Healing Hearts, One Verse at a Time

Healing Hearts, One Verse at a Time By Faiz Ali

A Student’s Calling The fluorescent lights of Dow University buzzed overhead as I, Faiz, a 24-year-old Generic Bachelor of Science in Nursing student, scribbled notes in my worn-out notebook. Between anatomy lectures and clinical rotations, my days were a blur of stethoscopes and textbooks. Yet, my heart carried another rhythm—one shaped by the Quran, memorized verse by verse as a Hafiz. Nursing was my calling, but faith was my anchor.

That morning, I felt restless. My professor had assigned me to volunteer at the university hospital’s general ward, a place where hope often flickered like a weak flame. As I adjusted my navy-blue scrub cap, I whispered, “Bismillah,” ready to face the day.

Faith in the Hospital The ward smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair. Patients lay in rows, their faces etched with pain or boredom. I was tasked with basic duties—checking vitals, offering water, and lending a smile. Then I met Mr. Qasim, a frail man in his seventies, his eyes dulled by months of battling chronic lung disease. His chart read “stable but critical,” but his spirit seemed far from stable.

“Young man,” he rasped, barely looking at me, “why bother? I’m just waiting for the end.” His words hit me harder than I expected. I’d studied how to dress wounds, but no textbook taught me how to mend a broken spirit.

I sat beside him, unsure of what to say. “Uncle, can I get you anything?” I asked softly. He shook his head, staring at the ceiling. Something stirred in me—a memory of my mother reciting Surah AR-Rahman during tough times, her voice a balm. Maybe words could help where medicine paused.

A Patient’s Pain Over the next few days, I made it a point to check on Mr. Qasim. I’d adjust his pillows, refill his water, and listen to his stories of better days—when he’d run his small tea stall and laugh with customers. But his voice always trailed off, heavy with resignation. “My children don’t visit,” he admitted one day. “They’re busy. I don’t blame them.”

His loneliness mirrored a pain I’d seen in other patients, but it felt personal. As a Hafiz, I’d learned that the Quran wasn’t just words—it was light, guidance, a bridge to peace. I wondered if I could share that light with him, not to preach, but to comfort.

Verses of Comfort One quiet afternoon, the ward was unusually calm. Mr. Qasim was struggling to breathe, his oxygen mask fogging with each labored gasp. I checked his vitals, my hands steady from training, but my heart raced. I couldn’t ignore the urge any longer. “Uncle,” I said gently, “would you like me to recite something from the Quran? It might help you relax.”

He looked at me, surprised, then nodded faintly. I took a deep breath and began reciting Surah Ad-Duha, وَالضُّحَىٰ، وَاللَّيْلِ إِذَا سَجَىٰ، مَا وَدَّعَكَ رَبُّكَ وَمَا قَلَىٰ

my voice low but clear: “By the morning brightness, and by the night when it grows still, your Lord has not forsaken you…” The words flowed like a melody, filling the small space between us. Mr. Qasim’s eyes closed, and his breathing slowed, as if the verses were wrapping him in peace.

When I finished, he opened his eyes, tears glistening. “That… reminded me of my mother,” he whispered. “She used to pray like that.” For the first time, I saw a spark in his gaze—a flicker of hope.

Healing Through Compassion Over the next week, Mr. Qasim’s condition didn’t improve dramatically, but his spirit did. He began asking for my recitations daily, and I’d choose verses that spoke of mercy and patience, like Surah Ash Sharh. I’d sit with him, sometimes just listening, other times sharing stories of my own—how memorizing the Quran taught me discipline, how nursing taught me empathy.

One day, as I adjusted his IV line, he grabbed my hand. “Faiz,” he said, his voice stronger, “you’ve given me more than medicine. You’ve given me a reason to smile again.” My throat tightened. I hadn’t cured his illness, but I’d helped heal his heart.

As I left the ward that day, the hospital’s chaos felt lighter. I realized nursing wasn’t just about syringes or charts—it was about moments like these, where faith and care intertwined. The Quran had guided me as a Hafiz, but today, it guided me as a nurse. And in Mr. Qasim’s faint smile, I saw the truth: sometimes, a single verse could light up the darkest room.