“…This is a reminder for those who remember.” (Surah Hud 114)

In his last encounter with the youth, he watched as they left and said, “I lived my whole life for them, never for myself…” These words, perhaps the simplest summary of his life, offer a glimpse into the vastness of his heart. As he lived, so he walked toward the horizon of his soul. He lived for others and urged them to live for others, setting an example of boundless compassion.

In his youth, he was the first abi, a teacher who cherished his students, connecting with them in a way beyond words—a language rooted in his very state of being. He would arrive at their homes at the hour of tahajjud (the nightly prayer), quietly rolling up his sleeves to clean if he found their homes untidy. Teaching eight hours each day, he spent his evenings in gatherings, and even later, he welcomed students to his modest shelter, a guiding compass for their hearts. His presence was so gentle that the students, unaware of his own need for rest, would stay with him through the night. He, too, never asked for rest, never turned them away, always ready to listen and offer counsel.

One wonders: When did he sleep? When did he eat? When did he ever take time for himself, as so many do in our modern age—seeking "me time" to indulge personal desires without higher purpose? His life was a tapestry of dedication—a soldier in waiting, never a moment sacrificed to pursuits that served only the self. He chose not to focus on his own interests or leisure, but rather lived always ready and wholly devoted to serving God through Hizmet. Though I never had the chance to live close to him, and if we add up our meetings, they would not amount to a single day, I always feel his presence in my life through his legacy. I know this truth as surely as if I had witnessed it all. For only a life so intricately woven with purpose could give rise to the Hizmet Movement—thousands of students, hundreds of thousands of records, over eighty books, and countless volunteers inspired to serve.

He did not merely preach; he embodied his teachings. His life was an outpouring of light that spilled from pulpits into hearts. This light bore the essence of countless nights filled with tears and yearning, countless days of tireless action, and endless joy in worship woven like fine threads into each moment.

How does a heart become entirely consumed with divine longing? What is it to live as an insan-ı kâmil (a perfected human being)? In him, we saw a life that overflowed with the wine of divine love—a heart ignited with an intense desire to meet God, a love for the Prophet that blazed brightly. From his fervor, he cast embers into our hearts; in the flame of his spirit, we found our purpose.

With his passing, a sun has set on our earthly days, and our hearts, too, have been severed from the ties of this world. This is not just a longing for his presence but a nameless void, a space that aches with a sense of loss. Yet, a part of us finds peace in knowing his passing from this world was his şeb-i arus, his reunion with the Beloved.

And now—we are no longer who we once were. What could be more transformative for a Hizmet devotee than this profound loss? What else could cultivate in our hearts a detachment from the world’s fleeting charms, urging us toward a purpose beyond worldly allure? This break within us must yield a rose garden, blooming in his honor. We cannot remain unchanged; we must strive harder, run faster, as he would have wanted.

The weight he carried alone now rests on our shoulders; his mantle passed to us. Each act of service is our tribute, our humble offering to his legacy. This burden we bear, counting the days until we, too, might meet him again. We, like soldiers, ask, “When will we be discharged?”

The nightingale has flown from the cage of the body. And would he not, once free, alight upon the wings of his lover's heart? With delicate wings, he soars, spreading fragrance across the heavens.

He is with us still, closer now, unfettered by the limitations of flesh. As close as a greeting, he lives on in our hearts and in each act of service we perform. May love be with you always, Hocaefendim, my dear teacher.