The Book, the Doctor, and the Ayah

Sometimes, the reminders we need come quietly.

The Book, the Doctor, and the Ayah: Sometimes, the reminders we need come quietly.

Sometimes, the reminders we need come quietly. Not through grand gestures, but in soft moments: a familiar book, an unexpected conversation, a verse that finds its way to your heart.

It started when I picked up The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, a book I hadn’t touched in nearly 25 years. One chapter in particular drew me in again — “Start with the End in Mind” — a message I was trying to drill into my husband’s mind. But, truthfully, I needed it more than he did.

It invites you to picture your own funeral and imagine what those who knew you would say. Asking about what you left behind for your loved ones, to which one voice replies, “He left it all.”

That line stayed with me.

It reminded me of the reality of life: no matter how hard we work or what palaces we build, it’s all temporary. Eventually, everything fades and passes. What truly remains with us in the end is what we prepared for it. Yet as human beings, we’re often short-sighted. What we can’t see, we tend to ignore. As the saying goes, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

And yet, some messages don’t need to shout. They whisper.

📖 The Book

Later that afternoon, I found myself at my local masjid for ‘Asr. After the prayer, I picked up a donated book. Inside was a verse from the Qur’an that struck me deeply. It described how the dead plead for a return to life, not to relive pleasure, but simply to do good. But they are not granted that return, because if they were, they would fall back into their old ways.

The words stayed with me. I wanted to borrow the book, so I asked an elderly woman nearby. She gently told me the book was waqf, a charitable donation to the mosque, and could only be borrowed with permission. The process felt a bit much at the time, so I let it go.

🩺 The Doctor

We ended up talking instead. She told me she had just come from work, all the way from East London, where she works at a hospital. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Given her age and the distance, it seemed unlikely. But then she reached into her bag and revealed not one, but two work badges.

“I’m a consultant doctor at two hospitals,” she said, softly.

I was taken aback. I would never have guessed. Clearly, appearances can be misleading.

As we spoke, she kept trying to talk to me in Arabic. I had to keep gently telling her, Anna maa arafi ‘Arab, meaning “I don’t understand Arabic.” Though I said it in Arabic, because I truly do want to learn. In a way, I suppose I hoped saying it might help me get closer.

She smiled and told me that’s exactly why she was speaking to me in Arabic. “If you want to learn,” she said, “you learn by speaking.”

💬 The Ayah

Then she paused.

“I spent all these years learning to become a doctor,” she said. “But I wish I had started with the Qur’an. Everything I’ve learned, I now know it to be in the Quran. And what is the chosen language of the Quran?”

My response: “Arabic.”

In that moment, everything made sense — the ayah I read earlier, the lesson from the book, and this unexpected meeting. It wasn’t random. It felt like a message I was meant to receive.

He grants wisdom to whom He wills, and whoever has been granted wisdom has certainly been given much good.
And none will remember except those of understanding.
— Surah Al-Baqarah (2:269)

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Thanks for reading — stay unconventional.

About the Author

I’m a writer exploring faith, modern chaos, and the path less taken. I believe stories change lives — even if it’s just one reader at a time.

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