My hands trembled as I held the tablet. It felt heavier than just stone—it carried the weight of my people’s promise to Allah. I was a young scribe then, barely old enough to write the sacred words of Prophet Musa—Moses, the one who led us out of slavery under Pharaoh. But on that day, I saw something that even now feels too powerful for words.
We were gathered at the foot of Mount Sinai. After years of escape, wandering, and witnessing miracles, this moment felt like the beginning of something new. Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, had brought us the commandments from Allah. These words were not just rules—they were guidance, a sign of Allah’s mercy on our troubled people.
But even as he spoke, I saw it in their faces. Doubt. Weariness. Some of them had already forgotten the Red Sea split before them. Forgotten the fire and cloud that guided us. Forgotten all that Prophet Musa had endured for us.
When the covenant was presented—the promise to listen to Allah and obey—I heard men whispering behind me.
“What if this is just Musa’s plan?”
“How do we know this is really from Allah?”
They feared having to change, to surrender to obedience. I did too. A part of me wanted to go back to Egypt, back to comfort—even if it was slavery. That’s how deeply fear pulls at a man’s heart.
That is when it happened. The ground shook. I mean truly shook. People fell to their knees. Women screamed. And we looked up—only to see the mountain itself lifted above us.
Not just a hill. Not just a dark cloud. A towering piece of the earth—raised high above our heads like lightning frozen in stone.
I dropped the tablet.
And I fell to my face.
A voice rang out—clear and mighty, though no ear could place its source. “Hold firmly to what We have given you, and remember what is in it, so that you may become mindful of Allah.”
It was not just fear. It was mercy. He was giving us one last chance.
I saw it then—Allah didn’t crush us. He could have. But instead, He warned us, reminded us, protected us. Even when we turned away, He pulled us back.
After that day, I never doubted again.
I picked up the tablet and pressed it to my chest. I lifted my eyes to the sky, where the mountain had returned to its place. The air was still and quiet, like the pause between a heartbeat.
I understood what love and power truly meant.
Not because Allah showed anger, but because He gave us time to return.
Every generation after us heard that story. Not to fear a falling mountain—but to remember that Allah is always ready to guide us back when we stray. Even when faith shakes, His mercy stands firm.
I was only a scribe—but on that day, I learned what it meant to be part of a covenant.
And I’ve never let go since.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Al-Baqarah (2:63–64), and traditional Islamic interpretation from classical tafsir such as Ibn Kathir.
My hands trembled as I held the tablet. It felt heavier than just stone—it carried the weight of my people’s promise to Allah. I was a young scribe then, barely old enough to write the sacred words of Prophet Musa—Moses, the one who led us out of slavery under Pharaoh. But on that day, I saw something that even now feels too powerful for words.
We were gathered at the foot of Mount Sinai. After years of escape, wandering, and witnessing miracles, this moment felt like the beginning of something new. Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, had brought us the commandments from Allah. These words were not just rules—they were guidance, a sign of Allah’s mercy on our troubled people.
But even as he spoke, I saw it in their faces. Doubt. Weariness. Some of them had already forgotten the Red Sea split before them. Forgotten the fire and cloud that guided us. Forgotten all that Prophet Musa had endured for us.
When the covenant was presented—the promise to listen to Allah and obey—I heard men whispering behind me.
“What if this is just Musa’s plan?”
“How do we know this is really from Allah?”
They feared having to change, to surrender to obedience. I did too. A part of me wanted to go back to Egypt, back to comfort—even if it was slavery. That’s how deeply fear pulls at a man’s heart.
That is when it happened. The ground shook. I mean truly shook. People fell to their knees. Women screamed. And we looked up—only to see the mountain itself lifted above us.
Not just a hill. Not just a dark cloud. A towering piece of the earth—raised high above our heads like lightning frozen in stone.
I dropped the tablet.
And I fell to my face.
A voice rang out—clear and mighty, though no ear could place its source. “Hold firmly to what We have given you, and remember what is in it, so that you may become mindful of Allah.”
It was not just fear. It was mercy. He was giving us one last chance.
I saw it then—Allah didn’t crush us. He could have. But instead, He warned us, reminded us, protected us. Even when we turned away, He pulled us back.
After that day, I never doubted again.
I picked up the tablet and pressed it to my chest. I lifted my eyes to the sky, where the mountain had returned to its place. The air was still and quiet, like the pause between a heartbeat.
I understood what love and power truly meant.
Not because Allah showed anger, but because He gave us time to return.
Every generation after us heard that story. Not to fear a falling mountain—but to remember that Allah is always ready to guide us back when we stray. Even when faith shakes, His mercy stands firm.
I was only a scribe—but on that day, I learned what it meant to be part of a covenant.
And I’ve never let go since.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Al-Baqarah (2:63–64), and traditional Islamic interpretation from classical tafsir such as Ibn Kathir.
