I had traveled behind Her Majesty’s camel for three weeks across dry lands and stinging sands, but it was in Jerusalem that I finally saw something that left me speechless. My name is Kalma—a humble servant in the court of the Queen of Sheba. You won’t find me in any scroll, not even a footnote, but I carried her mirror, her oils, and her questions into Jerusalem, and I watched as our queen began to see the world differently.
The morning we arrived, the city was already glowing. Jerusalem—home of the Israelites—stood proud on its hill, with the Temple rising like a crown at its heart. But we weren’t there for sights. My queen had come with questions for their king, Shlomo—Solomon, they called him—the son of David. They said his wisdom came straight from God Himself.
Back home, our queen was the wisest woman anyone knew. Her riddles puzzled judges, and her mind ran faster than her horses. I’d seen kings stammer in her presence. But today, it was she who seemed nervous. Her hands trembled slightly as she stepped into Shlomo’s hall, though her voice was steady.
“Is it true,” she asked, “that your God has made you king not for power, but to do justice and righteousness?” That was just her first question.
I don’t remember all that was said—it went on for hours—but I remember how the air felt. King Shlomo didn’t rush. He didn’t boast. He didn’t even seem to be trying to impress her. Yet every answer held truth so deep it was as if it dug into the ground beneath us. He spoke of justice and mercy, kingship and humility, riches and how they could rot a person’s soul if they weren’t careful.
My queen asked him riddles no one had ever solved in our land. And he answered them—not only with cleverness, but with purpose. He spoke as though each riddle wasn’t just a test—it was a lesson. I watched her. Slowly, the tightness in her brow loosened. Her eyes no longer searched for flaws. By the end of it, she bowed her head—not in defeat, but in respect.
When we left the palace, she was quiet. I followed close behind, wondering what it all meant. Then she turned to me and said, “His wisdom—it’s not his own. It comes from God. And his people... they are truly blessed to live under such a king.”
In that moment, I understood something, too. We had set out imagining we were bringing treasures—gold, spices, and fine wood. But what we received in return couldn’t be carried in chests. His words changed her. And seeing her changed me.
It wasn’t just about answers. It was about where the truth leads. For her, it led to humility. For me, it led to faith.
And somewhere in that great city, I learned what true richness really looked like.
I had traveled behind Her Majesty’s camel for three weeks across dry lands and stinging sands, but it was in Jerusalem that I finally saw something that left me speechless. My name is Kalma—a humble servant in the court of the Queen of Sheba. You won’t find me in any scroll, not even a footnote, but I carried her mirror, her oils, and her questions into Jerusalem, and I watched as our queen began to see the world differently.
The morning we arrived, the city was already glowing. Jerusalem—home of the Israelites—stood proud on its hill, with the Temple rising like a crown at its heart. But we weren’t there for sights. My queen had come with questions for their king, Shlomo—Solomon, they called him—the son of David. They said his wisdom came straight from God Himself.
Back home, our queen was the wisest woman anyone knew. Her riddles puzzled judges, and her mind ran faster than her horses. I’d seen kings stammer in her presence. But today, it was she who seemed nervous. Her hands trembled slightly as she stepped into Shlomo’s hall, though her voice was steady.
“Is it true,” she asked, “that your God has made you king not for power, but to do justice and righteousness?” That was just her first question.
I don’t remember all that was said—it went on for hours—but I remember how the air felt. King Shlomo didn’t rush. He didn’t boast. He didn’t even seem to be trying to impress her. Yet every answer held truth so deep it was as if it dug into the ground beneath us. He spoke of justice and mercy, kingship and humility, riches and how they could rot a person’s soul if they weren’t careful.
My queen asked him riddles no one had ever solved in our land. And he answered them—not only with cleverness, but with purpose. He spoke as though each riddle wasn’t just a test—it was a lesson. I watched her. Slowly, the tightness in her brow loosened. Her eyes no longer searched for flaws. By the end of it, she bowed her head—not in defeat, but in respect.
When we left the palace, she was quiet. I followed close behind, wondering what it all meant. Then she turned to me and said, “His wisdom—it’s not his own. It comes from God. And his people... they are truly blessed to live under such a king.”
In that moment, I understood something, too. We had set out imagining we were bringing treasures—gold, spices, and fine wood. But what we received in return couldn’t be carried in chests. His words changed her. And seeing her changed me.
It wasn’t just about answers. It was about where the truth leads. For her, it led to humility. For me, it led to faith.
And somewhere in that great city, I learned what true richness really looked like.
