It was late afternoon when I first heard the news—news that would stay with me for the rest of my life. I had been sweeping the courtyard of the temple when the gates burst open and the high priest called all of us to gather near. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I lived among the caretakers of the sacred Bayt al-Maqdis—the holy temple in Jerusalem. At the time, I served under Prophet Zakariya — known as Zechariah — a righteous man from the descendants of Prophet Harun (Aaron). He was always gentle, always in prayer, always doing the work of Allah.
We had known for years that he and his wife had no children. It was a quiet sorrow they carried, one that weighed heavily on our hearts too. His hair had turned white long ago, and her strength had faded, but they still offered their prayers every day with patience and trust.
I remember one evening especially well. I was passing by the chamber where Zakariya would often pray alone. His voice was quiet, but pure. I paused, hearing him whisper, “My Lord, my bones have weakened, and my hair shines white with age. Yet never, my Lord, have I been disappointed in my prayer to You.”
He was asking Allah for a child. Still. After all those years. My heart felt tight. I thought, “Isn’t he far too old? Can such a prayer truly be answered now?”
And yet only a short time later, as we gathered again in the chamber, something miraculous happened. When he emerged from his prayer, Zakariya was glowing with joy, though he could not speak. He gestured to us, asking for a writing tablet. With steady hands, he wrote: “His name is Yahya.” Yahya — John in English — a name not given to anyone before him, a sign of something new and wondrous.
According to our scholars, Yahya was chosen by Allah, kind and pure, a prophet like his father. And just like that, Zakariya and his wife were granted what many thought impossible. A child. A prophet. A mercy.
I often think back to that day. As someone who served the temple and prayed every day, how quickly I had doubted in my heart. But Zakariya never stopped asking. He never stopped believing. And Allah, the Most Merciful, answered in His perfect time.
Seeing how deeply Zakariya trusted Allah changed me. I started to understand that sincere du'a — heartfelt prayer — is never wasted. Even when everything seems hopeless, Allah’s power reaches beyond time, beyond weakness, beyond human limits.
So now, when I raise my hands in prayer, I remember Zakariya. And I pray with hope, even when the world tells me it’s too late.
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Maryam (Chapter 19), verses 2–15, where Prophet Zakariya prays for a child in his old age and is given the son Yahya (John), a prophet of Allah.
It was late afternoon when I first heard the news—news that would stay with me for the rest of my life. I had been sweeping the courtyard of the temple when the gates burst open and the high priest called all of us to gather near. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I lived among the caretakers of the sacred Bayt al-Maqdis—the holy temple in Jerusalem. At the time, I served under Prophet Zakariya — known as Zechariah — a righteous man from the descendants of Prophet Harun (Aaron). He was always gentle, always in prayer, always doing the work of Allah.
We had known for years that he and his wife had no children. It was a quiet sorrow they carried, one that weighed heavily on our hearts too. His hair had turned white long ago, and her strength had faded, but they still offered their prayers every day with patience and trust.
I remember one evening especially well. I was passing by the chamber where Zakariya would often pray alone. His voice was quiet, but pure. I paused, hearing him whisper, “My Lord, my bones have weakened, and my hair shines white with age. Yet never, my Lord, have I been disappointed in my prayer to You.”
He was asking Allah for a child. Still. After all those years. My heart felt tight. I thought, “Isn’t he far too old? Can such a prayer truly be answered now?”
And yet only a short time later, as we gathered again in the chamber, something miraculous happened. When he emerged from his prayer, Zakariya was glowing with joy, though he could not speak. He gestured to us, asking for a writing tablet. With steady hands, he wrote: “His name is Yahya.” Yahya — John in English — a name not given to anyone before him, a sign of something new and wondrous.
According to our scholars, Yahya was chosen by Allah, kind and pure, a prophet like his father. And just like that, Zakariya and his wife were granted what many thought impossible. A child. A prophet. A mercy.
I often think back to that day. As someone who served the temple and prayed every day, how quickly I had doubted in my heart. But Zakariya never stopped asking. He never stopped believing. And Allah, the Most Merciful, answered in His perfect time.
Seeing how deeply Zakariya trusted Allah changed me. I started to understand that sincere du'a — heartfelt prayer — is never wasted. Even when everything seems hopeless, Allah’s power reaches beyond time, beyond weakness, beyond human limits.
So now, when I raise my hands in prayer, I remember Zakariya. And I pray with hope, even when the world tells me it’s too late.
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Maryam (Chapter 19), verses 2–15, where Prophet Zakariya prays for a child in his old age and is given the son Yahya (John), a prophet of Allah.
