Food for thought

From the ridge in the north of Lombok, the land below looks like a masterpiece. Fields stretch out in clean lines, stitched together in every shade of green and brown, a living canvas brushed with light and shadow. It is not art framed in a gallery, admired at a distance. It is art that breathes, feeds, and sustains. A landscape that testifies not to the hands of man, but to the decree of Allah.

A wooden star platform juts from the hillside. At first glance it is plain, planks of wood, weathered and unremarkable. But step onto it, and the earth reveals itself. A valley of crops unfolds as far as the eye can see, rice paddies shimmering like mirrors, rows of spinach and corn running in neat succession, chilies and shallots punctuating the land with colour. Every patch seems placed with intention, as if the soil had been stitched together into a quilt by a hand unseen. It looks purposeful, deliberate, designed. It looks like a reminder drawn into the earth itself.

And in that moment, I did not think of farming, or irrigation, or the price of produce. I thought of food. I thought of sustenance. I thought of Allah.

“Let man look at his food. How We poured down water abundantly, then We split the earth in clefts, and We caused therein grain to grow, and grapes and herbs, and olives and date palms, and enclosed gardens, dense with trees, and fruits and fodder, an enjoyment for you and your cattle.”

(Surah ‘Abasa 80:24–32)

Here was the verse alive in front of me. The rain had fallen, the earth had split, the crops had risen, and the Quran spoke through the soil of Lombok. Rizq was spread before my eyes in patterns too perfect to ignore. Mercy laid out in living form.

Yet how quickly we forget. Food today arrives stripped of its story. Packaged, weighed, priced, and bought. We take bread, fruit, milk, and meat as if they appeared by man’s invention. We forget the seed that cracked, the earth that held it, the drop of rain that carried life into it. We forget the One who sustains.

“Say: Tell me! If all your water were to sink away, who then can supply you with flowing water?”

(Surah Al-Mulk 67:30)

That question feels heavier when looking into a valley like this. Farmers rise before dawn, sowing with faith but no certainty. They cannot summon clouds, cannot split the seed, cannot control the yield. They labour with effort, but their harvest belongs only to Allah.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“No soul will die until it has received its full provision and its appointed time.”

(Sahih Ibn Hibban)

This is rizq. Written long before our birth. Fixed before our first breath. Whether in the kampungs of Lombok or the towers of a city, what is decreed for you will come, and what is not will never reach you.

Looking down at the fields, another truth revealed itself. These crops do not grow for themselves. They grow for others. Grown by hands that may never eat them, harvested for people who may never see the land they came from, carried far beyond this valley to strangers who will not know the soil that produced them. Their meaning lies in service.

And I thought: what about us?

What do we do with the rizq we are given? Do we recognise it as a trust, used in obedience, or do we squander it without thought?

“It is Allah who splits the grain and the date stone. He brings the living from the dead, and the dead from the living. That is Allah, so how are you deluded?”

(Surah Al-An‘am 6:95)

The fields themselves seemed to recite this verse. Each seed had been buried in silence, lifeless, unseen in darkness. Allah split it, raised it, gave it life. And in that I saw myself. How many times had I felt buried, dry, without hope? Yet Allah, who revives the land, revives hearts as well.

“And you see the earth lifeless, but when We send down rain upon it, it quivers and swells and grows every beautiful kind of plant.”

(Surah Al-Hajj 22:5)

Perhaps this reflection is not about food at all.

Perhaps it is about faith. To stand above this valley is to see tawakkul painted across the earth, to see Allah’s mercy not just in what feeds the body, but in what renews the soul.

Perhaps that simple wooden star was never meant to make people feel high above the land, but small before the Creator.

When I stepped down, I whispered quietly, Alhamdulillah. Grateful for provision, grateful for reminders, grateful that every patch of green testified to the same truth. That everything grows, everything is sustained, and everything is provided by Him.

O Allah keep us among those who are truly grateful, who see His blessings and do not turn away. May You grant us halal provision and place barakah within it. O Allah, protect us from wastefulness, soften our hearts to humility, and remind us that our rizq was written long before we walked this earth. O Allah, revive our hearts as You revive the land, and let our final words be in praise and gratitude to Him alone. Ameen.