I still remember the day my life changed—though you won’t find my name in any surah, I was just a teenage boy in a town where wisdom truly lived.
My father was one of Luqman's workers—a man known not for wealth or power, but for his deep, quiet understanding. Luqman was not a prophet, but Allah had given him wisdom, as mentioned in the Qur’an. He was famous in our land, not just for his advice, but for how he lived it.
One afternoon, I was sent to sweep the courtyard outside Luqman’s home. The sun was high, the wind dry. I leaned on my broom, bored, when I heard his voice rise gently from behind the door.
“My dear son,” he said, “do not associate anything with Allah. Surely, associating others with Him is a great injustice.”
I paused. I had never heard a father speak like that. His tone was not harsh—it was full of care. I stepped closer.
“Even if something is as small as a mustard seed,” he continued, “hidden in a rock, or in the heavens, or the earth—Allah will bring it forth. Truly, Allah is Most Subtle, All-Aware.”
I peeked through the crack in the wooden door. Luqman sat across from a boy—his son, I guessed—who looked no older than me. The boy listened silently, eyes wide.
Luqman went on, teaching his son more than just rules. “Establish the prayer, command what is right, and forbid what is wrong. And be patient with whatever happens to you. That is part of being strong.”
He paused, then spoke softer, “Don’t turn your face away from people in pride. Don’t walk with arrogance. Allah doesn’t like the proud and boastful. Be moderate in the way you walk. Lower your voice, for the harshest of sounds is the braying of a donkey.”
Something inside me shifted. I had always thought strength meant shouting loud, walking tall, and getting your own way. But Luqman’s words made me feel... small, in the right way. Like I had misunderstood what greatness really was.
For weeks after that, I couldn’t forget it. I began to change the way I spoke to my younger brother. I stopped showing off among the boys in the street. I started trying to pray on time. I didn’t tell anyone, but Luqman’s advice to his son became advice to me.
Years later, I told my own children that story. They asked me why I had tears in my eyes. I said, “Because I once swept the courtyard outside the home of a man who taught his son with wisdom—wisdom that came from Allah. And even though I wasn’t meant to hear it, Allah let me.”
And that’s how the wisdom of Luqman shaped more people than he ever knew.
Story Note: Inspired by the Qur’an, Surah Luqman (31:12–19). Luqman was a righteous man given wisdom by Allah. Though not a prophet, his advice to his son remains a guiding example for believers.
I still remember the day my life changed—though you won’t find my name in any surah, I was just a teenage boy in a town where wisdom truly lived.
My father was one of Luqman's workers—a man known not for wealth or power, but for his deep, quiet understanding. Luqman was not a prophet, but Allah had given him wisdom, as mentioned in the Qur’an. He was famous in our land, not just for his advice, but for how he lived it.
One afternoon, I was sent to sweep the courtyard outside Luqman’s home. The sun was high, the wind dry. I leaned on my broom, bored, when I heard his voice rise gently from behind the door.
“My dear son,” he said, “do not associate anything with Allah. Surely, associating others with Him is a great injustice.”
I paused. I had never heard a father speak like that. His tone was not harsh—it was full of care. I stepped closer.
“Even if something is as small as a mustard seed,” he continued, “hidden in a rock, or in the heavens, or the earth—Allah will bring it forth. Truly, Allah is Most Subtle, All-Aware.”
I peeked through the crack in the wooden door. Luqman sat across from a boy—his son, I guessed—who looked no older than me. The boy listened silently, eyes wide.
Luqman went on, teaching his son more than just rules. “Establish the prayer, command what is right, and forbid what is wrong. And be patient with whatever happens to you. That is part of being strong.”
He paused, then spoke softer, “Don’t turn your face away from people in pride. Don’t walk with arrogance. Allah doesn’t like the proud and boastful. Be moderate in the way you walk. Lower your voice, for the harshest of sounds is the braying of a donkey.”
Something inside me shifted. I had always thought strength meant shouting loud, walking tall, and getting your own way. But Luqman’s words made me feel... small, in the right way. Like I had misunderstood what greatness really was.
For weeks after that, I couldn’t forget it. I began to change the way I spoke to my younger brother. I stopped showing off among the boys in the street. I started trying to pray on time. I didn’t tell anyone, but Luqman’s advice to his son became advice to me.
Years later, I told my own children that story. They asked me why I had tears in my eyes. I said, “Because I once swept the courtyard outside the home of a man who taught his son with wisdom—wisdom that came from Allah. And even though I wasn’t meant to hear it, Allah let me.”
And that’s how the wisdom of Luqman shaped more people than he ever knew.
Story Note: Inspired by the Qur’an, Surah Luqman (31:12–19). Luqman was a righteous man given wisdom by Allah. Though not a prophet, his advice to his son remains a guiding example for believers.
