As a child, I was trafficked into slavery and purchased by a rich family. Away from parents, home, and country, I became a lady’s maid. At first, I cried and cried. I wanted my mommy and daddy.
After a few years, I could hardly remember what they looked like. I feel bad that I cannot even remember their faces. I am still a little girl and not yet a woman.
My mistress makes sure I do my work, but she also speaks kindly to me. I am thankful. I have heard stories.
When my master becomes ill, I am sad. Will I lose another father? Will my mistress always be depressed? Will I be sold?
I find it hard to sleep these nights.
This morning, I told my mistress, “Would God my lord were with the prophet that is in Samaria! For he would recover him of his leprosy.”
Word of my suggestion reaches the ears of the king, who writes a letter and sends ten talents of silver, six thousand pieces of gold, and ten changes of clothing to the king of Israel, along with my master and his servants.
When the king of Israel reads the letter, he is so disturbed that he tears his clothes and says, “Am I God?” He knows he cannot heal my master. The prophet of Israel hears about the king’s actions and sends a messenger to my master. He tells him what to do in order to be healed. But, my master is a proud and powerful man, and he is insulted. He thinks the prophet should have come in person and done some kind of a show while healing him.
My master scoffs.
His servants convince him to obey the prophet’s directions, and he finally does.
He looks down at his skin and notices it looks brand new. He is completely healed.
I am glad for him. My mistress is happy again. Both my master and mistress are beginning to believe in the power of my God.
I praise my God for answering my prayers.
Who am I?
Who is my master?
In which nation do I live?
For bragging rights, who was the king of that nation, the one who wrote the letter to the king of Israel?