The stone floor of the courtroom was cold beneath my sandals. Chains clinked softly with every step as I followed the line of guards, my heart a knotted rope inside my chest. Since Rome took control, the province of Judea had been a churn of power struggles and unrest. And now, in the great hall of King Agrippa—surrounded by silks, soldiers, and curious stares—stood a man in chains, not sentenced, not condemned, just… waiting. His name was Paul.
I’d come to fetch water for the attendants, a Greek servant girl among the lowest in the king’s house. No one noticed me at all. That’s why I stayed, hidden behind a stone pillar, clutching the bronze pitcher to my chest when Paul stood to speak.
“I have lived with a clear conscience before God…” he began. His voice didn’t shake. He looked straight at the king. He didn’t plead or flatter. He told his story.
He spoke of a light—blinding light—on the road to Damascus. Of a voice that called his name. Of Jesus. He said, “I was the one throwing followers of this Jesus into prison. I was the one full of rage…” But then everything changed. One encounter. A voice from heaven. A calling.
My fingers tightened around the pitcher. He had stood on the other side of belief—where I was still standing.
He told of visions, of courage, of nearly being torn apart in a Jewish court, of surviving beatings and mobs. And now, imprisoned for speaking the truth he’d once hated.
The crowd murmured.
I should have slipped out. If any guard caught me loitering in a hall meant for rulers and high-borns, I’d pay for it. But I couldn’t move. His voice... it struck something inside me.
At one point, the king leaned forward. “Are you trying to persuade me to become one of them?” he said, half smiling, half sneering.
Paul smiled gently, despite the chains. “Whether short time or long—I wish you and all who hear me today would become as I am… except for these chains.”
The words cut deeper than any spear. I leaned back against the pillar, tears suddenly hot in my eyes.
That night, I ran water through the empty halls of the palace, but I couldn’t stop thinking of him. That serenity. That purpose. That Jesus. Could it be true?
When I crept back toward the servant quarters, a golden light filled the corridor. I stopped. No torches burned. No footsteps echoed. Just the presence. And then—He was there.
A man, clothed simply, standing in my path. His eyes met mine, and I felt every defense I’d ever built crumble.
“You are seen," He said, in perfect Greek. “And you are free.”
My knees buckled.
He reached out and touched my hand. In that touch—I don’t know how else to say it—I felt clean. As if everything I’d ever feared, hated, or hid was lifted off of me in a breath.
And then He was gone. Just like that.
But I stayed on my knees in that corridor, clutching that freedom like breath in my lungs. The chains weren’t visible, but I knew. I’d worn them for years.
I rose, slowly. And for the first time, walked—not as a servant—but as someone seen, known, chosen.
Like Paul.
The stone floor of the courtroom was cold beneath my sandals. Chains clinked softly with every step as I followed the line of guards, my heart a knotted rope inside my chest. Since Rome took control, the province of Judea had been a churn of power struggles and unrest. And now, in the great hall of King Agrippa—surrounded by silks, soldiers, and curious stares—stood a man in chains, not sentenced, not condemned, just… waiting. His name was Paul.
I’d come to fetch water for the attendants, a Greek servant girl among the lowest in the king’s house. No one noticed me at all. That’s why I stayed, hidden behind a stone pillar, clutching the bronze pitcher to my chest when Paul stood to speak.
“I have lived with a clear conscience before God…” he began. His voice didn’t shake. He looked straight at the king. He didn’t plead or flatter. He told his story.
He spoke of a light—blinding light—on the road to Damascus. Of a voice that called his name. Of Jesus. He said, “I was the one throwing followers of this Jesus into prison. I was the one full of rage…” But then everything changed. One encounter. A voice from heaven. A calling.
My fingers tightened around the pitcher. He had stood on the other side of belief—where I was still standing.
He told of visions, of courage, of nearly being torn apart in a Jewish court, of surviving beatings and mobs. And now, imprisoned for speaking the truth he’d once hated.
The crowd murmured.
I should have slipped out. If any guard caught me loitering in a hall meant for rulers and high-borns, I’d pay for it. But I couldn’t move. His voice... it struck something inside me.
At one point, the king leaned forward. “Are you trying to persuade me to become one of them?” he said, half smiling, half sneering.
Paul smiled gently, despite the chains. “Whether short time or long—I wish you and all who hear me today would become as I am… except for these chains.”
The words cut deeper than any spear. I leaned back against the pillar, tears suddenly hot in my eyes.
That night, I ran water through the empty halls of the palace, but I couldn’t stop thinking of him. That serenity. That purpose. That Jesus. Could it be true?
When I crept back toward the servant quarters, a golden light filled the corridor. I stopped. No torches burned. No footsteps echoed. Just the presence. And then—He was there.
A man, clothed simply, standing in my path. His eyes met mine, and I felt every defense I’d ever built crumble.
“You are seen," He said, in perfect Greek. “And you are free.”
My knees buckled.
He reached out and touched my hand. In that touch—I don’t know how else to say it—I felt clean. As if everything I’d ever feared, hated, or hid was lifted off of me in a breath.
And then He was gone. Just like that.
But I stayed on my knees in that corridor, clutching that freedom like breath in my lungs. The chains weren’t visible, but I knew. I’d worn them for years.
I rose, slowly. And for the first time, walked—not as a servant—but as someone seen, known, chosen.
Like Paul.
