The sun beat down on the fields as I worked, grinding the flour. My hands ached, but I didn’t mind. The prophet Elisha was visiting again, and I wanted everything to be perfect. You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a servant in the house of the well-known woman from Shunem—a town in northern Israel. She wasn’t royalty, nor a prophet. Just a kind woman who opened her home and heart for someone holy.
Every time the prophet passed through, she insisted on feeding him. Then one day, she turned to her husband and said, “Let’s build an upper room for the man of God.” She wanted him to feel welcome, to rest. So we did—nothing grand, just a small bed, a table, a stool, and a lamp.
I used to wonder why she put in so much effort. We lived comfortably, but there was no reward in it—not the kind most people sought. She never asked for blessings or praise. She gave silently, with no expectation in return.
One hot afternoon, I was washing figs by the well when Gehazi, the prophet’s servant, called to me. “Come quickly,” he said. “The prophet has sent for your mistress.”
I followed him upstairs, where Elisha stood by the window, sunlight falling across his shoulders.
“You have gone to all this trouble for us,” Elisha said to her. “What can be done for you?”
She shook her head. “I dwell among my people,” she answered. “I don’t need anything.”
But Gehazi whispered something to Elisha, and then Elisha turned to her and said, “At this season next year, you shall embrace a son.”
I gasped. My mistress froze. Her hands trembled at her side. She whispered, “No, my lord, do not lie to your maidservant.” She had hoped before, prayed before, and cried before. But no child had come. She had learned to smile without expecting, for hope had hurt too much.
Yet a year later, the cradle rocked with new life.
It was the first time I saw her cry with joy. She held her son like he was a miracle—and I believe he was. A reward—not for asking, but for giving. Not for power, but for kindness.
That boy grew up laughing between the vineyard rows, laying his sleepy head on her shoulder. And though the story of what happened years later will break your heart—and then heal it—what I remember most is the moment kindness met the promise of God.
So I ask myself, and I ask you: What could happen if you made a little room?
Not just in your house, but in your heart—for someone in need, for someone holy, for someone different than you.
Because sometimes, when we least expect it, hospitality gives birth to something more than we ever imagined.
The sun beat down on the fields as I worked, grinding the flour. My hands ached, but I didn’t mind. The prophet Elisha was visiting again, and I wanted everything to be perfect. You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a servant in the house of the well-known woman from Shunem—a town in northern Israel. She wasn’t royalty, nor a prophet. Just a kind woman who opened her home and heart for someone holy.
Every time the prophet passed through, she insisted on feeding him. Then one day, she turned to her husband and said, “Let’s build an upper room for the man of God.” She wanted him to feel welcome, to rest. So we did—nothing grand, just a small bed, a table, a stool, and a lamp.
I used to wonder why she put in so much effort. We lived comfortably, but there was no reward in it—not the kind most people sought. She never asked for blessings or praise. She gave silently, with no expectation in return.
One hot afternoon, I was washing figs by the well when Gehazi, the prophet’s servant, called to me. “Come quickly,” he said. “The prophet has sent for your mistress.”
I followed him upstairs, where Elisha stood by the window, sunlight falling across his shoulders.
“You have gone to all this trouble for us,” Elisha said to her. “What can be done for you?”
She shook her head. “I dwell among my people,” she answered. “I don’t need anything.”
But Gehazi whispered something to Elisha, and then Elisha turned to her and said, “At this season next year, you shall embrace a son.”
I gasped. My mistress froze. Her hands trembled at her side. She whispered, “No, my lord, do not lie to your maidservant.” She had hoped before, prayed before, and cried before. But no child had come. She had learned to smile without expecting, for hope had hurt too much.
Yet a year later, the cradle rocked with new life.
It was the first time I saw her cry with joy. She held her son like he was a miracle—and I believe he was. A reward—not for asking, but for giving. Not for power, but for kindness.
That boy grew up laughing between the vineyard rows, laying his sleepy head on her shoulder. And though the story of what happened years later will break your heart—and then heal it—what I remember most is the moment kindness met the promise of God.
So I ask myself, and I ask you: What could happen if you made a little room?
Not just in your house, but in your heart—for someone in need, for someone holy, for someone different than you.
Because sometimes, when we least expect it, hospitality gives birth to something more than we ever imagined.
