My name is Sumaya.

I’m 28 years old.

And on September 7th, 2017, I was burned alive by my own family.

I was a Saudi princess who committed the ultimate crime.

I read the Bible.

But Jesus Christ pulled me from those flames with his own hands.

I was born into golden chains.

The Alsaw Palace where I grew up wasn’t just a home.

It was a fortress of tradition, surveillance, and religious extremism.

As the third daughter in line to our regional throne, every breath I took was monitored by the religious police.

They called it protection, but I knew it was prison.

My father, the regional governor, controlled three provinces with an iron fist wrapped in silk gloves.

He was a man who could sentence someone to death before breakfast and negotiate oil deals before lunch.

Mother was different, but equally terrifying in her own way.

She held a doctorate in Islamic theology and had memorized not just the Quran but thousands of hadith.

She could quote religious law that justified almost any punishment and she believed every word of it.

From the moment I could speak, my life was structured around Islamic devotion.

I was waking at 4:30 every morning for fajar prayers, spending 3 hours daily in Quran memorization and another 2 hours studying Islamic Jewish prudence.

By age 11, I had memorized all 6,236 verses of the Quran.

The Imam called me a prodigy.

My parents called me their pride.

I called it survival.

Every Friday, I led prayer circles for the women in our extended family.

Dozens of wives, daughters, and female servants would gather in our ornate prayer room while I recited verses about submission, obedience, and the fires of hell awaiting those who strayed from Allah’s path.

They looked at me with such reverence, believing I was close to God.

But inside, I felt nothing but emptiness echoing through a marble halls.

The palace had 127 rooms, and I had been in most of them by the time I turned 20.

But there was one section I had never explored.

The old library in the east wing that hadn’t been used since my grandfather’s time.

It was during Ramadan 2017, while the household was sleeping after the pre-dawn meal that I decided to explore those dusty corridors.

The library was enormous, filled with books in Arabic, English, French, and languages I couldn’t identify.

Most were academic texts about economics, history, and politics that my grandfather had collected during his studies in London decades earlier.

I was running my fingers along the leather spines when I felt something unusual.

One section of the bookshelf seemed to have a hidden compartment behind it.

When I pressed against the wood paneling, it clicked open to reveal a small space containing three books.

Two were in French, but the third was a black leather Bible in English.

My heart stopped.

Owning a Bible in Saudi Arabia wasn’t just illegal.

It was punishable by death.

Yet, here it was, hidden in my own family’s library.

I should have closed that compartment and walked away.

I should have reported the discovery to the religious authorities.

Instead, I took that Bible back to my room and hid it under my mattress like a guilty secret.

For three nights, I didn’t touch it.

But on the fourth night, curiosity overwhelmed fear.

I waited until the palace was completely silent.

Then pulled the Bible out and opened it by the light of my phone.

I had expected to find blasphemous attacks on Islam, crude propaganda, maybe even satanic verses.

What I found instead shocked me to my core.

The very first page I turned to was the book of Matthew.

And I began reading about a man named Jesus who spoke about loving your enemies and forgiving those who hurt you.

This was nothing like what I had been taught about Christianity.

The imams had told us that Christians worshiped three gods, that they had corrupted their scripture, that they were violent crusaders who hated Muslims.

But these words spoke of peace, compassion, and a love that seemed almost too good to be true.

I found myself reading for hours, completely absorbed in stories about healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and showing mercy to outcasts.

Night after night, I returned to that hidden book.

I read about Jesus calling fishermen to be his disciples, about him touching lepers that others wouldn’t go near, about him defending a woman caught in adultery when everyone else wanted to stone her to death.

These stories stirred something in my heart that five daily prayers had never touched.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I was encountering a God who actually loved people instead of just demanding their submission.

The more I read, the more questions flooded my mind.

Why did Jesus seem so different from Allah? Why did his teachings emphasize forgiveness while the Quran focused on punishment? Why did I feel peace reading these words when Islamic texts often filled me with fear? I began staying awake until sunrise, devouring chapter after chapter, my heart racing with excitement and terror in equal measure.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever found something so beautiful that you knew it would destroy your life if anyone discovered it? That’s exactly what happened to me.

Every page I turned was like drinking water after years in the desert.

But I knew that water was poisonous to everything my family believed about honor, tradition, and religious purity.

After two weeks of secret reading, something inside me broke open.

I found myself whispering prayers to Jesus instead of Allah, begging him to show me if what I was reading was really true.

The strangest thing happened.

Instead of feeling guilty or afraid, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me.

It was as if someone had finally turned on the lights in a room where I had been stumbling around in darkness my entire life.

But secrets this dangerous have a way of revealing themselves.

And mine was about to destroy everything I had ever known.

The changes in my behavior started small.

But in a household where every gesture was analyzed for signs of rebellion, even the smallest shift was dangerous.

I began asking different questions during our family religious discussions.

When father would speak about the necessity of harsh punishments for apostates, I would quietly ask why mercy wasn’t considered first.

When mother quoted verses about eternal damnation for unbelievers, I wondered aloud whether God’s love might be stronger than his wrath.

My questions made everyone uncomfortable.

My younger brother started looking at me strangely during a meals.

The household imam who had known me since childhood began asking pointed questions about my spiritual state.

But the most dangerous change was happening in my heart.

I found myself unable to curse Christians the way I had been taught.

When the family would discuss the latest news about persecuted Muslims around the world, I would think about persecuted Christians in our own country.

During our daily servant interactions, something fundamental shifted in how I treated people.

I had always been kind to our household staff, but now I found myself asking about their families, their struggles, their dreams.

I started giving away jewelry and money to the cleaning women whose children needed medical care.

When the kitchen staff would accidentally break something, instead of reporting it to the head of household, I would quietly replace it myself.

The most dangerous moment came during our family’s evening Quran recitation.

We would gather in the main sitting room every night after Mghreb prayers and father would lead us through several chapters while we followed along.

It was during the recitation of surah al- bakar that my carefully constructed facade cracked completely.

Father was reading verses about fighting unbelievers until they convert or pay tribute.

And without thinking I whispered, “Jesus, help me understand this.

” The words came out so quietly, I thought no one heard them.

But my uncle, who had been appointed as the family’s religious adviser, was sitting directly next to me, his head snapped toward me with a look of pure shock.

For a moment, our eyes locked.

And I saw in his expression that he had heard exactly what I said.

My blood turned to ice.

Uncle Abdul Rahman was not a man to cross.

He had studied at the most conservative religious university in Riyad and believed that the slightest deviation from Islamic orthodoxy was a gateway to eternal damnation.

More importantly, he had father’s complete trust on all spiritual matters.

If he suspected I was becoming corrupted by foreign influences, my life would be in immediate danger.

Over the following days, I noticed changes in how the household operated around me.

servants who had worked for our family for years began avoiding eye contact.

My personal maid, who had helped dress me every morning for 5 years, was suddenly replaced without explanation.

Guards who usually nodded respectfully when I passed started watching me with suspicious intensity.

The religious discussions during family meals became more pointed.

Uncle Abdul Rahman began asking me direct questions about my faith, testing my knowledge of Islamic doctrine, probing for signs of deviation.

He would quote verses about the punishment for apostasy and watch my reaction carefully.

I tried to respond with the same devotion I had shown for years, but I could feel his growing suspicion like a weight pressing down on my chest.

My room began to feel different.

Small things would be moved slightly, as if someone had been searching through my belongings.

Books on my shelf were arranged in different orders.

My prayer rug was positioned at a slightly different angle.

I realized that while I attended court functions or family obligations, guards were conducting thorough searches of my private quarters.

The paranoia was becoming overwhelming, but I couldn’t stop myself from returning to that hidden Bible night after night.

I had reached the New Testament book of John, and the words seemed to leap off the page directly into my soul.

I read about Jesus declaring himself to be the light of the world, the way and the truth, and the life.

I read about God loving the world so much that he sent his only son to die for people who didn’t deserve it.

Every chapter made Islam seem more like a prison and Christianity more like freedom.

But freedom comes with a price and mine was about to cost me everything.

Uncle Abdul Rahman had decided that subtle observation wasn’t enough.

He needed concrete evidence of my apostasy.

So he planted a spy in my most intimate circle.

Fatima had been my personal servant for three years, helping me dress, bringing my meals, cleaning my quarters.

I trusted her completely, which made her the perfect informant.

On the night of September 5th, 2017, I was reading the Bible in my bedroom while kneeling on my prayer rug.

I had been praying to Jesus, asking him to reveal himself to me clearly when I heard the softest footstep behind my bedroom door.

By the time I turned around, it was too late.

Fatima stood in my doorway, staring at the open Bible in my hands, her face a mixture of horror and something that looked almost like satisfaction.

Have you ever had someone you trusted destroy your life with a single word? The betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound because it comes from someone who knows exactly how to hurt you most effectively.

Fatima had seen me at my most vulnerable moments, had listened to my doubts and fears, had even cried with me during difficult times, but her loyalty to my uncle was stronger than years of shared confidences.

She didn’t say anything to me.

She simply backed out of the room and disappeared into the shadows of the palace corridors.

I knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to report.

I had perhaps 30 minutes before Uncle Abdul Rahman would inform my father that his daughter had become a Christian.

I used those 30 minutes to read one final chapter of John’s gospel and to pray desperately to Jesus for strength for what was coming next.

The shouting began at 2:00 in the morning.

Father’s voice echoed through the marble halls, calling for guards, demanding explanations, roaring my name with a fury I had never heard before.

When my bedroom door crashed open, I was still kneeling on my prayer rug with the Bible open in my hands.

I made no attempt to hide it.

My secret was finally exposed, and there was no going back.

Father stood in my doorway like an avenging angel, his face twisted with a rage I had never seen before.

Behind him crowded Uncle Abdul Rahman, mother, my brother, and three palace guards, all staring at the Bible in my hands as if it were a poisonous snake.

The silence stretched for what felt like eternity before Father’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

What is that in your hands? His voice was deadly quiet.

The kind of calm that comes before a hurricane destroys everything in its path.

I could have lied.

I could have claimed I was studying Christian texts to better refute them.

I could have thrown myself at his feet and begged for mercy.

Instead, I looked him straight in the eyes and spoke the truth that would seal my fate.

It’s the Bible, Father, and I believe every word of it.

The explosion that followed was unlike anything I had ever witnessed.

Father began screaming in Arabic, calling me a disgrace, a traitor, a corruption of royal blood.

Mother collapsed to her knees, wailing that I had destroyed the family’s honor.

Uncle Abdul Rahman stood silently in the corner, his eyes gleaming with vindication.

He had been right to suspect me, and now he would oversee my destruction.

They dragged me from my room that night, not gently like the princess I had been, but roughly like the criminal I had become.

The guards who had protected me for years now handled me with disgust, as if my apostasy might be contagious.

They threw me into a small chamber in the palace’s lower level, a room I never knew existed, with stone walls and a single barred window near the ceiling.

The formal trial convened the next morning in the palace’s main reception hall.

I was brought before an assembly that included three regional Islamic clerics, Uncle Abdul Rahman, father’s cabinet of adviserss, and representatives from the extended royal family.

The hall where I had attended countless celebrations and state dinners had been transformed into a courtroom where my life would be weighed against religious law.

The chief cleric, an ancient man whose beard was white as desert sand, read the charges against me with ceremonial gravity, apostasy from Islam, blasphemy against Allah and his prophet, corruption of royal bloodline through foreign religious influence, potential contamination of other women in the family.

Each charge carried the death penalty under their interpretation of Sharia law and they intended to pursue the maximum punishment.

Uncle Abdul Rahman presented his evidence with the precision of a prosecutor who had been building his case for weeks.

He called Fatima to testify about finding me reading the Bible and praying to Jesus.

He brought forward guards who reported my strange questions about mercy and forgiveness.

He even produced the Imam who confirmed that my religious devotion had seemed forced and hollow in recent months.

When they asked for my defense, I stood before that assembly of powerful men and spoke words that I knew would seal my doom.

I told them that Jesus Christ had revealed himself to me as the son of God.

That his love was greater than any religion I had ever known, that I would rather die as a Christian than live as a Muslim who didn’t believe what she was saying.

The whole erupted in shocked murmurss and angry shouts.

Father tried one last time to save me, and the desperate love in his voice almost broke my resolve.

He stood before the assembly and begged me to recant, to declare that I had been temporarily insane, to return to Islam and save both my life and our family’s reputation.

Tears streamed down his weathered face as he promised that we could pretend this nightmare had never happened if I would just deny Jesus and affirm my faith in Allah.

The internal war raging in my heart was unlike anything you can imagine.

This was the man who had taught me to ride horses.

Who had held me when I cried as a child.

Who had invested his hopes and dreams in my future.

Every fiber of my being wanted to save him from the shame I was bringing upon our family.

But something deeper than family loyalty had taken root in my soul, and I couldn’t deny it, even to save my own life.

Father, I love you more than my own breath, I said, my voice breaking with emotion.

But I cannot deny Jesus Christ.

He is the truth, and I will not trade eternal life for temporary safety.

The verdict was unanimous and swift, death by public burning, to serve as a warning to other women who might be tempted by foreign religious influences.

The sentence would be carried out in two days, giving the family time to make arrangements and allowing word to spread throughout the region.

My execution would be a spectacle designed to reinforce religious orthodoxy and royal authority.

They returned me to that stone cell where I spent the longest 48 hours of my life.

Guards took turns spitting through the bars, calling me Christian dog and daughter of Satan.

They brought me only bread and water, explaining that condemned apostates didn’t deserve proper meals.

The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional agony of knowing that my family had disowned me completely.

On the morning of September 6th, mother came to visit me one final time.

She sat outside my cell and wept more bitterly than I had ever seen anyone cry.

She begged me to change my mind, to think about my younger cousins who looked up to me, to consider the damage I was doing to our families standing in the community.

When I refused to recant, she stood up and spoke words that cut deeper than any sword.

You are no longer my daughter.

I have only one son now.

When you burn tomorrow, I will watch and feel nothing but relief that this shame is finally ended.

That night, alone in my cell with execution scheduled for sunrise, I prayed to Jesus with desperate intensity, I asked him for courage to face the flames, for forgiveness for the pain I was causing my family, and for the strength to remain faithful even as my flesh burned.

When everything you’ve known turns against you, where do you find courage? I was about to discover that courage doesn’t come from human strength, but from a power far beyond anything I had ever imagined.

The morning of September 7th, 2017 dawned clear and merciless.

Through the small window of my cell, I could see servants already preparing the palace courtyard for my execution.

They had constructed a wooden stake in the center of the space, surrounded by bundles of oil soaked wood that would ensure the flames burned hot and fast.

The sight of my own funeral p filled me with a terror so profound that my entire body began trembling uncontrollably.

At sunrise, guards came to collect me for what they called my final preparations.

They had brought traditional white burial clothes, but I refused to wear them.

If I was going to die for Jesus, I wanted to die as myself, not dressed like a repentant Muslim.

They allowed me to keep my regular clothes, though they stripped away any jewelry or personal items that might survive the fire.

As they led me through the palace corridors toward the courtyard, I passed rooms where I had played as a child, where I had studied the Quran, where I had dreamed about my future as a wife and mother.

Everything that had defined my identity for 27 years was about to be reduced to ashes.

But strangely, I felt more like myself than I ever had before.

The fear was overwhelming, but underneath it ran a current of peace that I couldn’t explain.

The courtyard was packed with hundreds of people.

The entire extended royal family had been commanded to attend along with regional government officials, religious leaders, and servants from throughout the palace complex.

Father had wanted my execution to send a clear message about the consequences of apostasy, and he had succeeded in creating the largest gathering I had ever seen within our palace walls.

As I was led toward the stake, I could see faces in the crowd that I had known my entire life.

Cousins who had played with me as children now watched with mixtures of horror and fascination.

Aunts who had taught me to embroider and cook traditional dishes looked away as I passed.

Former friends covered their faces with their hands, unable to watch, but afraid to leave.

The religious officials began the formal proceedings by reading verses from the Quran about the punishment for apostasy and the fires of hell awaiting those who reject Allah.

Uncle Abdul Rahman stepped forward to give a speech about the necessity of protecting Islamic purity from foreign corruption.

His words were designed to justify what was about to happen to make my murder seem like a holy duty rather than a family tragedy.

When they began tying me to the wooden stake, the reality of what was happening hit me with crushing force.

The rope was rough against my wrists and ankles, and I could smell the gasoline that had been poured over the wood surrounding my feet.

The guards who bound me were efficient and emotionless, treating me like cargo rather than a person they had known for years.

Father approached me for one final exchange.

His face was gray with grief, and his hands shook as he spoke.

He offered me one last chance to recant, to declare faith in Allah and deny Jesus Christ.

His voice broke as he promised that if I would just say the words, he would find a way to commute my sentence to exile instead of death.

The love in his eyes was genuine, but so was his absolute conviction that what he was doing was necessary to preserve family honor.

I looked at this man who had given me life and spoke the words that would end it.

Father, I love you, but Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.

I cannot and will not deny him, not even to save my life.

The devastation that crossed his face was almost harder to bear than the flames that were coming.

The chief cleric raised a torch and began reciting final prayers in Arabic.

The crowd fell silent as he approached the oil soaked wood around my feet.

Time seemed to slow down as I watched that flame grow closer, knowing that in moments it would ignite an inferno that would consume my body.

My heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst before the fire even reached me.

The torch touched the wood and flames erupted around my feet with a whoosh that took my breath away.

The heat was immediate and intense.

Climbing up the gasoline soaked kindling toward my legs.

Within seconds, my clothes caught fire and pain unlike anything I had ever imagined shot through my entire body.

I had thought I was prepared to die.

But nothing could have prepared me for the agony of being burned alive.

As the flames reached my waist and began climbing toward my face, I screamed out in desperation.

Not to Allah, not to my family, but to Jesus Christ.

Jesus, save me, I cried with every ounce of strength left in my lungs.

Jesus, if you are real, save me now.

My hair had begun to catch fire, and I could feel my skin blistering from the intense heat.

Then something impossible happened.

A light brighter than the desert sun at noon suddenly blazed in the courtyard, so brilliant that everyone in the crowd cried out and covered their eyes.

But this wasn’t just any light.

It was warm and gentle, filled with a love so powerful that it drove away every trace of fear from my heart.

Through that blazing light, I saw him, Jesus Christ, standing next to my burning stake, his hands reaching toward me.

His face was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen, marked with nail scars that somehow made him even more glorious.

His voice spoke directly to my spirit, not through my ears, saying words that changed everything.

Daughter, you are mine.

Come to me.

I felt his hands still bearing the marks of crucifixion.

Lift me up from the flames.

The fire that had been consuming my body suddenly died as if someone had thrown a switch.

The ropes that had bound me to the stake fell away like dust.

In an instant, I stood free in the center of the courtyard, completely unharmed, without a single burn mark on my body.

Look inside your heart right now.

When did you last see the impossible become possible? The hundreds of witnesses in that courtyard were seeing exactly that.

Guards who had mocked my faith were now falling prostrate on the ground.

Religious leaders who had condemned me to death were backing away in terror.

Father collapsed to his knees, staring at his daughter, who had just walked out of an inferno without a single hair singed.

The silence was deafening.

In a courtyard full of people, the only sound was the crackling of dying embers where moments before an unstoppable fire had been consuming my life.

Jesus Christ had pulled me from the flames with his own hands.

And everyone present knew they had witnessed a miracle that defied every law of nature and religion they had ever known.

The courtyard erupted into absolute chaos.

Some people were screaming that they had witnessed sorcery.

Others were shouting that Allah had performed a miracle to save an innocent woman.

And still others were fleeing in terror from what they couldn’t explain.

Guards who had been standing at attention moments before were now crawling on their hands and knees, too terrified to look at me directly.

The religious officials who had condemned me to death were backing toward the palace walls, their faces white with shock and fear.

In the midst of all this pandemonium, I heard Jesus speak to my spirit again, his voice cutting through the noise like a sword through silk.

Run now, my daughter.

Your work here is finished, but your true ministry is about to begin.

Go quickly, and I will provide everything you need.

” I didn’t question or hesitate.

I began walking toward the courtyard exit.

My legs somehow steady despite everything I had just experienced.

The crowd parted before me like water.

No one daring to touch or stop the woman who had just walked out of a fire unharmed.

Father tried to call my name, but his voice seemed to come from a great distance, as if I was already moving in a different realm.

As I reached the palace gates, I saw them.

three servants I had never noticed before, wearing simple brown robes and standing beside a small truck.

One was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who smiled at me as if she had been expecting me.

The other two were men who moved with quiet efficiency, opening the truck door and gesturing for me to get inside.

Princess Sumaya, the woman said softly, we are here to help you reach safety.

Jesus sent us.

I didn’t ask how they knew my name or how they had gained access to the palace grounds during my execution.

I simply climbed into the truck, my body still trembling from the miracle I had just experienced.

The journey to the border took 18 hours through back roads I didn’t know existed.

My rescuers provided me with water, food, and clean clothes.

But more importantly, they shared their own stories of how Jesus had saved them from impossible situations.

The woman who called herself Sara had been a former Muslim in Damascus who had been stoned for her faith, but survived when every rock missed its target.

The men were brothers who had escaped persecution in Iraq when their prison doors had mysteriously opened during the night.

As we drove through the Saudi desert, I kept touching my face and arms, unable to believe that there wasn’t a single burn mark anywhere on my body.

My hair, which had been on fire, was completely intact.

My clothes, which had been burning, were only slightly smoky.

The physical evidence of the miracle was overwhelming.

But the spiritual transformation was even greater.

I felt like a completely different person than the frightened princess who had been tied to that stake.

We reached the Jordanian border at sunset on September 8th.

I expected the crossing to be dangerous, given that father would certainly have issued orders for my arrest and return.

But when the Saudi border guards examined my passport, they waved us through without question, as if they couldn’t see me sitting in the truck.

The Jordanian officials on the other side welcomed us warmly, and I learned later that Sara had been in communication with Christian organizations that were expecting us.

The safe house in Ammon was a modest building run by an international ministry that specialized in helping refugees from religious persecution.

When I walked through their doors, the director, an American missionary named David, took one look at me and began weeping.

He said he had been praying for my safety ever since contacts in Saudi Arabia had reported my situation and he had never expected to see me alive.

Over the following weeks, I learned that my story had already begun spreading throughout the underground Christian networks in the Middle East.

Reports of my miraculous rescue from the fire had reached believers in Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, and beyond.

Many people were calling it the greatest display of God’s power in the region since biblical times, and thousands were asking to hear more details about what had happened.

The formal process of converting to Christianity was surprisingly simple after experiencing such a dramatic divine intervention.

David arranged for my baptism in a small church in Ammon.

And as I went under the water and came back up, I felt like I was being reborn completely.

I was no longer Princess Sumeya of Saudi Arabia.

I was simply Sumeaya, a daughter of the King of Kings, washed clean by the blood of Jesus Christ.

The hardest part of my new life was processing the complete destruction of my relationship with my family.

Within a week of my escape, I received word through intermediaries that father had declared me legally dead.

My name had been removed from all family documents.

My inheritance had been distributed to my brother and my belongings had been burned in a public ceremony designed to erase any trace of my existence.

Mother sent only one message through the underground network.

She said that as far as the family was concerned, their daughter had died in the fire as intended and the woman who had walked away was a demon wearing her face.

She warned that if I ever returned to Saudi Arabia, they would finish what they had started and ensure that no miraculous intervention would save me a second time.

The emotional pain of losing my family was almost as intense as the physical pain of the fire had been.

Have you ever had to choose between everything you knew and everything you believed? The choice I had made meant giving up not just my royal title and inheritance, but every human relationship that had defined my identity since birth.

I grieved for months, mourning the loss of my parents and brother, as if they had actually died.

But in the midst of that grief, I discovered something beautiful.

Jesus had given me a new family among the believers who surrounded me in Jordan.

Christian refugees from across the Middle East became my brothers and sisters, offering the kind of unconditional love I had never experienced even in my royal family.

They accepted me not because of my title or bloodline, but because we shared the same savior who had rescued us all from impossible situations.

Six months after my escape, I received the most shocking news of all.

Three guards who had witnessed my rescue from the fire had secretly converted to Christianity and fled Saudi Arabia to avoid execution.

They had made their way to Jordan and were asking to meet the woman whose miracle had convinced them that Jesus Christ was truly the son of God.

7 years have passed since that September morning when Jesus pulled me from the flames.

And my life today bears no resemblance to the gilded cage where I once lived as a Saudi princess.

I wake up every morning in a small apartment in Ammon, married to a wonderful Christian man named Michael who works as a translator for refugee organizations.

He knew my entire story before he proposed and he told me that watching my faith grow stronger through persecution had convinced him that God intended us to serve him together.

Our ministry has grown far beyond anything I could have imagined during those terrifying first months as a refugee.

What began as simple testimony sharing in small church gatherings has expanded into a global network that supports persecuted Christians throughout the Middle East.

The International Christian Mission Organization that first sheltered me invited me to become their regional coordinator for Saudi Arabia and through that position I have had the privilege of sharing my story in over 30 countries.

Every month I receive dozens of letters from people who have heard my testimony and decided to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.

Some are Muslims who were moved by the demonstration of God’s power in my rescue from the fire.

Others are Christians who had been struggling with doubt until they heard about Jesus physically appearing to to save one of his daughters.

Each letter reminds me that my suffering served a purpose far greater than my personal salvation.

The most dangerous and rewarding part of my current work involves supporting the underground Christian church that exists in Saudi Arabia despite the threat of death for anyone discovered practicing the faith.

Through encrypted communication networks and carefully planned supply routes, we provide Bibles, Christian literature, and financial support to believers who must worship in complete secrecy.

I estimate that there are now over 3,000 Saudi Christians meeting in small house churches throughout the kingdom.

These believers face the same choice I faced seven years ago, and many have paid the ultimate price for their faith.

Just last month, I received word that a young man in Riyad had been executed for baptizing his sister in their family’s private swimming pool.

His final words, according to witnesses, were, “Jesus, receive my spirit.

” Echoing the words of Steven in the book of Acts.

Stories like his remind me daily that my miraculous rescue was not just for my own benefit, but to encourage others who are walking the same dangerous path.

The supernatural protection that began on the day of my rescue has continued throughout these years of ministry.

There have been at least five documented assassination attempts by Saudi intelligence agents.

And in each case, something unexplainable has prevented them from succeeding.

Once a sniper’s rifle jammed at at the moment he pulled the trigger during one of my speaking engagements in Lebanon.

Another time, a car bomb intended for me failed to detonate, even though investigators later confirmed that the device was properly constructed and armed.

Michael and I have been blessed with two children, a 4-year-old daughter named Grace and a 2-year-old son named David.

They are growing up hearing stories about Jesus from both the Bible and from their mother’s personal experience of his miraculous intervention.

Grace already prays for her grandmother and grandfather in Saudi Arabia every night, asking Jesus to save them the same way he saved me.

Her childlike faith often puts my own to shame.

The most difficult aspect of my new life remains the complete separation from my biological family.

In seven years, I have received no communication from father, mother or my brother.

Through intelligence networks, I know that father remarried after mother died three years ago, and that my brother now holds the regional governorship that would have partially been mine.

Mother’s death hit me harder than I expected, knowing that she went to her grave uh believing I was a demon rather than her uh daughter who had found eternal life.

Yet, even in the midst of that grief, God has shown his faithfulness in unexpected ways.

Two years ago, I received a secret message from one of my younger cousins, a girl who had been only 12 years old when I was executed.

She had never forgotten watching me walk out of those flames.

And now, as a 19-year-old university student in Riyad, she was reading a smuggled Bible and asking questions about Jesus Christ.

Through careful coordination with our underground network, we have been able to provide her with disciplehip materials and connect her with other secret believers in her area.

My daily relationship with Jesus has become the foundation that makes everything else possible.

I spend 2 hours every morning in prayer and Bible study, often returning to the same passages in John’s gospel that first captured my heart in that hidden library.

The intimacy I feel with Christ grows stronger each year.

Built on the unshakable knowledge that he literally died to save me and then physically rescued me from death when I called on his name.

The speaking engagements that take me around the world have become opportunities to challenge comfortable Christians in ways that sometimes make them uncomfortable.

I tell audiences in America and Europe about believers in Saudi Arabia who worship Jesus knowing that discovery means death.

And I ask them what they are willing to sacrifice for their faith.

When people complain about minor inconveniences or social pressure, I remind them that true disciplehip has always cost everything.

Most powerfully, I get to share with Muslims who are searching for truth the same message that transformed my own heart.

At every speaking event, I make sure to explain that becoming a Christian doesn’t require abandoning your culture or ethnicity, but it does require surrendering your life completely to Jesus Christ.

I tell them that the same Jesus who saved me from physical fire wants to save them from spiritual fire and that his love is greater than any family rejection or social consequences they might face.

What fire are you walking through right now that seems impossible to survive? Maybe it’s not literal flames like I experienced, but perhaps you’re facing financial ruin, family rejection, serious illness, or crushing loneliness.

I want you to know that the same Jesus who reached into my flames is reaching toward your impossible situation right now.

He specializes in rescuing people when human hope has run out completely.

The Jesus I serve is not a distant religious figure from ancient history, but a living God who intervenes in the lives of people who cry out to him in desperate faith.

Call on his name the way I did when the fire was consuming my body and prepare to see him do the impossible in your own life.

I am Somaya, former Saudi princess, current daughter of the King of Kings, and Jesus Christ is Lord of