Skip to main content

The praised one

What do I owe to a man who brought so much good to this world?

My days and nights revolve around what he has taught me, though I have never seen him.

I wake from sleep to the same call that his companion made so many years ago, standing atop the House that I face in my prayers. I raise my hands the way he taught me, and recite the words that flow lightly over my tongue, though they are heavy. Those Words made him sweat even on the coldest day.

I smile in the faces of my loved ones because he taught me that it's charity. So too is helping people carry their things, cheering up a friend, and removing harmful objects from the path where people walk. I try to do all of these too.

I try, also, to see that what truly remains is what I give away, not what I keep. He taught me this.

When I'm angry, I trap the vile words that threaten to explode out of me, because he praised the one who does this.

Most importantly, he taught me about my Creator. He taught me that nothing is like Him, and that He possesses all the attributes of perfection. My Creator is Kind, Generous, and Just. He taught me that when I remember God, He remembers me. This is so amazing that I can't fully understand it.

This man's name means the praised one. This is very fitting, because he is praised by God and the angels and the believers. His manners were beautiful, truly praiseworthy.

Though he was connected to the heavens, he was refreshingly human. He wept at the deaths of his loved ones. He forgave his uncle's killer, but asked to never see his face again. He joked with his wife on his death bed.

With his passing, that connection to the heavens was severed. But the Words live on, and the book of his life lives on.

Many hungrily read the Words he was so hated for. And many others place them on a high shelf, away from their eyes, too dazzled by the beauty of this world to remember them. There are others still who desperately need the Words for their parched hearts, but they do not know.

I long to meet my teacher. For now, though, I send peace and blessings upon the Messenger.

(March 2018)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

To school on a winter morning

I love the walks to school on winter mornings. The crisp weather, the leisurely stride, the friendly banter between my daughters and their cousin. Sometimes they link arms with her—not with each other, to be sure—and sometimes they take quick steps, trying to outpace each other. The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.) We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave. I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways. My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Som...

The writer in me

The writer in me, nurtured at an early age but silenced in its prime by country-hopping, teaching, and babies —an occasional gasp for air its only reprieve from slow suffocation— longs to speak again. I've so much to say, it tells me, but you haven't been listening. Don't hold me back, it says by shopping, cooking, and lame excuses. Let me go, it says; let me speak. Ya Allah, strengthen my voice. (July 2018)

Push back

It's always right there, just around the corner, at your fingertips. A simple tap or click opens it up, and it's ready to swallow you up. Push it back—those floodgates bursting with everything evil and ugly. Push back the paralysis and the despair. We feel a strange obligation towards the despair. We call it being connected, being in-the-know. We faithfully wring our hands at each calamity, scattering broken hearts and crying faces before scrolling past. And then—we're left more disconnected than ever. Emptier than ever. More confused than ever. It's a strange reality that pelts us with images without context. Small, ugly pieces of a larger picture we cannot see. And so, we see the pain, but not the Plan. We see suffering and destruction, but not Mercy, not Love, not Wisdom. We are so focused on the hideous pieces that we forget to look beyond them. Don't be the ostrich; no. But why seek out what will cause you despair? Why jump into a place with no air and then won...