I was just a young page in the masjid—sent every morning to sweep the floors and refill the lamp oils before the faithful came for Fajr, the dawn prayer. I wasn’t a scholar or a warrior, and you won’t find my name in any surah. But something I witnessed once—something I’ll never forget—taught me more than any lesson from the marketplace or the prayer circles.
It was the day I watched the Prophet’s noble patience tested by a blind man.
His name was Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum. He was a companion of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, and though he had lost his sight, his heart saw more light than many who could see. He came to the Prophet one busy morning, eager to learn about Islam. But the Prophet ﷺ was already deep in conversation with the elders of Quraysh—a group of powerful Meccan leaders who hated the message of Islam but whose hearts the Prophet still hoped to reach.
I was filling a jug in the corner when Abdullah’s voice rose gently, “O Messenger of Allah, teach me what Allah has taught you.”
The Prophet ﷺ, may peace be upon him, was focused on the Quraysh men. He frowned slightly—not out of anger, but perhaps out of concern that the moment would be lost. He turned away, hoping the blind man would understand. Abdullah couldn’t see the frown. Still, he felt the moment slip.
Later that day, a revelation came to the Prophet ﷺ. I remember, people said his face changed, his gaze softened. The words were from Allah—sent to correct that moment. It began,
“(He frowned and turned away) because a blind man came to him...” (Surah 'Abasa, 80:1)
Everyone understood. In the eyes of Allah, the eager man seeking truth—blind or not—was greater than those who turned away from belief. We all realized then: human judgment is nothing compared to divine mercy.
But what stayed with me most was not just the verse.
It was what happened after.
Many months later, after the Prophet ﷺ had been rejected and stoned in the city of Ta’if, and had bled for his mission, he was offered revenge—he could have asked Allah to destroy the people of that town. But instead, he forgave them and prayed that their descendants would one day believe.
That was the same spirit I saw when the Prophet ﷺ later appointed Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum—this same blind man—as one of the mu’adhins, the callers to prayer. And even more, he left him in charge of the whole city when he went out with the army. A blind man, acting as commander over hundreds.
That day, while sweeping the quiet courtyard, I realized something.
Honor in Islam doesn’t come from who sees most or speaks loudest. It comes from whose heart is turned most toward Allah. And sometimes, the ones we overlook are the ones whom Allah raises highest.
Story Note:
Inspired by Surah ‘Abasa and authentic seerah sources, including Sahih al-Bukhari Hadith 3059, and classical accounts of Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum.
I was just a young page in the masjid—sent every morning to sweep the floors and refill the lamp oils before the faithful came for Fajr, the dawn prayer. I wasn’t a scholar or a warrior, and you won’t find my name in any surah. But something I witnessed once—something I’ll never forget—taught me more than any lesson from the marketplace or the prayer circles.
It was the day I watched the Prophet’s noble patience tested by a blind man.
His name was Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum. He was a companion of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, and though he had lost his sight, his heart saw more light than many who could see. He came to the Prophet one busy morning, eager to learn about Islam. But the Prophet ﷺ was already deep in conversation with the elders of Quraysh—a group of powerful Meccan leaders who hated the message of Islam but whose hearts the Prophet still hoped to reach.
I was filling a jug in the corner when Abdullah’s voice rose gently, “O Messenger of Allah, teach me what Allah has taught you.”
The Prophet ﷺ, may peace be upon him, was focused on the Quraysh men. He frowned slightly—not out of anger, but perhaps out of concern that the moment would be lost. He turned away, hoping the blind man would understand. Abdullah couldn’t see the frown. Still, he felt the moment slip.
Later that day, a revelation came to the Prophet ﷺ. I remember, people said his face changed, his gaze softened. The words were from Allah—sent to correct that moment. It began,
“(He frowned and turned away) because a blind man came to him...” (Surah 'Abasa, 80:1)
Everyone understood. In the eyes of Allah, the eager man seeking truth—blind or not—was greater than those who turned away from belief. We all realized then: human judgment is nothing compared to divine mercy.
But what stayed with me most was not just the verse.
It was what happened after.
Many months later, after the Prophet ﷺ had been rejected and stoned in the city of Ta’if, and had bled for his mission, he was offered revenge—he could have asked Allah to destroy the people of that town. But instead, he forgave them and prayed that their descendants would one day believe.
That was the same spirit I saw when the Prophet ﷺ later appointed Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum—this same blind man—as one of the mu’adhins, the callers to prayer. And even more, he left him in charge of the whole city when he went out with the army. A blind man, acting as commander over hundreds.
That day, while sweeping the quiet courtyard, I realized something.
Honor in Islam doesn’t come from who sees most or speaks loudest. It comes from whose heart is turned most toward Allah. And sometimes, the ones we overlook are the ones whom Allah raises highest.
Story Note:
Inspired by Surah ‘Abasa and authentic seerah sources, including Sahih al-Bukhari Hadith 3059, and classical accounts of Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum.
