I am a long way from home. Captured like an animal, all that I have left of all that I love is memories. I should hate. I should want to kill. Why then do I find myself wanting to heal? Is it to return the kindness of my mistress? Too young to be a sexual plaything for men, she gives me just enough work to distract my tormented mind. She even dries my tears with her own handkerchief, thinking I never see her own pain for her husband’s condition. She tells me us women can’t influence the world of men. But I can!
Maybe it’s that sense of, for once, controlling someone’s destiny that has made me speak up. Or maybe it’s just a way to nurture those fading, but precious, memories of a childhood spent during wondrous times when God’s prophets stopped the rain and made the fire fall. I might be just a slave, but I am important. I am a part of God’s people. Unlike heathens, we do good, even to our enemies. The doctor’s here can’t cure leprosy, but I know someone who can.
To be honest, I am not even sure myself why I spoke up the way I did. It just blurted out one day. Maybe I just hoped they would take me with them. Oh how I wish I could just go home!
(Based on 2 Kings 5)
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