It started with the silence.
After my divorce, the apartment echoed in a way it never had before. I would come home from work, drop my bag on the kitchen chair, and stand for a moment — waiting for something. Maybe footsteps. Maybe laughter. Maybe just the sound of someone moving in the other room.
But there was nothing.
Sometimes, the stillness felt like a punishment. Like I was being forgotten — by people, by life... by Allah. I would pray because I had to, not because I felt anything. My salah felt like propped-up routines, words falling heavy from my lips.
One night, I stood by the window in the dark. Rain tapping gently against the glass. I watched it, expressionless. The world was dim.
My phone buzzed. A message from my sister. Just a photo — my niece holding a crayon drawing of three stick figures. A mother, a father... a little girl.
Underneath, she’d written in shaky letters: “Thank you Allah for loving me.”
I don’t know why, but that moment cracked something open. Here I was, a grown woman drowning in thoughts far too big to sort — and she, six years old, coloring pictures of love.
I whispered, not even sure to whom, “Does Allah really love me?”
There was no voice in return. No lightning flash or sudden warmth in my chest.
Just the quiet room. The rain.
And then, a memory.
My father’s voice, long ago, reciting Qur’an after Fajr. I must have been seven. He was sitting on the edge of the prayer mat, and his voice softened as he reached a verse: “Indeed, Allah loves those who constantly repent and purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
He had turned to me and said, “You don’t have to be perfect for Him to love you. You just have to keep turning back.”
Keep turning back.
I sat down on the prayer rug I hadn’t touched in three days. My tears fell before any words did.
That night, my dua wasn't eloquent. It was messy, stammering. "Ya Allah... I don't feel lovable right now. But if You are who I believe You are... let me feel Your love again. Just a little."
No epiphany came.
But the next morning, I made breakfast.
A small act, but I had skipped it for weeks.
Later that day, a stranger smiled at me in the grocery store. Not a big deal. Except I noticed it.
And that night, when I prayed, it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like knocking on a door that would open — eventually.
Now, I keep that drawing taped inside my journal. A child's stick figures. A reminder.
Allah’s love isn’t loud.
It arrives as quiet rain.
As a child’s small thanks.
As the soft unraveling of silence when a heart dares, one more time, to ask.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
It started with the silence.
After my divorce, the apartment echoed in a way it never had before. I would come home from work, drop my bag on the kitchen chair, and stand for a moment — waiting for something. Maybe footsteps. Maybe laughter. Maybe just the sound of someone moving in the other room.
But there was nothing.
Sometimes, the stillness felt like a punishment. Like I was being forgotten — by people, by life... by Allah. I would pray because I had to, not because I felt anything. My salah felt like propped-up routines, words falling heavy from my lips.
One night, I stood by the window in the dark. Rain tapping gently against the glass. I watched it, expressionless. The world was dim.
My phone buzzed. A message from my sister. Just a photo — my niece holding a crayon drawing of three stick figures. A mother, a father... a little girl.
Underneath, she’d written in shaky letters: “Thank you Allah for loving me.”
I don’t know why, but that moment cracked something open. Here I was, a grown woman drowning in thoughts far too big to sort — and she, six years old, coloring pictures of love.
I whispered, not even sure to whom, “Does Allah really love me?”
There was no voice in return. No lightning flash or sudden warmth in my chest.
Just the quiet room. The rain.
And then, a memory.
My father’s voice, long ago, reciting Qur’an after Fajr. I must have been seven. He was sitting on the edge of the prayer mat, and his voice softened as he reached a verse: “Indeed, Allah loves those who constantly repent and purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
He had turned to me and said, “You don’t have to be perfect for Him to love you. You just have to keep turning back.”
Keep turning back.
I sat down on the prayer rug I hadn’t touched in three days. My tears fell before any words did.
That night, my dua wasn't eloquent. It was messy, stammering. "Ya Allah... I don't feel lovable right now. But if You are who I believe You are... let me feel Your love again. Just a little."
No epiphany came.
But the next morning, I made breakfast.
A small act, but I had skipped it for weeks.
Later that day, a stranger smiled at me in the grocery store. Not a big deal. Except I noticed it.
And that night, when I prayed, it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like knocking on a door that would open — eventually.
Now, I keep that drawing taped inside my journal. A child's stick figures. A reminder.
Allah’s love isn’t loud.
It arrives as quiet rain.
As a child’s small thanks.
As the soft unraveling of silence when a heart dares, one more time, to ask.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
