Signs On The Horizons
SowSee Summary
About the Book
Signs on the Horizons is a collection of deeply personal and transformative encounters with saints and scholars, documenting the profound spiritual lessons they embody. Michael Sugich writes as a seeker and participant, illustrating the extraordinary lives of individuals often hidden from worldly recognition. These “men of God” are defined by their humility, piety, and devotion, standing as living symbols of divine connection in a materialistic age.
The book reveals how these encounters profoundly altered Sugich’s life, presenting these saints as “Signs on the Horizons,” guiding seekers toward higher truths.
About the Author
Michael Sugich is a convert to Islam and a practitioner of tassawuf, known for his immersive storytelling and evocative prose. A student of spiritual masters across the Muslim world, his works bridge East and West, offering insights into the timeless wisdom of Islamic mysticism.
Insight 1: Spirituality is Hidden in the Ordinary
Think of the ordinary moments in your life—the people you pass by on the street, the taxi driver who ferries you to your destination, the quiet custodian who cleans your workplace late at night. How often do you consider the spiritual potential hidden within these encounters? Probably not often enough. And yet, Michael Sugich’s Signs on the Horizons offers a transformative realization: the divine often veils itself in the mundane.
You’ve been conditioned by stories, perhaps even your own expectations, to imagine spiritual greatness as something spectacular. Maybe you expect saints to have a glowing aura, to speak in riddles or carry an unmistakable air of otherworldliness. But what Sugich’s encounters with figures like Sidi Tami teach you is that sanctity is more likely to appear as the unassuming man sitting quietly in the corner of the mosque, smiling kindly, and blending into the crowd. This paradox—the extraordinary concealed within the ordinary—is not just a hallmark of saints, but a reminder of how God’s signs are scattered throughout the horizons and within yourself.
Sidi Tami is one such example. Sugich describes him as so outwardly “ordinary” that you might not give him a second glance. And yet, this humble man was known to the people of Fes as a wali (friend of God). He moved through the labyrinthine streets of the city not with fanfare but with purpose, quietly directing seekers to gatherings of remembrance, spiritual adepts, or sacred sites. He was like a spiritual compass, guiding others toward the divine without drawing attention to himself. You might even have dismissed him as just another passerby if you had not been attuned to the subtle light he carried.
Why is it so hard for you to recognize holiness when it is right in front of you? Because, as Sugich implies, your vision is clouded by superficiality. You judge by appearances, seeking confirmation in grand gestures or impressive credentials. But the saints’ ordinariness is their cloak, designed to teach humility to those who seek them out. It forces you to go beyond the surface, to sharpen your perception, and to learn to see with the heart.
This insight is not just a charming anecdote about a Moroccan man; it is a challenge to you. How often do you overlook the divine opportunities hidden in the mundane? That co-worker you ignore might carry wisdom that could change your life. The neighbor you rarely speak to might be a walking reminder of patience or gratitude. God has scattered His signs everywhere, and your task is to recognize them—even in places you least expect.
But let’s go deeper. What does it mean to see spirituality in the ordinary? It means recognizing that every interaction, no matter how seemingly insignificant, carries the potential for divine connection. It means pausing in your rush through life to notice the small moments: the sincerity in someone’s voice, the kindness in a stranger’s gesture, the beauty of a sunset over a crowded city street. In these moments, you begin to see the truth Sugich reveals: spirituality is not something “out there.” It’s here, in the life you are living right now.
The Quran echoes this lesson: “And how many a sign in the heavens and the earth do they pass by while they turn away!” This verse is a stark reminder that the world is brimming with signs of God’s presence, but most people are too preoccupied to notice. You must cultivate attentiveness—not just with your eyes but with your heart.
When you learn to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, you align yourself with a profound spiritual truth. God’s light is everywhere, even in the smallest, simplest corners of life. The question is: will you open your heart to see it?
Insight 2: The Paradox of Strength in Weakness
There’s a lesson waiting for you in the life of Sidi Ali, one of the saints Michael Sugich profiles in Signs on the Horizons. It’s a lesson that flies in the face of everything you’ve been conditioned to believe about strength, power, and success. In your world, strength is often measured in outward terms: physical dominance, wealth, charisma, influence. But Sidi Ali’s story reveals a profound paradox: true strength is found in weakness, in surrender, in acknowledging the limits of your power and embracing reliance on God.
Imagine this man—an impoverished, illiterate Berber, once a lumberjack in the Atlas Mountains, living a life far removed from religion. He wasn’t a scholar or a leader. He was just another laborer, struggling to survive. And then, in a single moment, his life was shattered. A massive log fell from a truck and crushed him, leaving him disfigured, partially blind, and paralyzed. To the world, this might have seemed like the end of his story—a descent into irrelevance and obscurity. But for Sidi Ali, it was the beginning of something extraordinary.
In the hospital, hovering between life and death, he made a vow to God: if he survived, he would embrace Islam and dedicate his life to faith. And survive he did. His disabilities became a bridge to transformation. Through his pain and helplessness, he discovered the very essence of strength: dependence on the One who is all-powerful. His journey from the rugged wilderness of the mountains to the spiritual heart of Morocco was not just a physical relocation—it was a journey from self-reliance to divine reliance.
Here’s what you need to understand: the strength Sidi Ali found was not about overcoming his physical limitations or achieving worldly success. It was about discovering that, in his weakness, he was closer to God than he had ever been in his life. His helplessness forced him to call out to the Creator, to place his trust fully in Him. This is a reality that spiritual wayfarers have long understood: when you let go of your illusions of control and power, you open yourself to the infinite strength of the divine.
How often do you resist this truth? You cling to the idea that you must always be strong, always in control, always self-sufficient. But what happens when you fail? When your plans fall apart? When your body or mind betrays you? If you’re like most people, you fight against your weakness, seeing it as an obstacle or a failure. But what if, like Sidi Ali, you saw it as a doorway? A way to lean into God’s power and discover that His strength is made perfect in your weakness?
This isn’t just spiritual theory—it’s practical wisdom. When you’re in a state of need, you’re free from the arrogance that clouds your vision. You see clearly that you’re not self-sufficient, that your power is limited. This realization is not a defeat; it’s liberation. As the Quran reminds you: “Indeed, God is sufficient for whoever relies upon Him.”
Sidi Ali’s life, illuminated by divine grace, is a reminder that strength and weakness are not opposites—they are interwoven. His disabilities did not define him, nor did they limit his capacity to serve God and his community. In fact, they became the very means by which he ascended spiritually, memorizing litanies, serving his zawiya, and becoming a source of light for others.
So the next time you face a trial, resist the urge to see it as a loss or a failure. Instead, ask yourself: What strength can I find in this weakness? What door might this difficulty be opening for me? Like Sidi Ali, your path to greatness might be hidden in the very places you least want to go. Embrace the paradox, and you’ll find that God’s strength is always waiting, just beyond your surrender.
Insight 3: Remembrance as the Key to the Heart
What occupies your heart? Really think about it. Is it a swirling mix of worries, ambitions, distractions, and fleeting desires? If so, you’re not alone. The modern world pulls at your attention from every direction, scattering your thoughts and keeping your soul restless. But Michael Sugich’s Signs on the Horizons offers you a way back to clarity and peace—a way that countless saints have lived and breathed: the practice of dhikr, or remembrance of God.
Dhikr isn’t just a ritual. It’s not something you tick off your to-do list like paying a bill or finishing a workout. Dhikr is life itself. It’s the rhythm that grounds your soul, the compass that redirects you when you’re lost, and the key that unlocks the door to the divine. In Sugich’s narrative, you meet saints who embody this truth. Whether they were shopkeepers, beggars, or scholars, these men and women lived with their hearts anchored in the remembrance of God.
Take, for instance, the unassuming shopkeeper who became the center of a spiritual gathering. Outwardly, he was just an ordinary man. But when he opened his mouth to speak, every word he uttered was soaked in the remembrance of God. As he spoke, his state transformed—his body trembled, tears flowed from his eyes, and he was overcome with a love so intense that it spilled out into the room, touching everyone present. What you witness in him is what happens when a heart is fully alive in remembrance.
Why is dhikr so transformative? Because it aligns you with your purpose. Your heart was created to remember God. When it forgets, it becomes restless, searching for meaning in everything but Him. You chase after success, relationships, and pleasures, hoping they’ll fill the void. But they never do—not for long. Remembrance, on the other hand, reorients your heart to its Creator. It’s like tuning a radio to the right frequency. Suddenly, the static clears, and the music of divine presence fills your soul.
The saints in Sugich’s stories remind you that dhikr is not limited to specific times or places. It’s not something you reserve for the mosque or a moment of crisis. Dhikr is constant. It’s in your breath, your steps, your work, and your rest. Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said, “The example of the one who remembers his Lord and the one who does not is like the living and the dead.” When you neglect dhikr, you feel it—your soul becomes heavy, your thoughts scattered, and your actions hollow. But when you remember God, you come alive.
The act of remembrance also humbles you. It reminds you that you’re not in control, that every breath you take is a gift. Saints like Sidi Tami understood this. They didn’t live for recognition or worldly achievements. They lived for the sweetness of being close to God, and dhikr was the bridge that brought them there. Their lives teach you that even in the chaos of daily life, you can cultivate moments of remembrance. Each “SubhanAllah,” “Alhamdulillah,” and “Allahu Akbar” is a thread that weaves you closer to your Creator.
Remembrance is not just a practice but a state of being. Great saints achieved their stations not through extraordinary acts but through ordinary ones performed with extraordinary remembrance. You can do the same. You don’t need to retreat to a mountaintop or live a monk-like existence. Start where you are. Whisper God’s name as you drive to work, as you wash the dishes, as you walk to the store. Each moment becomes an opportunity to connect with Him.
As you incorporate dhikr into your life, you’ll notice something profound. The things that once consumed you—your fears, your desires, your regrets—will begin to lose their grip. They’ll shrink in the light of God’s presence. And in their place, you’ll find peace, clarity, and strength. You’ll understand what the saints in Signs on the Horizons knew: that true freedom is not found in controlling the world around you but in surrendering your heart to the One who controls everything, including the world around you.
So begin now. Take a deep breath and whisper His name. Let it settle into your heart. Let it guide your actions. Let it transform your life. Because in remembrance, you’re not just alive—you’re truly living.
Insight 4: Divine Love Transcends Human Reason
Think about love for a moment—not the fleeting, conditional love you find in human relationships, but a love that consumes and elevates, that renders the soul breathless and intoxicated. Michael Sugich, in Signs on the Horizons, shows you glimpses of this love—divine love—through the saints he encounters. It’s a love so profound that it defies human reason, a force that transforms ordinary people into vessels of extraordinary grace.
In one account, Sugich describes a shopkeeper—a simple man who owned a small business selling buttons or fabric. Outwardly, he was indistinguishable from any other merchant in the bustling streets of Casablanca. But beneath his humble exterior was a heart ablaze with love for God. During a gathering, this unassuming man, who appeared so ordinary at first glance, became a living testament to the overwhelming power of divine love.
As he sat among the attendees, his state began to shift. His eyes filled with tears, his body trembled, and his voice cracked as he invoked God’s name. He wept uncontrollably, overcome by an ecstasy so intense that it left everyone in the room awestruck. What was this? It wasn’t mere emotion. It was the kind of love that breaks the confines of human understanding, a love that comes not from the self but from a heart utterly surrendered to its Creator.
And here’s the part that challenges you: this kind of love isn’t something you can manufacture. It isn’t the result of logic, willpower, or even good deeds. It’s a gift. You can prepare your heart through sincerity, humility, and worship, but ultimately, divine love descends as a mercy from God. It is a grace, not a reward.
This is where your reasoning mind struggles. How can such love be given to a simple shopkeeper? Shouldn’t it belong to someone more outwardly impressive—a scholar, a leader, or someone who has spent years perfecting their worship? But divine love doesn’t follow your rules. It’s not bound by merit or status. It flows where God wills, reaching the hearts of those who are ready to receive it, regardless of their outward condition.
The Quran echoes this reality: “He loves them, and they love Him.” Notice the order. God’s love comes first, drawing you toward Him. Your love for Him is a response, a reflection of the divine light that touches your heart. This is why saints like the shopkeeper in Sugich’s story seem so unshaken by the world’s distractions. Their hearts are anchored in a love that surpasses all worldly attachments.
But what does this mean for you? It means that divine love isn’t out of reach. You don’t need to be extraordinary by the world’s standards to experience it. You need to cultivate sincerity, humility, and a yearning for God. These qualities create the space for His love to enter. You can start by being honest with yourself about your intentions. Do you seek God for His sake, or do you expect something in return? Divine love requires a heart free from conditions and demands, a heart willing to say, “I am here for You, no matter what.”
The shopkeeper’s story is not an isolated incident. It’s an invitation. It’s a reminder that divine love is as real and accessible as the air you breathe. But it requires you to surrender—not just your ego, but your need to understand and control. Let go of the idea that you can earn God’s love. Instead, focus on being present, on remembering Him in every moment, and on approaching Him with humility.
And when that love comes—and it will, in its own time—it will fill your heart with a joy that words cannot capture. It will overflow, touching everyone around you, just as the shopkeeper’s love transformed the room that day. Divine love transcends reason, but it doesn’t transcend you. Open your heart, and let it in.
Insight 5: Suffering as the Gateway to Transformation
You’ve been taught to avoid suffering. To seek comfort. To look for the quickest exit when life becomes too hard. But what if suffering wasn’t something to escape but something to embrace? What if the trials you face weren’t punishments, but invitations to transformation? Michael Sugich’s Signs on the Horizons illuminates this truth: suffering is not the enemy of spiritual growth—it’s often its greatest catalyst.
In his encounters with saints like Sidi Khalefa, a blind beggar, and Sidi Ali, a disfigured former lumberjack, Sugich draws a vivid picture of suffering not as an obstacle but as a vehicle for divine grace. Si Khlefa, blind from childhood, spent his days performing dhikr and smiling at the world that had forgotten him. His life wasn’t defined by his blindness but by the light that radiated from within him. His suffering didn’t diminish him—it elevated him, transforming him into a living example of patience and contentment.
Here’s the paradox that challenges your assumptions: suffering, when met with reliance on God, doesn’t weaken you. It strengthens you. It strips away the illusions of self-sufficiency, forcing you to confront the reality that your strength alone is never enough. It’s in these moments of helplessness, when your ego is shattered, that the divine can enter and begin to rebuild you.
The Quran reminds you: “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” Notice that the verse doesn’t say ease comes after hardship but with it. This is the key. Within every trial lies an opportunity for growth, for closeness to God, for transformation. Suffering cracks open the shell of the ego, exposing the vulnerability that allows you to truly rely on God. And in that reliance, you find a strength you never knew you had.
What trial are you facing right now that feels unbearable? It might be a loss, a failure, or a lingering sense of inadequacy. Instead of resisting it, what if you leaned into it? What if, like Sidi Ali, you saw your suffering as a doorway rather than a dead end? This isn’t to romanticize pain or deny its difficulty. Suffering is real, and it hurts. But it also refines. It clears away the distractions and forces you to focus on what truly matters.
Take a moment to reflect: how has suffering shaped you? Think about the times in your life when you felt most broken. Didn’t those moments teach you something profound about yourself or about God? Didn’t they bring you closer to the divine in ways comfort never could?
Suffering doesn’t mean God has abandoned you. In fact, it’s often the opposite. It’s a sign that He is drawing you nearer, refining you like gold in a furnace. So the next time you’re faced with hardship, resist the urge to ask, “Why me?” Instead, ask, “What is this teaching me? How can this bring me closer to God?”
Like the saints in Sugich’s stories, you can transform your trials into triumphs. You can turn your suffering into a source of strength, not by relying on yourself but by leaning into the One who never abandons you. Let your suffering be the gateway—not to despair, but to transformation.
Insight 6: The Presence of Saints Reflects God’s Mercy
The saints—hidden, humble, often unrecognizable—are not just people of piety. They are walking signs, reflections of God’s mercy in the world. Michael Sugich’s Signs on the Horizons introduces you to these remarkable figures, ordinary in appearance but extraordinary in their spiritual essence. Their presence reminds you that God’s mercy isn’t abstract or distant; it’s tangible, accessible, and often embodied in the people you encounter.
Sugich’s narratives are full of moments where saints appear unassuming, even ordinary. Si Khlefa, for instance, was a blind beggar who lived in obscurity. Yet his heart radiated light. He spent his days in dhikr, never asking for anything, always content. To the casual observer, he might have seemed like just another miskeen (indigent person), a figure easily overlooked. But those who had the spiritual insight to see beyond appearances knew better. Si Khlefa was not just a beggar; he was a sign of God’s mercy, a living reminder of what it means to be at peace with divine will.
Why is this so hard for you to grasp? Because, like most people, you’ve been conditioned to look for greatness in the wrong places. You associate it with power, wealth, or charisma. But God’s saints don’t operate by worldly standards. They are often hidden in plain sight, testing your ability to see with your heart instead of your eyes. Their ordinariness is not a flaw—it’s part of their role. It forces you to strip away superficial judgments and approach them with humility.
What happens when you do recognize such a person? Something shifts in you. Being in the presence of a saint is like standing in the sun: you feel warmed, illuminated, and even transformed. It’s not about their words or actions alone. It’s about the state of being they embody. Their connection to God is so deep that it radiates outward, touching everyone around them. This is God’s mercy in action, reaching you through the lives of His closest servants.
But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about the saints themselves. Their role is to redirect your attention to God. They are not the source of the mercy you feel in their presence—they are the channel. If you stop at admiring them, you’ve missed the point. The light they carry is meant to guide you toward the Divine, to remind you of His presence in every aspect of your life.
So how do you prepare yourself to recognize these signs? By cultivating humility. By learning to look beyond the surface. By remembering that God’s mercy is not confined to grand miracles or dramatic events. It’s in the small, quiet moments. It’s in the kindness of a stranger, the wisdom of an elder, or the light in a saint’s eyes.
The saints in Sugich’s stories are not meant to be distant, unattainable figures. They are reminders that God’s mercy is always near, waiting for you to notice. Their lives challenge you to open your heart, to seek the Divine in the people and moments that surround you. And when you do, you’ll find that God’s mercy isn’t just something you read about or hope for. It’s something you can feel, right here, right now, flowing through His creation.
Insight 7: Proximity to God Demands Vigilance
You may think of spirituality as a serene path, a journey marked by peace and ease as you draw closer to God. But the truth is more nuanced, more demanding. Michael Sugich’s Signs on the Horizons reveals that proximity to God requires vigilance, a constant balancing act between khawf (fear of God) and raja (hope in His mercy). Saints like Hajj Mohamed demonstrate this tension, living lives of heightened awareness, where every action, thought, and prayer carries profound weight.
Hajj Mohamed’s story is not just one of spiritual achievement but of unrelenting vigilance. Early in his life, he lived in a state of khawf, overwhelmed by the majesty of God. This fear wasn’t paralyzing; it was refining. It stripped away distractions and demanded that he confront the enormity of his Creator. Years later, he transitioned into a state of raja, where hope and joy replaced trembling, yet his vigilance never wavered. His life became a delicate dance, maintaining awe of God’s majesty while embracing His mercy.
This duality is essential for you, too. If you focus only on hope, you risk complacency, assuming that God’s mercy will cover your neglect. If you dwell solely on fear, you may become paralyzed, unable to move forward under the weight of guilt and despair. True spiritual proximity demands balance. It requires you to walk the razor’s edge, holding both fear and hope in your heart simultaneously.
Why is this vigilance necessary? Because the closer you draw to God, the higher the stakes. Imagine climbing a mountain: the view becomes more breathtaking as you ascend, but the path also becomes narrower and more treacherous. One misstep can have greater consequences the higher you climb. The saints understood this. Their heightened awareness wasn’t just a burden—it was a privilege. To live in the presence of the Divine, to feel His nearness, is a gift that demands responsibility.
Sugich recounts Hajj Mohamed’s practical advice for maintaining this balance. He urged seekers to always seal their supplications with “Ya Dhul Jalali wal Ikram” (O Lord of Majesty and Honor). This phrase, he explained, ensures that your prayers are rooted in reverence and hope. He also advised, “When things are going well, have fear of God. When things are going badly, have hope in God.” This wisdom is a reminder that your state should not be dictated by external circumstances but by your constant awareness of the Divine.
Ask yourself: Are you vigilant in your relationship with God? Or have you allowed distractions to dull your awareness? Proximity to God is not automatic—it requires discipline. It means setting aside time for prayer and reflection, even when life feels overwhelming. It means holding yourself accountable, not out of guilt but out of love for the One who created you.
The saints Sugich describes lived with an acute awareness that every moment was an opportunity to draw nearer to God—or to drift further away. This is the challenge they leave for you. Will you live with the same vigilance? Will you let every choice, every action, every breath become an act of devotion?
Striving requires vigilance. It means staying awake, spiritually and emotionally, to the realities around you. It means not letting the noise of the world drown out the call of your heart toward its Creator.
So be vigilant. Keep your heart open but disciplined, your actions sincere but intentional. Walk the path of balance between fear and hope, knowing that the closer you draw to God, the more He draws near to you. In this vigilance lies not only the struggle of faith but its deepest rewards.
Signs on the Horizons serves as both a memoir and a manual for seekers, illuminating the subtle yet transformative power of spiritual companionship. Sugich invites readers to view life’s encounters as divine opportunities to draw nearer to God.