in my heart, but I knew going back would not be easy.

Grace looked worried when I told her, “Sir,” she said softly, “be careful in the palace.

They will notice the light in you.

Don’t let fear silence your faith.

” I nodded, though deep inside I was afraid.

I had promised Jesus to follow him.

But I also knew the price of being known as a Christian among my people.

Still, I packed my few things and prepared to leave the villa.

Before I stepped out, Grace gave me a small wooden cross she had carved herself.

“Keep this hidden,” she said.

“But remember who you belong to.

” I held it close to my heart and thanked her.

When I left the house near Madaba, the wind was gentle and the road to Aman looked calm, but my spirit knew that a storm was coming.

The palace in Aman looked the same as before, yet it felt different.

The halls were filled with gold and marble, but my heart no longer belonged there.

My family welcomed me with smiles and praises.

My father hugged me and said, “Praise be to Allah.

My son has been healed.

My mother wept with joy and my cousins congratulated me.

Everyone spoke about how Allah had shown mercy.

I smiled politely but inside I wanted to say it was Jesus.

Still I stayed silent.

I didn’t want to bring trouble or confusion.

The royal imam Sheikh Khaled came to greet me and said you are living proof of Allah’s power.

I nodded, pretending to agree, but guilt filled my heart.

That night, I knelt in my room and asked Jesus to forgive me for staying silent about his miracle.

Days passed and I tried to live as before.

I joined my father for fajure prayers, went to the mosque on Fridays and greeted people with assalamu alaykum.

But every time I bowed, my heart whispered Jesus.

The more I tried to hide my faith, the harder it became.

One evening during dinner, my younger brother Kareem noticed the small wooden cross under my shirt.

“What’s that?” he asked curiously.

I froze and said quickly.

“Just something Grace gave me for protection.

” His face changed.

“Grace, the Christian woman?” I nodded nervously.

He didn’t say anything more, but I could see suspicion in his eyes.

Later that night, I heard him talking quietly with our father.

My heart started to race.

I prayed silently.

Lord Jesus, please protect me.

Don’t let this secret destroy everything.

The next morning, my father called me to his study.

His face was serious.

Yousef, he said slowly.

Your brother tells me you wear a Christian cross.

Is this true? I hesitated then said yes, father, but it is only a gift.

Nothing more.

His eyes narrowed.

Nothing more.

The servants say you read a Bible in Madaba.

Tell me, is that true? My throat went dry.

I couldn’t lie any longer.

Father, I said quietly, I was sick and hopeless.

I prayed to Allah, but no healing came.

Then I prayed to Jesus and he healed me.

That is the truth.

My father’s face turned pale, then red with anger.

Allah, he shouted.

Do you know what you are saying? You are speaking blasphemy.

Jesus is only a prophet.

I said softly.

He is more than that father.

He is my lord.

The room fell silent.

My father stared at me in disbelief then slammed his hand on the table.

You are my son but you have brought shame to our name.

Do you know what happens to one who leaves Islam? His voice trembled with rage.

Father, I pleaded.

I haven’t left truth.

I have found it.

But he refused to listen.

He called for the guards and ordered them to search my room.

Within minutes, they returned holding my Bible.

My heart sank.

My father took it in his hands, shouting, “This is poison.

You have been deceived by that woman.

” I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t hear me.

By tomorrow morning, he said coldly, you will stand before the Imam.

If you do not repent, the punishment will be severe.

That night, I sat in my locked room with tears streaming down my face.

I could hear the guards outside my door.

Fear filled my heart, but I also felt a strange peace.

I opened my Bible one last time and read, “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

” I whispered, “Jesus, give me courage.

” I thought of grace and hoped she was safe.

I knew she would be blamed, too.

The night felt endless, but my faith did not shake.

Around midnight, I knelt and prayed, “Lord, even if they kill me, I will not deny you.

You are worth everything.

” I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But I trusted that Jesus was still in control, even in this dark hour.

At sunrise, the guards took me to a small court inside the palace.

My father sat beside the imam and several elders stood around.

The Imam began to question me.

Yousef, do you confirm that you left Islam? He asked.

I replied calmly.

I found peace in Jesus who healed me.

Gasps filled with the room.

My father’s face turned cold.

The imam declared, “Then you are an apostate.

The punishment for apostasy is death.

” My father’s voice broke as he said, “Take him away.

Prepare the sentence outside the city.

No one must know of this disgrace.

My body trembled, but my heart whispered, “I am not afraid.

” The guards bound my hands and led me out.

As we drove toward a remote village near Man, I looked out the window and whispered, “Lord Jesus, you were also condemned.

Help me to stay faithful.

” The journey to the village felt endless.

The guards said little.

When we arrived, I saw a small open field with a wooden post in the middle.

Villagers had been gathered by the authorities, told only that a man had betrayed his faith.

I was dragged to the post and tied firmly.

The imam read verses from the Quran warning the crowd about disobedience to Allah.

My father stood nearby, his face hard as stone.

I wanted to cry, but I looked up to the sky instead and whispered, “Jesus, forgive them.

They don’t know what they are doing.

” As the executioners poured oil around me, the smell filled the air.

My heart pounded, but I wasn’t afraid.

I knew I wasn’t alone.

I felt a piece I couldn’t explain, as if unseen arms held me gently.

When they set the fire, the flames rose quickly, licking my clothes and legs.

The pain was sharp, but my spirit was calm.

I shouted, “Jesus, save me.

” My voice echoed through the valley.

Suddenly, from a sky that had been clear only moments before, dark clouds gathered.

A cold wind blew hard.

The fire crackled louder, but then heavy rain began to fall.

It was not a drizzle.

It was a flood from heaven.

The flames hissed and died within seconds.

People screamed and ran for shelter.

The guards stood frozen, staring at the sky.

My ropes loosened and I fell to my knees in the wet soil.

The rain poured over me, cooling my burned skin.

I raised my hands and cried, “Thank you, Jesus.

You have saved me again.

” Even the Imam stepped back in shock, whispering, “This is impossible.

” The rain continued for nearly an hour, flooding the ground.

The villagers whispered among themselves, saying it was a miracle.

The guards were too afraid to move me.

My father stood speechless, his face pale.

I looked at him and said softly, “Father, do you see now? Jesus is real.

” He saved me.

He turned away, unable to speak.

When the rain finally stopped, the air was cool and still.

The crowd had scattered, leaving only a few guards behind.

They whispered nervously about what to do.

I sat there soaked but alive, my heart bursting with gratitude.

I knew this was not luck or weather.

It was the power of God showing that no fire could destroy what he had healed.

The same Lord who gave me life once had saved me again through the rain.

That evening, as darkness fell, the guards decided to leave me in the care of local authorities until they received new orders.

But in the confusion, some of them fled.

The people of the village whispered among themselves, afraid to keep me there.

One older man, who had watched everything, approached quietly and said, “Son, come with me.

The soldiers will return soon.

” He led me to his small home near the edge of the village.

His wife cleaned my wounds and gave me dry clothes.

They said little, but I saw faith in their eyes.

That night, as I lay on a mat near their fireplace, I thanked Jesus for his mercy.

I didn’t know where I would go next, but I knew he would guide me.

The fire that was meant to kill me had become the fire that proved his power.

That night, in the small house near the edge of the village, I lay awake listening to the sound of rain still falling outside.

The air was cool and smelled of wet earth.

Every time the wind blew through the cracks in the wall, I remembered the fire that had almost taken my life.

My body still achd, but my heart was peaceful.

The old man who had rescued me brought me warm milk and said quietly, “Son, whatever happened today, it was not from man.

God himself saved you.

” His words touched me deeply.

Yes, I said.

It was Jesus.

He nodded, not surprised.

I saw how the fire died.

Only the Lord of heaven could send rain like that.

His wife smiled and said, “You have a purpose now, my child.

God saved you for a reason.

” Their kindness made me cry again.

By morning, the village was almost empty.

Many people had left during the storm, afraid that the soldiers might return.

The old man told me his name was Hassan and his wife was Mariam.

They were simple farmers who loved God quietly.

They didn’t ask too many questions, but they treated me like a son.

You can rest here, Hassan said, until it is safe to leave.

I thanked him and helped him in the field that day.

Even though my hands still trembled, the soil was soft from the rain and the sky was bright again.

Each time I looked up, I remembered how those same clouds had come when I called on Jesus.

That thought gave me courage.

I realized that even though I had lost everything, family, title, and wealth, I had found something greater.

I had found the living God.

That evening, as we sat around a small fire to keep warm, Mariam asked me gently, “Son, what will you do now?” Her question made me think deeply.

I had nowhere to go.

My father believed I was dead and the royal family would never accept me again.

I looked into the flames and said, “I don’t know yet, but I want to follow Jesus wherever he leads me.

” Hassan nodded.

“Then he will show you the way,” he said simply.

He reached for an old Bible from a wooden shelf and gave it to me.

“This is yours now.

I have read it for many years.

It will guide you when you feel lost.

” I took it with shaking hands.

It was the second Bible I had ever held.

I opened it and read softly, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.

” For the next few weeks, I stayed with Hassan and Mariam.

They taught me many things about the Bible and about prayer.

Every morning, we prayed together before going to the fields.

I learned how to speak to God freely, how to thank him even in small things.

At night, we sat under the stars and read stories about people who followed God through suffering.

Joseph in Egypt, Daniel in the lion’s den, and Paul in prison.

Their stories felt like mine.

They had lost much, but gained peace that no man could take away.

I also began writing letters to grace in my heart, though I couldn’t send them.

I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I prayed that she was safe.

She had been the first person to show me the way, and I asked Jesus to bless her wherever she was.

After a month, Hassan told me that it was time to move on.

The soldiers might come again, he said, “And you need to be far from here.

” He gave me a small bag with some food, a water bottle, and money.

Go toward man, he said.

There are Christians there who help travelers like you.

We prayed together before I left.

As I walked away from the house, Mariam called after me.

Remember Yousef, the same God who brought the rain will lead your steps.

Her voice echoed in my heart as I walked into the desert road.

I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I knew who was guiding me.

Each a step felt like faith.

I whispered softly, “Jesus, I am yours.

Lead me.

” The wind blew gently, as if answering me.

The road to man was long and quiet.

I walked mostly at night to avoid attention.

Sometimes I slept under olive trees or beside rocks.

During those nights, I prayed and sang softly using the few songs grace had taught me.

One night, as I rested by a hill, I looked at the stars and thought about my old life, the palace, the wealth, the fame.

I realized how empty it all was compared to knowing Jesus.

I didn’t need gold or titles anymore.

I had peace that kings could not buy.

The memory of the fire no longer frightened me.

It reminded me that God’s power was real.

I remembered the faces of the people who saw the rain and prayed that one day they too would believe.

My journey was hard but my heart was full of joy.

When I finally reached Man, I met a small group of believers who welcomed me with open arms.

They were Jordanian Christians who lived quietly worshiping together in secret.

Their leader, a kind man named Faddi, listened to my story with tears in his eyes.

“Brother,” he said, “your life is a miracle.

You must never be ashamed of what Jesus has done for you.

” They gave me a place to rest and food to eat.

Every evening, we gathered in a small room lit by candles to read the Bible and pray.

For the first time, I was among people who understood my faith.

They called me brother Yousef, not prince.

I liked that.

I didn’t want titles anymore.

I wanted only to serve Jesus.

I began to learn more about the gospel and how to share it with others.

One day, Fi asked me, “Would you like to be baptized, brother?” My heart jumped with joy.

“Yes,” I said.

I want to show the world that I belong to Jesus.

Early the next morning, we walked to a quiet stream outside the city.

The sun was rising and the air was cool.

Fi prayed over me and said, “Yesef, today you bury your old life and rise as a new man in Christ.

” As I stepped into the water, memories of the Jordan River and Naman came rushing back.

I remembered how I once read his story in secret, never knowing I would live my own.

When I came out of the water, I felt lighter, cleaner, and truly free.

The people around me clapped softly and said, “Welcome, brother.

” I knew that moment was the beginning of my new life.

After my baptism, I stayed with the group for several months.

I helped them distribute food to the poor and visited families who needed encouragement.

I shared my story only with a few trusted people.

Many wept when they heard how Jesus saved me from the fire.

Your testimony gives us hope.

One man said, “If Jesus could protect you from death, he can protect us, too.

” I didn’t see myself as a preacher, but I knew my story was meant to touch hearts.

Vi told me, “You have the heart of a shepherd, Yousef.

Keep walking in faith.

” I prayed every day for wisdom and humility.

Though danger still surrounded us, I was not afraid anymore.

The same Jesus who saved me in the flames was with me every step of the way.

As months turned into a year, I moved again.

This time toward Karak, where I found work helping a small Christian charity.

We cared for refugees and sick children.

Many of them were Muslims who had lost everything, just like I once did.

When they asked me why I helped, I told them, “Because Jesus taught me to love others the way he loves me.

” Some listened with curiosity, others just smiled.

Every time I saw someone in pain, I remembered my own days of sickness and despair.

I knew exactly how it felt to be forgotten, and I wanted no one to feel that again.

My path to pain had become my new purpose.

I was no longer a hidden prince.

I was a servant of God’s grace.

That truth gave meaning to every breath I took.

Sometimes at night, I thought about my family.

I wondered if my father ever thought about me, if he regretted what had happened.

I still loved him and prayed for him.

I prayed for my mother, my brothers, and even for the imam who had condemned me.

Lord, I would whisper.

Open their eyes the way you opened mine.

I didn’t know if they would ever believe, but I trusted that God could reach their hearts.

Forgiving them gave me peace.

I also prayed for Grace every day.

Without her courage, I might never have known the truth.

I dreamed that one day I would see her again, not in fear or hiding, but standing freely as children of God.

These prayers kept my heart soft and full of hope.

Years later, I returned quietly to Madaba to visit the places where my journey began.

The villa where I once lived in isolation was empty now, covered in dust.

I walked through its silent holes and remembered the nights I cried to Allah for healing and heard nothing.

Then I remembered the night I called on Jesus and everything changed.

I knelt on the same floor and thanked him again.

As I left, I looked up at the sky and whispered, “You turned my prison into a place of freedom.

” The birds flew above me, just like the day I was healed.

I smiled, knowing that even though the world had forgotten me, heaven never did.

My story was proof that Jesus still saves, still heals, and still rescues those who call his name.

Now, as I write these words, I am no longer the man I used to be.

I am not the prince who lived in gold palaces or the man who feared what others thought.

I am a follower of Jesus, a child of God.

I travel quietly sharing my story with those who are searching for peace.

I tell them that Jesus is real, that he loves even those who feel lost.

I told them that no sin, no sickness and no fire is too strong for his power.

Many people listen and some believe.

Every time I see a soul find hope, I remember the rain that fell on that day of fire.

It reminds me that God’s mercy still falls like rain on those who cry to him.

I am living proof of that truth.

So if you are reading my story and wondering if Jesus can help you, my answer is yes.

I was a man who had everything but peace.

I lost my health, my honor, and my place in the world.

Yet I found the greatest treasure, salvation.

When I was in the fire, I thought it was the end.

But it became my beginning.

Jesus turned my ashes into a story of grace.

I may have lost my family, my title, and my country.

But I gained eternal life, and that is worth more than any crown.

My name is Yousef, once called a prince of Jordan, now a servant of the King of Heaven.

If Jesus could send rain to save me from the fire, he can save anyone who calls upon his name today.