Hello, ND narrator.

I discovered your channel just 3 days ago and the Texas flood testimony you shared stopped me in my tracks.

It wasn’t just a story to me.

It felt like a mirror of my own.

You see, my sister and her two little girls live in Kurville, Kerr County, Texas, the very heart of where the flood hit hardest.

What happened to them during those terrifying days and how they survived is something I still struggle to fully explain.

But maybe if I start from the beginning, you’ll understand why I had to share this conversion story.

My name is Princess Leila.

This is not the name I was born with, but the one I use now to tell my story.

In truth, I cannot give you my real name because where I come from, even speaking these words aloud could cost me everything.

My family, my freedom, even my life.

I was born into wealth and power as a member of Saudi Arabia’s royal bloodline.

Not a daughter of King Salman or a direct heir to the throne, but part of the extended royal family, the House of Assad.

My grandfather was a brother to King Fod and that made me a princess in the eyes of society.

From the time I was a little girl in Riyad, I lived in palaces with high walls and golden gates.

Servants called me a mirror, the Arabic word for princess, and I was surrounded by luxury that most people could only imagine.

Yet behind those walls, life was not as perfect as it seemed.

Growing up in Riad felt like living in two worlds at once.

Inside the palace, there were chandeliers dripping with crystal, marble floors polished until they shone, and gardens filled with fountains and exotic flowers.

My wardrobe was full of designer clothes from Paris and Milan, though I could only wear them in private.

Outside the palace gates, I was covered head to toe in black abayaz and nick abs, my face hidden from view.

I was taught from a young age that this was my duty as a Muslim woman, as a daughter of a noble family, and as a guardian of our honor.

Every Friday, I would accompany my father to the mosque where mams would preach about devotion to Allah and the importance of obedience to Sharia law.

As a royal, the expectations were even higher.

Any mistake, any rumor could bring shame on our entire family.

I carried this weight silently even as a child.

I was close to my sister Amina.

She was 2 years younger than me with the same large brown eyes and delicate features that marked our family line.

Amina was always more curious than me.

Always asking questions that I never dared to voice.

She would whisper in our shared bedroom at night.

Do you ever wonder if there’s more, Ila? More than all this, I would hush her quickly, my heart pounding at her boldness.

Questioning Islam, questioning our place in the world was not only dangerous, it was unthinkable.

Our father was a strict man.

Though he loved us in his own way, he would bring us sweets from Jedha on his business trips and tell us stories of our ancestors who built the kingdom.

But he also reminded us often, “You are daughters of honor.

Never forget who you are and never disgrace Allah.

I wanted so badly to make him proud.

Even as my soul felt increasingly empty.

As we grew older, Amina married a Saudi man who later moved with her to Texas for his medical career.

It was a shock to the family at first, but her husband’s position made it acceptable.

She settled in Kurville, a quiet city in Kirk County surrounded by rolling hills and rivers.

She would send me photos of her two little daughters playing in the Texan sun, their faces glowing with laughter.

I missed her terribly, but I was glad she was happy.

Meanwhile, I remained in Riyad, surrounded by golden jewels, yet feeling more like a prisoner than a princess.

I had suitors, of course, sons of powerful families and wealthy businessmen, but none of them stirred my heart.

Deep down, I felt something was missing, but I could not name it.

I would stand at the window of my suite at night, staring at the stars, whispering prayers to Allah.

But even as I prayed, there was a hollow space inside me that no words could fill.

In Saudi Arabia, we are taught that Islam is the only truth.

From childhood, we memorize the Quran, recite the Shida, and fast during Ramadan.

The laws are strict.

To leave Islam is to commit apostasy, a crime punishable by death.

Religious police patrol the streets.

And even in the royal family, surveillance is constant.

I remember once hearing of a distant cousin who was caught with a Bible in his luggage.

He disappeared soon after and no one spoke his name again.

The fear of such a fate kept me in line.

I never dared to question, not even when I saw Christian churches hidden behind compound walls during trips abroad.

I would look away quickly, reminding myself of what the imams taught.

There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.

But in the quiet of my heart, I wondered why I still felt so empty.

It was on a Friday morning in early July when I received the first call from Amina that would change everything.

She sounded nervous, her voice breaking through the line from Texas.

Ila, there’s a storm.

The rain hasn’t stopped for hours and they say the Guadalupe River is rising fast.

The streets are flooding.

I don’t know what to do.

I tried to calm her, reminding her that floods come and go.

But as the hours passed, her messages grew more desperate.

“The waters in the house now,” she whispered later that evening.

“We can’t get out.

The girls are crying.

We’re trapped.

My heart pounded as I listened.

I felt helpless thousands of miles away in Riad.

” I rushed to my father and he immediately gathered our family’s private imams and scholars.

They prayed long and hard, reciting verses from the Quran, calling upon Allah to save Amina and her children.

But as night fell, there was still no word of rescue.

I lay awake in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling, whispering, “Ya Allah, save them, please.

” The sound of my phone ringing startled me out of a restless sleep.

It was just after dawn on Friday, July 4th, and Amina’s name flashed on the screen.

Her voice was shaking, almost unrecognizable.

Ila, it’s getting worse.

The rain hasn’t stopped since last night.

The waters rising fast outside the house.

I sat up quickly, my heart racing.

From the window of my Riad bedroom, I could see the desert sun rising over dry golden sand.

But halfway across the world, my sister was surrounded by water.

“Are you safe? Is Akmed with you?” I asked, but she explained that her husband had been called to assist at the hospital before the roads were closed.

“Now she was alone with her two daughters, Salma and Yasmin, ages six and three.

The girls were crying in the background, their tiny voices making my chest tighten with fear.

As the hours passed, Amina continued to call, sending me photos and videos of their street in Curville.

The once quiet neighborhood was now a river, cars half submerged, furniture floating past windows.

“Lila, the water is coming into the living room.

It’s kneeh high now,” she whispered during one call.

I could hear the panic in her breathing as she tried to sound calm for the sake of her daughters.

I turned on the television in my suite, switching between international channels.

The news confirmed that central Texas was experiencing historic flooding with Kurville among the hardest hit areas.

Reporters spoke of overwhelmed emergency services and rising fatalities.

My hands trembled as I scrolled through social media updates from Kirk County residents begging for help.

Some stuck in their atticss or clinging to rooftops.

Unable to bear the tension alone, I ran down the marble staircase to find my father in his study.

Baba, it’s Amina.

She and the girls are trapped.

The floodwaters are inside the house, I cried.

His face darkened as he set down his coffee cup.

Without hesitation, he ordered his aids to contact our family’s imams and religious scholars.

Within an hour, four respected men in flowing white thes and red checkered but gutras arrived at the palace.

They gathered in the prayer room sitting cross-legged on rich Persian carpets as they opened Qurans and began to recite verses aloud.

I sat just outside the door, my fingers nervously clutching my prayer beads.

In aiwa rajian, I whispered repeatedly under my breath, pleading for Allah’s mercy.

The imams chanted for hours, their voices rising and falling like waves themselves.

My father fasted that day as a sign of humility before Allah, urging me and the women of the house to do the same.

We prayed salat al-haja, the prayer of need, asking Allah to intervene and protect our family.

Yet every time I called Amina, her situation grew worse.

Ila, the water is at my waist now.

Salma and Yasmin are shivering.

I put them on the kitchen counter, but I don’t know how long it will stay dry.

Her words sent chills through me despite the riad heat.

My father paced outside the prayer room, occasionally answering calls from contacts in Texas.

But even with his influence, the roads around Kurville were closed and rescue teams were overwhelmed.

By evening, reports of more deaths flooded my phone.

Entire family swept away in the raging waters.

Videos surfaced of people clinging to trees as currents tore at their legs.

I tried to stay strong for Amina, but my own tears fell silently as I listened to her voice notes, often interrupted by static and the sound of rushing water.

If the power goes out, my phone will die.

I’m so scared, Ila.

What will happen to us? She whispered during one message.

I wanted to scream to break down the walls of the palace and fly to her.

But all I could do was pray.

I joined my father and the imams for evening prayers, kneeling on the soft carpet as their Arabic chants filled the air.

“Ya Allah, save them.

Don’t let them die like this,” I begged silently, pressing my forehead to the ground.

The night stretched on endlessly.

I sat in my bedroom, staring at my phone screen, willing it to light up with a message from Amina.

Every vibration made my heart leap, but each time it was only news alerts about the Texas flood.

Emergency services had issued mandatory evacuations in parts of Kerr County, but many residents were trapped with no way out.

I tried calling Amina again, but this time there was no answer.

Her phone went straight to voicemail.

A wave of dread washed over me, and I clutched my prayer beads tighter.

Astig Ferala.

Astig Ferala.

I whispered over and over, asking for forgiveness and help.

In the silence of my royal chamber, I felt smaller than I ever had before.

For the first time in my life, all the wealth and power of my family seemed completely useless.

As the early hours of July 5th approached, I still had no word from Amina.

I could no longer hold back my sobs.

Burying my face in the pillow to muffle the sound, I prayed the tahajud, the late night prayer with tears streaming down my face.

Yab, you are the most merciful.

Save them.

Please save them, I pleaded.

My father and the imams continued their supplications downstairs, their voices horse from hours of recitation.

Yet deep in my heart, a small voice began to whisper doubts I dare not speak.

What if Allah does not answer? What if they are already gone? I shift the thoughts away, terrified of my own mind.

But as I curled up on the floor beside my bed, exhausted and helpless, I felt the first cracks in my faith begin to form.

I don’t remember when sleep finally came, but I know it wasn’t peaceful.

My body was heavy with exhaustion after a long night of prayers and tears.

My mind still replaying Amina’s last message on a loop.

The image of her sitting on the kitchen counter clutching Salma and Yasmin as water swirled around their little legs haunted me.

I whispered more duas, clutching my prayer beads until my fingers achd before my eyelids finally gave way.

In the dream, I was standing in one of our palace gardens under the soft glow of the moonlight.

The jasmine flowers released their sweet scent into the air, but my chest felt tight, like a great weight pressed down on me.

Beside me stood Noir, my childhood servant and closest confidant.

She had raised me more like a second mother, gentle and wise in a way that made me feel safe even now as an adult.

nor turned to me with eyes full of compassion, her hands clasped in front of her as though she too carried a burden.

Ila, she said softly, her voice almost a whisper.

You have prayed to Allah.

You have asked the imams.

But why don’t you call on Jesus? Perhaps he will hear you.

Her words struck me like a sudden wind.

I stared at her unable to speak.

My lips parted in shock.

Jesus, the prophet we were taught to respect but not to worship.

Nor’s eyes did not waver.

I know you are afraid, she continued.

Her voice so calm, it felt like an embrace.

But what if he really is who they say he is? What if he can save Amina and the children? I wanted to argue to say this was impossible, but no sound came from my mouth.

I felt as if I was frozen in place.

Suddenly, I woke up.

My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

My night gown clinging to my skin from sweat.

I sat up in bed, staring into the darkness of my room, struggling to catch my breath.

The image of Norah’s face lingered in my mind, her voice echoing like a song I couldn’t shake off.

Why don’t you call on Jesus? Perhaps he will hear you.

I pressed my hands over my ears as if I could stop the memory from replaying, but it wouldn’t leave me.

I glanced at the prayer mat still laid out on the marble floor from my earlier supplications.

Was this dream a test? Or worse, was it a whisper from Shayan trying to lead me astray? In my world, even entertaining such a thought was unthinkable, a betrayal of everything I had been taught since birth.

Yet beneath my fear, there was another feeling rising.

Desperation.

I lay back down, pulling the heavy silk blanket around me.

But sleep refused to return.

My thoughts churned like the floodwaters in Texas.

I remembered the sermons from the mosque, the words of our family imams, the endless warnings against shik associating partners with Allah.

How could I, a daughter of the house of Assad, even think such a thing? If anyone knew, they would say I was committing cough or unbelief.

A sin so great it could never be forgiven.

But then I thought of Amina alone in a house filling with water, her daughters clinging to her neck.

I thought of how my father’s prayers and the imam’s kuranic recitations had done nothing so far.

Maybe Norah’s words were just a dream born of my exhaustion and grief.

Or maybe, just maybe, they were something more.

By the time the morning call to prayer echoed across Riyad, I hadn’t moved from my bed.

My eyes were red from crying, my body aching with tension.

My phone lay beside me, silent and cold.

I had called Amina so many times during the night, but it still went straight to voicemail.

What if this was the end? What if her last message was truly her last? My hand trembled as I reached for the phone again.

I wanted to call my father to ask if the imams were still praying, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave my room.

Instead, I clutched the device, staring at the dark screen.

Jesus.

Even thinking the name felt foreign on my tongue, yet it seemed to pulse in my mind like a heartbeat.

I didn’t know what to do with the thought.

Should I dismiss it as a dream? Or was this my only hope? The day passed slowly, each hour feeling like a year.

I stayed in my room, refusing meals and ignoring the knocks on my door from the palace maids.

I prayed as much as I could, repeating surz, trying to calm the fear gnawing at my chest.

But deep down, a strange curiosity had begun to grow.

a fragile seed of wonder.

I remember trips abroad as a child, walking past churches in Europe with their tall steeples and stained glass windows.

I remembered once asking my father why Christians prayed so differently.

They are misguided, he said sharply.

They worship a man, not God.

That answer had satisfied me then, but now, as Amina’s life hung in the balance, it no longer felt enough.

What if Nor’s dream voice was right? What if Jesus wasn’t just a man? What if he could hear me? By sunset, I couldn’t sit still any longer.

I stood by the window, watching the Riad sky turned orange and gold.

The sound of evening traffic drifted up from the distant streets.

My hands felt clammy as I held my phone again.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the search bar.

I hesitated, my heart pounding as if the walls themselves might witness what I was about to do.

This is madness, I told myself.

What if someone finds out? In Saudi Arabia, internet activity could be monitored.

Even for a royal, no one was above scrutiny.

Still, my fingers moved almost on their own.

Slowly, carefully, I typed the words, “Jesus saves people testimonies.

” I stared at the letters on the screen for a long moment before pressing search.

The screen flickered to life as search results poured in.

Videos, blog posts, and articles, most of them written by people who, like me, had grown up in families where Islam was everything.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the first video title, How Jesus Found Me in a Muslim country.

The thumbnail showed a veiled woman with tears on her cheeks.

I turned the volume low, barely a whisper, and pressed play.

The woman spoke softly in Arabic, her voice trembling as she described the day she first called out to Jesus Christ.

“I didn’t even know how to pray,” she said.

“But I whispered his name.

I said, “If you are real, help me.

” And he came to me in my darkness.

My chest tightened as I listened.

She looked so much like me, her black scarf framing a face of fear and hope.

I wiped my eyes before I realized tears had fallen.

I spent hours that night scrolling through testimonies.

Men and women from Egypt, Yemen, Pakistan, even Saudi Arabia.

Each one had a story.

Some saw Jesus in dreams.

Others were saved from impossible situations, violence, illness, floods, fires.

I clicked on a video of a man speaking English with subtitles.

I was ready to end my life, he said.

But then I heard a voice say, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt peace.

His words pierced my heart.

I closed my laptop for a moment and buried my face in my hands.

Could this really be true? Or am I letting my fear and sorrow make me believe lies? I whispered softly, “Jesus, are you really the son of God?” Even hearing myself say those words made my body tense with terror.

It felt like my room could crumble from the weight of blasphemy.

The next day, I kept to myself, barely leaving my room.

My father continued to host a mams in the palace.

From my window, I watched them come and go in their white robes, their faces solemn as they prayed Quranic verses for Amina and her children.

I knew they meant well, and I tried to join them in my own prayers.

But deep inside, I couldn’t stop thinking about the testimonies I’d watched.

At night, when the house was silent, I whispered words I’d never imagined saying.

Jesus, if you are real, will you listen to someone like me? I don’t know how to talk to you.

I’m not a Christian.

I don’t even know your prayers.

My voice shook as I sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the moonlight spilling through the curtains.

For hours, I struggled to form words.

I didn’t know where to begin.

I remembered how Christians in the videos folded their hands or raised them to the sky.

Should I do the same? Instead, I pressed my palms together and whispered in Arabic, “Jesus, I am desperate.

I can’t lose my sister.

I can’t lose Selma and Yasmin.

If you are who they say you are, show me.

” I waited in silence, half expecting to hear a voice or see a vision.

But there was nothing, only the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

My tears fell freely as I continued, switching to English.

Jesus, if you save Amina and her children, I will give my life to you.

I don’t know what that means yet, but I promise, please save them.

I felt foolish as soon as the words left my lips.

What was I doing? Making deals with the prophet Christians claimed was God.

The days that followed were agonizing.

Every morning, I checked my phone before even getting out of bed, praying for a mis call or a message.

Nothing.

My father’s face grew more drawn as the imams reported no change.

Perhaps Allah tests us, one said gravely.

We must persevere in prayer.

I nodded silently, but my heart felt heavier each hour.

I couldn’t tell them about my secret prayers to Jesus.

They would see it as cuff for the greatest sin.

Even nor if she were truly here and not just a dream might caution me to stay silent.

I spend more time watching Christian testimonies, feeling a strange mix of hope and shame.

Some spoke of miraculous rescues, others of visions where Jesus appeared dressed in white, his hands outstretched.

I found myself longing to see him.

Even as I scolded myself for such thoughts, you are a Muslim.

You are royal.

What are you doing? By July 7th, I had begun to lose hope.

It had been 3 days since Amina’s last message.

Every time I called, her phone went straight to voicemail.

The news from Texas grew more grim.

Death toll rising.

Entire neighborhoods washed away.

I tried to strengthen my faith, joining my father and the imams again for Salot Alistisa.

The prayer for rain to stop and for protection.

But even as I prostrated, my mind wandered back to the videos I had watched in secret.

I felt torn between two worlds.

One where Allah was silent and distant, and another where Jesus supposedly came near to save.

At night, I prayed again, this time speaking more boldly.

Jesus, you see everything.

You know where my sister is.

Please send help.

You don’t have to save me.

Just save them.

But if you do, I will follow you.

Somehow, the next day passed in suffocating silence.

I didn’t eat.

I barely moved from my bed.

My phone lay in my lap and I stared at it for hours, waiting for it to light up.

Nothing.

I scrolled through curval updates on Twitter, my stomach twisting at images of submerged houses and desperate families.

I felt foolish now for praying to Jesus.

I felt even more foolish for believing for even one moment that he might actually answer me.

Y, forgive me if I have offended you.

I whispered into the empty room, though part of me wasn’t sure anymore who I was speaking to.

That night, I didn’t even have the strength to cry.

I curled into a ball on my bed, clutching my phone like a lifeline, and whispered one last time, “Jesus, please.

” before falling into an uneasy sleep.

The morning of July 8th felt heavier than the days before.

I had barely slept, drifting in and out of dreams that left me more exhausted each time I woke.

My phone lay on the bed beside me like a silent witness to my despair.

I had lost count of how many times I tried to call Amina in the past 4 days, each attempt ending in the same dead tone.

It was midm morning when my father came to my room to check on me.

His eyes were tired.

His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of unanswered prayers and sleepless nights.

“We continued to pray,” he said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“The imams believe Allah will show his mercy.

” I nodded numbly, forcing a weak smile.

But deep inside, I felt an aching hollowess.

Even my secret prayers to Jesus had been met with silence.

After my father left, I curled up against my pillow, clutching my phone.

The hours crawled by as I stared at the blank screen, praying in whispers.

Jesus, I don’t know why I feel drawn to you, but if you are real, please, please don’t let them die.

The words felt dry now, like an echo in an empty cave.

I had started to doubt myself to wonder if I had only imagined the strange pull toward him in my desperation.

Maybe I had been foolish.

Maybe my people were right.

Christians believed in a man, not God.

Still, as I spoke his name in Arabic, isa al-Masi, something in me stirred.

My heart beat faster every time, as if it knew something my mind was too afraid to accept.

It was around noon when the phone finally rang.

The sound startled me so much I nearly dropped it.

For a moment, I just stared at the screen, my hands trembling.

Then I saw the caller ID, Amina.

My breath caught in my throat.

With a shaking finger, I answered, “Amina.

” The line was full of static and then I heard her voice, choking sobbs, gasps for air.

“Lila! Oh, Leila, we’re alive.

Relief flooded me so sharply, I couldn’t hold back my own tears.

Alhamdulillah, Amina, are you safe? Are the girls safe? She sniffled, her voice breaking as she spoke.

Yes, Salma and Yasmin, they’re with me.

We’re at a rescue center.

Ila, you won’t believe what happened.

I pressed the phone harder to my ear, my whole body trembling.

Amina’s voice was raw.

almost disbelieving as she recounted their escape.

The water had risen to our chest.

Ila, I thought it was over.

The girls were crying, clinging to me, and I was so weak.

I couldn’t hold them anymore.

I just told them to pray.

I prayed, too.

Everything I knew, every sura I could remember.

But then, she paused, her breath hitching.

Then he came.

My brows furrowed.

Who came? A man, she whispered.

I don’t know from where.

He just appeared inside the house.

Tall, so tall.

His clothes, they glowed.

Ila like light was coming from him.

My heart pounded in my ears.

I didn’t dare speak.

He didn’t say his name.

Amina continued.

He didn’t even speak.

He just smiled at me and I felt so calm, like everything was going to be all right.

He took Sma and Yasmin into his arms, she said, her voice trembling and motioned for me to follow.

I don’t know how, but the door opened and we stepped into the water.

It was so high, Ila.

But with him there, I wasn’t afraid.

He carried the girls and I held on to his sleeve.

He led us through streets I didn’t even recognize.

And when we reached the rescue center, I turned to thank him, but he was gone.

just gone.

I sat frozen, tears streaming down my face.

My lips trembled as I whispered.

You didn’t see where he went.

No, Amina sobbed.

One moment he was there and the next he wasn’t.

The volunteers asked how we got there.

They said no one could have come through those streets, but we did.

We’re alive, Ila.

Because of him.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, muffling a sob.

I knew I didn’t need Amina to say more.

Deep down, I knew who had come for them.

I had asked him.

I had whispered his name in the darkness of my room, begging him to save my sister and her children.

And he had Jesus, the man in white glowing with light, the same one so many of those testimonies had spoken about.

He had answered me, a woman in Riyad, terrified and unworthy.

My tears fell faster as I tried to steady my voice.

Amina, I’m so grateful.

I can’t even.

I I couldn’t finish.

She didn’t notice.

She was still crying, still thanking God in the only way she knew how.

When the call ended, I set the phone down on my lap and stared at my shaking hands.

My father and the imams were still gathered in the prayer hall reciting verses and supplications.

But I knew the truth.

Their prayers hadn’t brought this miracle.

It was Jesus who had come through the floodwaters, who had carried my nieces to safety.

My chest heaved as I struggled to breathe.

It felt as though my entire world had shifted in an instant, like the foundation beneath me had cracked open.

I slid off the bed and onto the floor, my knees hitting the cold marble tiles.

For a long moment, I couldn’t speak.

I could only weep.

Finally, with trembling lips, I whispered into the silence of my room.

I am yours, Jesus.

I am yours.

The words felt foreign yet strangely right.

You saved them.

You heard me.

You answered.

I don’t know what to do now, but I will follow you.

My tears blur everything around me.

In that moment, I wasn’t a princess.

I wasn’t even Ila.

I was just a woman on her knees surrendering her heart to the one who had rescued her family.

For the first time in my life, I felt a peace that no prayer rug, no Quranic verse, no earthly comfort had ever given me.

The hours after that phone call felt like a strange blur of emotions, relief, awe, fear, and something new I couldn’t put into words.

I stayed on the floor long after whispering my surrender to Jesus, my tears drying on my cheeks.

Outside, the palace was alive with muted conversations.

I heard my father’s deep voice speaking to an Imam in the hall, praising Allah for saving Amina and the girls.

But in my heart, I knew.

I knew it wasn’t the prayers of the imams or the Quranic verses or the fasting.

It was Jesus Isa al-Masi, the one I had dared to call on in my desperation.

The realization was both beautiful and terrifying.

I had stepped into a new world and there was no turning back.

Yet in Saudi Arabia, being found in this new world could cost me everything.

My family, my title, my life, I started my new life cautiously, afraid of even my own shadow.

Late at night, when the palace was silent and everyone else slept, I would sit up in bed with my phone’s brightness turned down to the lowest level.

My heart pounded as I searched for online Bibles, Christian articles, and worship songs in Arabic and English.

I discovered a verse that pierced me like an arrow.

Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Matthew 11:28.

The words fell alive.

I whispered them over and over as if holding a fragile treasure.

I began to memorize small passages, hiding them in my heart.

It felt dangerous, more dangerous than anything I had ever done, but also right.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t simply reciting words.

I was speaking to someone who listened, who loved me.

Fear followed me like a shadow.

Saudi Arabia was not a place for doubters, let alone converts.

I had grown up hearing stories of people imprisoned or killed for leaving Islam.

Apostasy was punishable by death under Sharia law.

And as a relative of the royal family, my disgrace would bring shame not only on me but on my father, my siblings, everyone connected to me.

I couldn’t even trust my closest friends.

I practiced caution in everything.

I never saved anything on my phone, relying on memory instead.

When servants entered my room unexpectedly, I quickly switched screens or pretended to sleep.

I felt like a spy in my own home.

At times, guilt tore at me.

Was I betraying Jesus by hiding? Was my faith real if I was too afraid to say it out loud? But in the quiet of my room, I felt his presence.

Sometimes it came like a gentle warmth settling over me as I whispered prayers under my breath.

Other times it came in dreams.

Once I dreamt I was walking alone through a desert, the sun blazing down on me.

I felt weak, thirsty, ready to collapse.

Then I saw him tall, radiant, dressed in white.

He reached out his hand and said in Arabic, “I am with you.

Do not be afraid.

” I woke up with tears streaming down my face, my heart pounding in my chest.

It wasn’t just a dream.

I knew it.

He was speaking to me.

That morning, I prayed softly, “Thank you, Jesus, for not leaving me alone.

I said his name out loud for the first time in my life.

It felt like stepping off a cliff and finding solid ground beneath my feet.

Each day, I grew bolder, not with people, but with him.

I started singing hymns in a whisper while bathing or dressing.

I read parables in secret and marveled at Jesus’s words.

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

That one made me pause for a long time.

Could I really do that? Could I love those who would kill me if they knew the truth? But as I prayed, a strange peace came over me.

I wasn’t ready to stand in front of the world and say I am a follower of Christ.

But I felt him saying it’s okay.

One step at a time.

I found ways to let a little light shine even in small ways.

I treated the servants more kindly, speaking gently.

Even when I was upset, I listened with compassion to people in the palace I had ignored before.

One of the older housemmaids noticed and said, “Princess, you have changed.

You are softer now.

” I smiled but didn’t answer.

If only she knew why.

At night, I whispered prayers for her too, and for my father, my sister, even the imams.

I prayed they would one day meet Jesus the way I had.

In my journal, I wrote a simple promise to him.

One day I will tell the world, but until then I will let my light shine in small ways.

It was the only vow I could make.

I didn’t know what the future held.

I didn’t know how I would ever find courage to speak openly in this forbidden land, but I trusted him to guide me.

For now, I was his in secret.

One day, by his grace, I would be his in the open.

The night of July 10th came with an air of stillness so profound it felt almost holy.

I had been in my room for hours, unable to sleep, staring at the carved ceiling above my bed as my heart wrestled between fear and wonder.

For days I had carried the weight of my secret faith like a fragile flame cupped in trembling hands.

It was beautiful, yes, but also dangerous in this land where the name of Jesus was rarely spoken except to deny him.

That evening, as I whispered his name softly into the silence, my eyes heavy from lack of rest, something extraordinary happened.

I do not know if I fell asleep or slipped into another realm.

But suddenly, he was there.

The room around me seemed to dissolve into light.

Soft at first, then so bright I had to shield my eyes.

When I looked again, I saw him standing at the foot of my bed.

The same man my sister had described in Texas.

The same man from my own dream in the desert.

He was clothed in white, his face radiant yet gentle.

His eyes looked at me with such love that it unraveled the tight knot of fear inside me.

Leila, he said, his voice like music, deep and full of peace.

Do not be afraid.

I have called you by name.

You are mine.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to speak, but no words came.

He stepped closer and I felt a warmth pour over me, like being wrapped in sunlight.

I will strengthen you.

You are not alone in this place.

My spirit is with you.

Then as suddenly as he appeared, the vision faded and I found myself kneeling on my bedroom floor.

My face wet with tears, whispering, “Thank you, Jesus.

Thank you.

” The next morning, I woke with a courage I had never known before.

For days, I had hidden this new faith even from Amina, too afraid to speak the truth.

But now, I couldn’t keep it in any longer.

I took a deep breath and called her on a video chat, my hands trembling as the screen lit up with her face.

She was in the kitchen of her temporary home in Kurville, her daughter’s playing quietly behind her.

Ila, she said with a smile.

It’s so good to see you.

I still can’t believe we’re alive.

I smiled back, my heart pounding.

Amina, there’s something I need to tell you.

Something important.

Her expression shifted to concern.

What is it? So I told her everything about my desperation on July 5th.

About the dream where my servant had whispered.

Why don’t you call on Jesus? About my secret searches online? My whispered prayers in the night and the deal I made that if he saved her and her children, I would give him my life.

I watched her eyes widen, her hand rising to cover her mouth.

Amina, I said softly, my voice breaking.

It was Jesus who came for you in the flood.

It was him.

She began to cry, shaking her head slowly as if trying to process it all.

You You believe in him now? I nodded, tears falling freely.

Yes, and he’s real.

He loves us more than we can imagine.

He saved you because he loves you too.

For a long moment, we both wept in silence.

Then I asked gently, “Amina, would you like to know him too? To give him your heart?” She looked away for a second, then back at me with tearful eyes.

“I I don’t know how.

” I smiled through my tears.

“You don’t need fancy words.

Just tell him you believe.

Tell him you need him.

” I led her in a simple prayer as her daughters peeked curiously from behind her.

Jesus, I believe you are Lord.

I believe you saved us.

Forgive me and make me yours.

As she whispered the words, a deep peace seemed to settle over her face.

When she opened her eyes, she was smiling through tears.

Ila, I feel light, like something heavy just left me.

That night after the call ended, I lay in bed and prayed for the rest of my family.

For my father who still believed his prayers to the imams had saved Amina.

For my brothers and cousins who carried the same strict faith I once did.

Lord, I whispered, one day, let them know you too.

Show them your love in a way they cannot deny.

I knew it might take years.

Perhaps it would never happen in my lifetime.

But I believe he could do it.

After all, he had found me in this palace where no Bible was allowed.

No cross was seen and no church bells rang.

In the days that followed, I began to think of quiet ways I could let his light shine.

I started being more intentional with kindness, helping servants with their chores when no one was watching, speaking encouragement to women in my family who were weary from the pressures of royal life.

I even found myself slipping into conversations hints of a God who loves us unconditionally, not harshly, not demanding perfection.

To some, it was just a strange idea.

To others, I could see curiosity flicker in their eyes.

Perhaps one day those small seeds would bloom.

I still live in fear at times.

A knock on my door can send my heart racing.

The thought of discovery never leaves me completely.

But then I remember his promise.

I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

And I whisper it to myself again and again.

If you had told me a year ago that I would sit in this room and write these words, I would have laughed or cried in fear.

I was born into a life of privilege.

A palace princess in a land where tradition is everything and questioning faith is unthinkable.

I knew the Quran by heart.

I wore the veil with pride.

I believed Islam was all there was, all there ever could be.

But deep inside, I carried an emptiness I could never name.

That emptiness drove me to desperation.

When my sister’s life hung in the balance, surrounded by the rising flood waters in Texas, I had no hope left when the imam’s prayers brought no answer.

And then then came Jesus.

A dream, a whisper, a desperate prayer I never believed he would hear.

But he did.

He heard.

He came.

He saved her.

And he saved me.

Today my world is the same and yet completely different.

I still wear the titles.

I still walk the marble halls, but in my heart I belong to him.

My king is not of this world.

His love holds me in a way no earthly power ever could.

I still hide my faith for now, not out of shame, but because I know the cost here.

But I am no longer afraid.

I know whom I have believed.

To you reading this, maybe you’re like me once, full of questions, full of fear.

Maybe you’re in a place where speaking the name of Jesus is dangerous.

Or maybe you think he couldn’t possibly care about you.

But I am here to tell you, he does.

He came for me in my palace.

He came for my sister in the flood.

And he will come for you wherever you are.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds.

I don’t know how or when I will stand openly for him.

But I know this, his light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never overcome it.

I was once called a princess by men.

Now I am a daughter of the king of kings, and one day the walls of this palace will echo with his name.

Until then, my candle will keep burning quietly, faithfully for him.