Tale#15: Bedtime Tales: Episode3: The Lantern in the Storm|Tuesday
Holding the Light in Your Heart
It was a Saturday evening in late autumn. The house was warm, filled with the smell of fresh popcorn and the soft hum of rain outside. Aymen had just settled into the couch with Sara and Zayn for movie night. Zayn held the remote, Sara was wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket, and the wind outside howled like it was trying to get in.
Just as the movie started playing, a loud clap of thunder shook the windows. The lights flickered—once, twice—and then the entire house went dark.
“Uh-oh,” Zayn muttered.
The TV went black. The Wi-Fi died. The backup lights along the hallway glowed faintly for a few seconds… and then even those flickered out. Aymen stood up calmly.
“Looks like the storm knocked out the grid. Let me check the app to see the outage status.”
She picked up her phone but frowned.
“No internet. And my data’s barely working.”
Sara groaned.
“No power. No Wi-Fi. No movie. What do we do now?”
Zayn clutched his mom’s arm.
“Mama… I don’t like this. What if it gets worse? What if the roof leaks or something happens?”
The wind howled louder, making the shutters rattle slightly. The house was darker than usual—too quiet without the usual hum of technology.
Aymen reached into the hallway closet and brought out a small rechargeable LED lantern—the kind they kept for camping trips.
“Let’s not panic,” she said, placing the lantern on the coffee table. Its soft white glow cast long, cozy shadows across the living room. “Come closer. Let’s sit, talk… and I’ll tell you a story.”
Sara sighed, but snuggled closer. Zayn still looked uneasy, so Aymen wrapped one arm around him.
“There once was a boy named Yunus,” she began, “who lived in a small village near the edge of a vast desert. He wasn’t much older than you, Zayn. His family raised sheep and grew dates, and he helped take care of the animals after school.”
“Wait… like an old story? Is this true?” Sara asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But the lesson in it is,” Aymen smiled.
“So one day,” she continued, “Yunus’s favorite lamb wandered off. The boy grabbed his water bottle and flashlight and ran out to look for it. He didn’t realize how far he had gone—because he was focused only on finding the lamb. And by the time he caught sight of it nibbling some bushes, the sky had turned a deep orange.”
“That’s kinda like when we lose track of time outside,” Zayn whispered.
“Exactly.”
“Yunus knew the way home. But just as he turned to go back, a sudden windstorm swept through the desert—stronger than anything he’d ever seen. Dust blew everywhere. His flashlight flickered… then died. Maybe the batteries had run out. Maybe the sand jammed the switch. He tried tapping it, shaking it—but nothing. Now, the sun had set. The desert was pitch dark.”
Zayn’s hand twitched a little under the blanket. Sara leaned forward.
“He was scared, wasn’t he?”
“Terrified,” Aymen nodded. “His phone had no signal. No light. No path. Just black sand and wind and his own breath. He sat down on a rock and whispered, ‘Ya Allah… I can’t see anything. I don’t know the way. But You do. Please guide me.’”
The room fell silent for a second. Even the storm outside seemed to pause.
“He stood up,” Aymen went on, “and did something very strange. He closed his eyes and walked. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. Not because he could see—but because he believed that if he asked Allah sincerely for help, he wouldn’t be left alone.”
“That’s really risky though,” Sara said, half skeptical, half awed.
“It is,” Aymen replied. “But sometimes, you trust not because the path is clear—but because you know Who controls it.”
“So what happened?” Zayn whispered.
“After walking for a while, Yunus felt something under his feet—pebbles. Then a wooden beam. He realized he was stepping onto a footbridge—the old one that led toward his uncle’s home! Somehow, in all that blackness, he had walked exactly toward safety.”
“No way.”
“His uncle saw him from the porch and rushed out. ‘SubhanAllah, Yunus! What happened?’ the uncle asked, wrapping him in a blanket and handing him warm milk.”
“And Yunus?”
*“He just smiled and said, ‘I asked Allah to lead me. So He did.’”
Aymen looked at her children, their faces lit gently by the camping lantern.
“You see,” she said, “sometimes life is like this night. Stormy. Dark. Full of things we can’t control. The internet goes down. Power cuts out. People disappoint us. Plans fail. But if you remember to say: ‘Ya Allah, guide me’... and you take just one small step of trust, it’s enough.”
Sara glanced at the lantern.
“So… our flashlight may run out, but our tawakkul shouldn’t?”
Aymen smiled. “Beautifully said, sweetheart.”
Zayn snuggled closer.
“And even when we’re scared… we just keep walking, right?”
“Yes,” Aymen whispered, kissing his forehead. “Even when you can’t see the way… Allah can.”
That night, they fell asleep on the couch under blankets, the storm still whispering outside—but their hearts were calm, wrapped in something stronger than electricity: faith.
And the lantern glowed quietly beside them.