I remember the night I decided not to pray anymore.
It was late — the kind of dark that quiets the whole world except your own thoughts. I lay on the scratchy mattress in my cramped room, staring at the cracked ceiling above. That day, I’d snapped at my mother, skipped Fajr again, and—though I swore I wouldn’t—returned to a sin I’d promised Allah a dozen times I’d leave behind.
I felt rotten.
The kind of rotten that seeps into every part of you until you believe it’s who you are.
So I told myself, Allah must be done with me by now.
I didn’t say it aloud. I just rolled over and let that silence swallow me.
A week passed.
Then two.
I’d avoid the sound of the adhan, pretend I hadn’t seen the prayer mat folded in the corner. Each time a memory of better days crept in—ones where I’d rise before dawn just to feel close to Allah—I shoved it away. It hurt too much. Like grieving someone still alive.
One night, as I wandered home from work, a soft drizzle began to fall. Not heavy or dramatic—just that quiet, persistent kind of rain that soaks you without warning.
I didn’t have an umbrella. I didn’t care.
I just kept walking, slowing down as people scattered for shelter, letting the water run over my face.
Maybe I hoped it would wash something away.
Then I saw her.
A little girl standing under a bus stop awning, clutching a plastic bag bursting with books. Her hijab was crooked, and her sandals looked one size too big. She stared at the rain like it was an enemy she had no choice but to face.
Our eyes met for a moment. I nodded politely and kept walking.
A few seconds passed—then she called out.
“Excuse me, brother. Could you please help me carry this bag?”
I hesitated. Everything in me said to keep going.
But something made me stop.
I walked back, lifted the heavy bag with one hand, and we started walking in silence. She told me she tutored kids at the mosque and had borrowed too many books. Her house was just around the corner.
Nothing she said was remarkable. Just scattered words between raindrops.
Then, as we reached her gate, she turned to me, wet lashes sticking to her cheeks.
“JazakAllah khair, brother,” she said, bowing slightly. “My dad used to say, whenever you’ve messed up, the best way to start again is with even one small good deed. Allah sees even that.”
She didn’t know.
She couldn’t have.
But it landed in me like lightning.
I stood there, holding that plastic bag of soggy books, as her words echoed against the rain.
She smiled once more, then disappeared into the house.
That night, I walked home slowly. For the first time in weeks, I looked up—not to a cracked ceiling, but the endless sky. The rain had stopped, and clouds moved like soft footprints across the stars.
At home, I took the prayer mat out of the corner.
It smelled a little musty, the way forgotten fabric does.
I smoothed it out, not rushing.
And for the first time in a long time, I whispered, “Ya Allah... I’ve come back.”
I didn’t finish with eloquence or tears.
Just a quiet breath into the stillness.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt something light shift.
Not everything changed that night.
I still stumble, still wrestle.
But now, every time I pray, I think of that little girl—how a simple kindness cracked open a sealed heart.
How maybe Allah had never turned away at all.
How mercy isn’t reserved for saints.
Sometimes, it's tucked inside a wet plastic bag full of books.
References:
I remember the night I decided not to pray anymore.
It was late — the kind of dark that quiets the whole world except your own thoughts. I lay on the scratchy mattress in my cramped room, staring at the cracked ceiling above. That day, I’d snapped at my mother, skipped Fajr again, and—though I swore I wouldn’t—returned to a sin I’d promised Allah a dozen times I’d leave behind.
I felt rotten.
The kind of rotten that seeps into every part of you until you believe it’s who you are.
So I told myself, Allah must be done with me by now.
I didn’t say it aloud. I just rolled over and let that silence swallow me.
A week passed.
Then two.
I’d avoid the sound of the adhan, pretend I hadn’t seen the prayer mat folded in the corner. Each time a memory of better days crept in—ones where I’d rise before dawn just to feel close to Allah—I shoved it away. It hurt too much. Like grieving someone still alive.
One night, as I wandered home from work, a soft drizzle began to fall. Not heavy or dramatic—just that quiet, persistent kind of rain that soaks you without warning.
I didn’t have an umbrella. I didn’t care.
I just kept walking, slowing down as people scattered for shelter, letting the water run over my face.
Maybe I hoped it would wash something away.
Then I saw her.
A little girl standing under a bus stop awning, clutching a plastic bag bursting with books. Her hijab was crooked, and her sandals looked one size too big. She stared at the rain like it was an enemy she had no choice but to face.
Our eyes met for a moment. I nodded politely and kept walking.
A few seconds passed—then she called out.
“Excuse me, brother. Could you please help me carry this bag?”
I hesitated. Everything in me said to keep going.
But something made me stop.
I walked back, lifted the heavy bag with one hand, and we started walking in silence. She told me she tutored kids at the mosque and had borrowed too many books. Her house was just around the corner.
Nothing she said was remarkable. Just scattered words between raindrops.
Then, as we reached her gate, she turned to me, wet lashes sticking to her cheeks.
“JazakAllah khair, brother,” she said, bowing slightly. “My dad used to say, whenever you’ve messed up, the best way to start again is with even one small good deed. Allah sees even that.”
She didn’t know.
She couldn’t have.
But it landed in me like lightning.
I stood there, holding that plastic bag of soggy books, as her words echoed against the rain.
She smiled once more, then disappeared into the house.
That night, I walked home slowly. For the first time in weeks, I looked up—not to a cracked ceiling, but the endless sky. The rain had stopped, and clouds moved like soft footprints across the stars.
At home, I took the prayer mat out of the corner.
It smelled a little musty, the way forgotten fabric does.
I smoothed it out, not rushing.
And for the first time in a long time, I whispered, “Ya Allah... I’ve come back.”
I didn’t finish with eloquence or tears.
Just a quiet breath into the stillness.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt something light shift.
Not everything changed that night.
I still stumble, still wrestle.
But now, every time I pray, I think of that little girl—how a simple kindness cracked open a sealed heart.
How maybe Allah had never turned away at all.
How mercy isn’t reserved for saints.
Sometimes, it's tucked inside a wet plastic bag full of books.
References:
