My name is Miriam. I sold scraps—pieces of leather, old jars, worn cloth—things no one wanted until desperation made them valuable.
I used to trade by the south wall of Samaria, near the fish sellers. That was before the siege, before the gates closed, and the countryside turned deadly. The king of Aram had surrounded us with his army, cutting off everything—food, water, hope.
It started with whispers. “The Syrians are near,” the merchants said. Then came soldiers’ boots. Gates locked. Fields emptied. They said it would be over in a week. They were wrong.
At first, people waited in faith. A fast here, a prayer there. But faith dries up faster than wells when your child hasn’t eaten in two days. Then price lists changed. Dung sold like meat. Rats disappeared. I once sold a half-burned sandal for five silver coins. Something to chew.
I remember the smell of hunger. It was sweaty skin and rotted cabbage, dust and always fear.
One day, I heard screaming in the street. Two women dragging each other by the hair, spitting blood and curses. I ran with the others to see.
“We boiled my son to survive. She promised we’d share both—but she lied."
I wanted to turn back. But I couldn’t. Something about the madness held me there—my hand gripping the corner of a stone wall, afraid to breathe.
Later, I saw the king walk through the marketplace in silence. His robe torn. Ash on his head. He passed by like a ghost. And when he finally spoke, it was to curse Elisha, the prophet.
“May God do so to me,” he said, “if Elisha lives by tomorrow.”
I thought, if even the king curses God’s prophet, what hope do we have?
But I remembered a time—years ago—when I had tried to light a fire on the Sabbath. My grandfather caught me. He didn’t shout. He just whispered, “God sees, child. He does not always speak, but He sees.”
That memory came back like a stray breeze. And I wondered if maybe God still saw us now.
Later that day, word spread: Elisha had spoken. Not of doom, but of food. By this time tomorrow, he said, flour and barley would be cheap again. As if an army of bread were hiding behind the sky.
We laughed. We cursed. We clung to our bellies and cried.
But the next day—before the sun burned through the morning clouds—people were running. Shouting. Syrians were gone. Their camp lay full of food, wine, silver, firewood.
Gone.
I didn’t join the mad rush. I sat by my stall, afraid. Everyone I knew had lost someone. And I had sold pieces of my own soul—things I said I'd never do, trades I’d never make—to survive.
Food came back to the city. Prices dropped. Children laughed. But I stayed quiet for days. I needed time to forgive myself.
I still smell the leather sometimes, burnt and bitter. I still see that woman’s eyes, wild with grief.
But I remember something else, too—that against all hope, when God finally spoke, it was not judgment we heard. It was provision.
I no longer sell scraps. I bake now. The kneading of the dough calms my hands.
Some mornings, I pray without words—just breath. Just thanks.
My name is Miriam. I sold scraps—pieces of leather, old jars, worn cloth—things no one wanted until desperation made them valuable.
I used to trade by the south wall of Samaria, near the fish sellers. That was before the siege, before the gates closed, and the countryside turned deadly. The king of Aram had surrounded us with his army, cutting off everything—food, water, hope.
It started with whispers. “The Syrians are near,” the merchants said. Then came soldiers’ boots. Gates locked. Fields emptied. They said it would be over in a week. They were wrong.
At first, people waited in faith. A fast here, a prayer there. But faith dries up faster than wells when your child hasn’t eaten in two days. Then price lists changed. Dung sold like meat. Rats disappeared. I once sold a half-burned sandal for five silver coins. Something to chew.
I remember the smell of hunger. It was sweaty skin and rotted cabbage, dust and always fear.
One day, I heard screaming in the street. Two women dragging each other by the hair, spitting blood and curses. I ran with the others to see.
“We boiled my son to survive. She promised we’d share both—but she lied."
I wanted to turn back. But I couldn’t. Something about the madness held me there—my hand gripping the corner of a stone wall, afraid to breathe.
Later, I saw the king walk through the marketplace in silence. His robe torn. Ash on his head. He passed by like a ghost. And when he finally spoke, it was to curse Elisha, the prophet.
“May God do so to me,” he said, “if Elisha lives by tomorrow.”
I thought, if even the king curses God’s prophet, what hope do we have?
But I remembered a time—years ago—when I had tried to light a fire on the Sabbath. My grandfather caught me. He didn’t shout. He just whispered, “God sees, child. He does not always speak, but He sees.”
That memory came back like a stray breeze. And I wondered if maybe God still saw us now.
Later that day, word spread: Elisha had spoken. Not of doom, but of food. By this time tomorrow, he said, flour and barley would be cheap again. As if an army of bread were hiding behind the sky.
We laughed. We cursed. We clung to our bellies and cried.
But the next day—before the sun burned through the morning clouds—people were running. Shouting. Syrians were gone. Their camp lay full of food, wine, silver, firewood.
Gone.
I didn’t join the mad rush. I sat by my stall, afraid. Everyone I knew had lost someone. And I had sold pieces of my own soul—things I said I'd never do, trades I’d never make—to survive.
Food came back to the city. Prices dropped. Children laughed. But I stayed quiet for days. I needed time to forgive myself.
I still smell the leather sometimes, burnt and bitter. I still see that woman’s eyes, wild with grief.
But I remember something else, too—that against all hope, when God finally spoke, it was not judgment we heard. It was provision.
I no longer sell scraps. I bake now. The kneading of the dough calms my hands.
Some mornings, I pray without words—just breath. Just thanks.
