The Gift of Sincerity
The Gift of Sincerity
In a quiet valley of olive trees lived a farmer named Salim. Each dawn he whispered, “O Allah, make my heart sincere.” He owned little beyond a patch of soil and a goat, yet he walked with the lightness of gratitude. Villagers said that when Salim smiled, the morning brightened.
One market day, Salim noticed an elderly traveler by the well, shivering despite the noon heat. He set down his basket, broke his bread, and poured goat’s milk into a wooden cup. “Eat, uncle,” he said. “Provision belongs to Allah.” The man’s hands trembled as he accepted the food. “You have given me life,” he murmured. Salim only nodded, unwilling to weigh a small deed with big words.
That night a storm rolled over the valley like a dark sea. Wind clawed at rooftops; rain hammered the terraces. By morning, Salim’s vegetable beds lay flattened, the channels choked with mud. Neighbors found him in the wreckage, palms lifted. “Alhamdulillah in every state,” he said. Then he began clearing the ditches alone, one stone at a time.
When the adhan rose from the small masjid, Salim washed and joined the prayer. The imam recited the verse about giving from what one loves; afterward, a box was placed for a widow with three children. Salim looked at his last three coins—the seed of his next harvest—and felt his chest tighten. He remembered the traveler’s tears and, with a steady breath, slipped two coins into the box and kept one for seed.
Days passed. Hunger tested his resolve, but he worked and trusted that Allah had seen what no one else had. A caravan arrived; among them a merchant named Yaseen, seeking a steward for a neglected orchard. “I need hands that will not take a dirham unseen,” Yaseen said. The muezzin pointed at Salim. “If you seek a trustworthy man, there he is.”
Yaseen walked the fields and asked hard questions. Salim answered plainly: which trees to graft, which ditches to widen, how to shelter bees from winter wind. “I cannot promise a quick profit,” he said, “but I promise honest effort.” The merchant studied Salim’s calloused hands and the quiet in his eyes. “Honest effort,” he said. “That is the profit.”
Work began at once. Salim rose before dawn, mended the channels, and guided water like prayer beads through thirsty roots. The traveler returned, now stronger, carrying a sack of seeds. “Allah opened a door for me,” he said. “Let me open one for you.” Together they planted borders of basil to invite bees and ward pests.
When the dates blushed with ripeness, the orchard hummed with life. Yaseen kept his word and paid Salim well. Salim first visited the widow with flour, oil, and a pouch of coins. Then he funded a stone-lined well at the masjid gate so travelers would not thirst as that old man once had. The plaque simply read: “From a servant who asked for sincerity.”
People praised Salim, but he lowered his gaze. “Whatever good came,” he told them, “came by Allah’s mercy. Charity does not empty a hand; it opens it.” And the valley, softened by gratitude and rain, learned that sincerity turns small seeds into harvests beyond counting.
