It happened three Ramadans ago, but I still remember the sound the date made when it hit the ground.
I was only ten then, sitting cross-legged as my family gathered for iftar — the evening meal that breaks the fast during Ramadan. My stomach growled, and I stared at the plate of dates in front of me. My father had taught me that Prophet Muhammad ﷺ used to break his fast with fresh dates or water, so that’s what we always did. The dates smelled sweet, their wrinkled skins shining in the light of our small lantern.
Just minutes before Maghrib — the sunset prayer — my fingers reached for a date too soon. My mother gently tapped my hand and said, “Not yet, Nabil. Wait for the adhan.” I quickly pulled my hand away, blushing with embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to break my fast early. It was just… I forgot.
When the adhan — the call to prayer — finally came from the masjid down the street, a wave of relief washed over me. Everyone reached out for their dates, and so did I. But the very first thing I did was hesitate.
Had I already broken my fast by touching that date early? Did just reaching for it count? Would Allah be upset with me?
I didn’t eat right away. I sat there, confused and worried, while my family munched happily. “Why aren’t you eating?” my older brother asked.
“I touched it too early,” I whispered. “My fast might be broken.”
He laughed. “You didn’t eat it, did you?”
I shook my head quickly.
My father overheard and leaned in gently. “There once was a man,” he said, “who brought food during Ramadan to feed a poor person on behalf of a wealthy man who had entrusted him with the task. Hungry, the man popped a single date from the charity food into his own mouth by mistake. Realizing what he had done, he went to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.”
That got my attention fast. I looked up, wide-eyed.
“The Prophet ﷺ smiled and said, ‘May Allah feed you with it.’” Then my father smiled too. “The date wasn’t stolen. It was a mistake. Allah is more Merciful than we understand.”
I looked down at the dates in front of me, suddenly seeing them in a new way. They weren’t just food. They were kindness. They were meant to be shared, not feared.
That evening, I picked up a date, made the du’a (supplication) to break my fast, and ate slowly — tasting not just the sweetness of the fruit, but of Allah’s mercy too.
Now I’m thirteen, and every Ramadan I remember that moment. It taught me something I’ll never forget: Allah doesn’t want to punish us for honest mistakes. He wants to guide us — just like He guided me, through the story of that man, the slipped date… and a Prophet’s gentle smile.
—
Story Note: Inspired by the hadith of the man who mistakenly ate a date from charity during Ramadan — Sahih al-Bukhari 1425.
It happened three Ramadans ago, but I still remember the sound the date made when it hit the ground.
I was only ten then, sitting cross-legged as my family gathered for iftar — the evening meal that breaks the fast during Ramadan. My stomach growled, and I stared at the plate of dates in front of me. My father had taught me that Prophet Muhammad ﷺ used to break his fast with fresh dates or water, so that’s what we always did. The dates smelled sweet, their wrinkled skins shining in the light of our small lantern.
Just minutes before Maghrib — the sunset prayer — my fingers reached for a date too soon. My mother gently tapped my hand and said, “Not yet, Nabil. Wait for the adhan.” I quickly pulled my hand away, blushing with embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to break my fast early. It was just… I forgot.
When the adhan — the call to prayer — finally came from the masjid down the street, a wave of relief washed over me. Everyone reached out for their dates, and so did I. But the very first thing I did was hesitate.
Had I already broken my fast by touching that date early? Did just reaching for it count? Would Allah be upset with me?
I didn’t eat right away. I sat there, confused and worried, while my family munched happily. “Why aren’t you eating?” my older brother asked.
“I touched it too early,” I whispered. “My fast might be broken.”
He laughed. “You didn’t eat it, did you?”
I shook my head quickly.
My father overheard and leaned in gently. “There once was a man,” he said, “who brought food during Ramadan to feed a poor person on behalf of a wealthy man who had entrusted him with the task. Hungry, the man popped a single date from the charity food into his own mouth by mistake. Realizing what he had done, he went to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.”
That got my attention fast. I looked up, wide-eyed.
“The Prophet ﷺ smiled and said, ‘May Allah feed you with it.’” Then my father smiled too. “The date wasn’t stolen. It was a mistake. Allah is more Merciful than we understand.”
I looked down at the dates in front of me, suddenly seeing them in a new way. They weren’t just food. They were kindness. They were meant to be shared, not feared.
That evening, I picked up a date, made the du’a (supplication) to break my fast, and ate slowly — tasting not just the sweetness of the fruit, but of Allah’s mercy too.
Now I’m thirteen, and every Ramadan I remember that moment. It taught me something I’ll never forget: Allah doesn’t want to punish us for honest mistakes. He wants to guide us — just like He guided me, through the story of that man, the slipped date… and a Prophet’s gentle smile.
—
Story Note: Inspired by the hadith of the man who mistakenly ate a date from charity during Ramadan — Sahih al-Bukhari 1425.
