The Day We Must Answer

The Day We Must Answer

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There will come a day when every living soul will stand in the quiet, breathless stillness of divine truth. No longer cloaked by excuses, no longer able to hide behind pride or distraction, we will face the music of our choices not just the words we spoke, but the silences we allowed, not just the harm we caused, but the good we withheld. The Creator silent but ever-watching, invisible but ever-present will not ask us to recite verses or declare our beliefs. The question will be simple, profound, and piercing: What did you do with the life I gave you?

Did you see Me in the hungry child and feed him, or did you turn away because you couldn’t be bothered? Did you hear Me in the woman’s trembling voice asking for shelter, or did you shut your door and lock your heart because it was inconvenient? You see, many live with the illusion that absence of consequence means approval. We become so used to seeing no lightning strike when we lie, no punishment when we gossip, no thunder when we ignore the suffering that we begin to believe our deeds are justified. We measure rightness by silence and forget that the Creator’s patience is not permission. We mistake the unseen for the unknowing.

But I tell you this day you are wrong. Because you do not see the frown of the Creator when you mock another soul, you assume your cruelty has no witness. Because you do not feel the sorrow of the heavens when you walk past the broken and the forgotten, you convince yourself you’re not accountable. But just because the hand of justice is not immediate does not mean it will not come. It comes like the dawn slow, sure, and impossible to stop.

There is a tale, passed quietly through time, of a man named Senu who lived in a small village between the mountains and the sea. Senu was not rich, but he was full of spirit and kindness. He had nothing grand, but he had everything essential a heart that saw. One year, news came that the Great King of the land had disguised himself to walk among the people, testing the hearts of those he ruled. The villagers, excited by the idea of being honored, began to prepare. They adorned their homes, practiced their smiles, and opened their doors only to those who appeared noble or important.

But day after day, ragged travelers came hungry, cold, wounded. They knocked on the villagers’ doors and were turned away. “You are not the King,” they were told. “You are not worthy.” But Senu opened his door to all. He gave his last loaf of bread to a beggar. He offered his only blanket to a shivering mother and child. He washed the wounds of a limping stranger. He did not ask who they were he simply acted from a place of knowing: that the Divine often comes dressed in the faces we’re taught to ignore.

Time passed, and one day, the villagers were summoned to the palace. Dressed in their finest, they stood waiting for reward. But the King stepped down from his throne and embraced Senu. “You saw Me,” he said. “You fed Me. You clothed Me. You welcomed Me.” The villagers protested, “But when did we see You? We were waiting for splendor!” The King replied, “I came to you in need, and you turned Me away. In every face you refused, you refused Me.” The truth struck them silent.

And so it will be for many of us. Mistreatment does not always scream. Often, it whispers through apathy, through silence, through convenience. It lives in the everyday acts of indifference: the friend we ignore because they’re too emotional, the stranger we ridicule because they look different, the family member we abandon because they can’t keep up. We think righteousness is about grand gestures, but the Creator measures us by the small, consistent ones the compassion we show when no one’s watching, the gentleness we offer when it’s not deserved, the hands we extend even when they may not return the favor.

Some will ask, “But how was I to know?” I say this: your spirit always knew. The problem was not ignorance it was avoidance. You didn’t want to see, because seeing demanded action. You didn’t want to feel, because feeling required sacrifice. But the Creator put within each of us a compass. When you pass someone in pain and feel the tug in your chest that is your knowing. When you hear the cry of someone and your breath catches for a moment that is your knowing. You buried it beneath logic and defense, but it was always there.

So do not wait for the thunder of consequence to change. Return now. Revisit the people you’ve wronged. Apologize with sincerity, not just for what you did, but for what you didn’t do. Offer help without expecting praise. Listen deeply to those you used to ignore. Speak gently to the ones you found difficult to love. Because one day, you will be asked about them not by name, but by impact. One day, the Creator will press your soul, not your lips, and what you truly are will answer.

And on that day, may your heart echo: I saw, and I did not look away. I heard, and I did not stay silent. I was given a life, and I used it to love. The Creator is in every face, every form, every fragile life we encounter. To mistreat them is to mistreat the very source that gave us breath.

So today, while there is still time, choose again. Choose rightly. Choose love. For the day of answering draws near and silence will not save you. Only love will.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar