The year the illness came, I was just a farmhand in the hills near Damascus. You won’t read about me in any surah, but I was there—one of the nameless workers who once served in the lands of Prophet Ayub — known as Job in the Bible — a righteous man chosen by Allah, peace be upon him.
I remember how the sun always shone gently over his fields and his home was full of laughter, kindness, and prayers. Ayub's voice was calm, and his eyes kind. He owned much — lands, animals, children — but never once did I see him boast. He would always say, “All that we have is from Allah, Al-Wahhab, the Giver of gifts.”
Then came the test.
One by one, his blessings were taken. His animals died suddenly, his land became dry, and his children — may Allah have mercy on them — were lost. Illness struck him next. Painful sores covered his body, and he could no longer walk. Most people left him. Even I—may Allah forgive me—I stayed away for weeks, afraid of what he might have.
But his wife remained. Day and night, she cared for him, washing his wounds, bringing food, whispering words of comfort. When I finally gathered the courage to visit again, I expected to find a broken man. Instead, I found him in prayer.
Lying on a bed of straw, barely able to lift his hands, Ayub said, “My Lord, harm has touched me—but You are the Most Merciful of those who show mercy.” That was from the Qur’an — Surah Sad 38:41. He said it with peace in his voice.
I didn’t understand it then. How could he still pray? Still be grateful?
His wife once asked him, “How long will you remain like this? Why don’t you ask Allah to relieve you?”
He shook his head gently. “I lived in good health and comfort for more than seventy years. Shall I not be patient now?”
Time passed. Ayub’s sickness grew worse—but so did his patience. One day, as the sun rose behind the hills, I watched from the olive trees as something extraordinary happened. Ayub suddenly stood, stronger than before. He struck the ground with his foot and from it sprang clear, cool water. He washed with it, drank from it—and by the will of Allah, he was healed.
His face was no longer pale. His skin, once covered in sores, shone again.
According to our scholars, Allah returned to him all that he had lost, and even more. His children were replaced, his wealth restored. Even his wife — who never left him — was given honor and peace. (See Surah Sad 38:41–44)
I learned something that day I’ve never forgotten.
True patience isn’t silent suffering while hoping for relief. It’s trusting that Allah sees, hears, and cares, even when the world cannot. Ayub, peace be upon him, didn’t praise Allah because he was healed — he praised Him while he was suffering.
And through that faith, Allah turned pain into mercy.
Inspired by Surah Sad (38:41–44) and classical tafsir from scholars such as Ibn Kathir.
The year the illness came, I was just a farmhand in the hills near Damascus. You won’t read about me in any surah, but I was there—one of the nameless workers who once served in the lands of Prophet Ayub — known as Job in the Bible — a righteous man chosen by Allah, peace be upon him.
I remember how the sun always shone gently over his fields and his home was full of laughter, kindness, and prayers. Ayub's voice was calm, and his eyes kind. He owned much — lands, animals, children — but never once did I see him boast. He would always say, “All that we have is from Allah, Al-Wahhab, the Giver of gifts.”
Then came the test.
One by one, his blessings were taken. His animals died suddenly, his land became dry, and his children — may Allah have mercy on them — were lost. Illness struck him next. Painful sores covered his body, and he could no longer walk. Most people left him. Even I—may Allah forgive me—I stayed away for weeks, afraid of what he might have.
But his wife remained. Day and night, she cared for him, washing his wounds, bringing food, whispering words of comfort. When I finally gathered the courage to visit again, I expected to find a broken man. Instead, I found him in prayer.
Lying on a bed of straw, barely able to lift his hands, Ayub said, “My Lord, harm has touched me—but You are the Most Merciful of those who show mercy.” That was from the Qur’an — Surah Sad 38:41. He said it with peace in his voice.
I didn’t understand it then. How could he still pray? Still be grateful?
His wife once asked him, “How long will you remain like this? Why don’t you ask Allah to relieve you?”
He shook his head gently. “I lived in good health and comfort for more than seventy years. Shall I not be patient now?”
Time passed. Ayub’s sickness grew worse—but so did his patience. One day, as the sun rose behind the hills, I watched from the olive trees as something extraordinary happened. Ayub suddenly stood, stronger than before. He struck the ground with his foot and from it sprang clear, cool water. He washed with it, drank from it—and by the will of Allah, he was healed.
His face was no longer pale. His skin, once covered in sores, shone again.
According to our scholars, Allah returned to him all that he had lost, and even more. His children were replaced, his wealth restored. Even his wife — who never left him — was given honor and peace. (See Surah Sad 38:41–44)
I learned something that day I’ve never forgotten.
True patience isn’t silent suffering while hoping for relief. It’s trusting that Allah sees, hears, and cares, even when the world cannot. Ayub, peace be upon him, didn’t praise Allah because he was healed — he praised Him while he was suffering.
And through that faith, Allah turned pain into mercy.
Inspired by Surah Sad (38:41–44) and classical tafsir from scholars such as Ibn Kathir.
