It started with forgetting Fajr two days in a row. I told myself it was just fatigue. Then a week passed, and I had only prayed once. My heart felt heavy, but my excuses came quickly — too much work, not enough sleep, a headache. I still believed in Allah. I didn’t doubt His mercy. But somehow, the actions stopped lining up with the beliefs.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my mother, who still gently texted me “Salat time ❤️,” now and again. Not my friends from the masjid. I didn’t want pity or lectures. I just wanted to disappear from the version of me that used to be known as the “brother who never missed prayer.”
It was late November, the kind of cold that makes your breath visible, when something small happened. I was walking home after missing Isha, hands jammed in my coat pockets. A little girl — seven, maybe eight — was kneeling beside a pile of wet leaves, stirring it with a stick. I only noticed her because she stood and clutched a pink backpack to her chest with both arms. She smiled shyly and said, “As-salamu alaykum.”
I must have looked surprised. Maybe even alarmed. But I returned the greeting quickly.
“You’re frozen,” she said, her voice small. “You can have this.” She pulled off her cartoon-covered gloves and extended them toward me.
I stared. The gloves were slightly damp. I couldn’t imagine how cold her hands must be.
“No,” I protested. “Keep them. You need them.”
She shook her head. “Mama says Allah gives more when we give.”
I didn’t say anything. Just watched her run across the street toward a small apartment building.
I walked home with her sentence buzzing in my ears like the wind: “Allah gives more when we give.”
That night, I didn’t jump straight back into prayer. But I whispered a tiny dua before bed — the first one in weeks — “Ya Allah, please don’t let me drift further.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No thunderclap, no dreams. Just a quiet unease that turned into a steady resolve. The next day, I set my alarm for Fajr. I overslept.
But the day after that, I managed to pray. Just one.
Then another, a few hours late — but I did it.
I stopped scrolling through Islamic lecture playlists and instead chose one surah to read every evening. Al-Fajr, for its raw power.
Sometimes I’d cry while reciting. Sometimes I’d feel nothing at all.
But the steps — those tiny, trembling ones — kept adding up.
Days passed. Then weeks. Somewhere in that ordinary rhythm of showing up imperfectly, faith started whispering back.
One afternoon, walking home from prayer, I saw the same girl outside her building, this time with gloves on and a juice box in hand.
She waved like I was an old friend.
And maybe, in a way, she was.
Not because she gave me warmth for my hands.
But because her small kindness woke something shivering inside me.
My prayer is still not perfect.
Neither am I.
But the climb back to Allah — it starts with a single step.
And I’m taking them now.
References:
"Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves."
— Qur’an 2:222
"So remember Me; I will remember you. And be grateful to Me and do not deny Me."
— Qur’an 2:152
“Take on only as much as you can bear of good deeds, for the best deeds are those done consistently, even if they are few.”
— Hadith: Sahih al-Bukhari, 5861
"O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient."
— Qur’an 2:153
“My servant draws near to Me with none more beloved to Me than the obligations I have imposed upon him. Then he continues to draw near to Me with voluntary acts until I love him…”
— Hadith Qudsi: Sahih al-Bukhari
It started with forgetting Fajr two days in a row. I told myself it was just fatigue. Then a week passed, and I had only prayed once. My heart felt heavy, but my excuses came quickly — too much work, not enough sleep, a headache. I still believed in Allah. I didn’t doubt His mercy. But somehow, the actions stopped lining up with the beliefs.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my mother, who still gently texted me “Salat time ❤️,” now and again. Not my friends from the masjid. I didn’t want pity or lectures. I just wanted to disappear from the version of me that used to be known as the “brother who never missed prayer.”
It was late November, the kind of cold that makes your breath visible, when something small happened. I was walking home after missing Isha, hands jammed in my coat pockets. A little girl — seven, maybe eight — was kneeling beside a pile of wet leaves, stirring it with a stick. I only noticed her because she stood and clutched a pink backpack to her chest with both arms. She smiled shyly and said, “As-salamu alaykum.”
I must have looked surprised. Maybe even alarmed. But I returned the greeting quickly.
“You’re frozen,” she said, her voice small. “You can have this.” She pulled off her cartoon-covered gloves and extended them toward me.
I stared. The gloves were slightly damp. I couldn’t imagine how cold her hands must be.
“No,” I protested. “Keep them. You need them.”
She shook her head. “Mama says Allah gives more when we give.”
I didn’t say anything. Just watched her run across the street toward a small apartment building.
I walked home with her sentence buzzing in my ears like the wind: “Allah gives more when we give.”
That night, I didn’t jump straight back into prayer. But I whispered a tiny dua before bed — the first one in weeks — “Ya Allah, please don’t let me drift further.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No thunderclap, no dreams. Just a quiet unease that turned into a steady resolve. The next day, I set my alarm for Fajr. I overslept.
But the day after that, I managed to pray. Just one.
Then another, a few hours late — but I did it.
I stopped scrolling through Islamic lecture playlists and instead chose one surah to read every evening. Al-Fajr, for its raw power.
Sometimes I’d cry while reciting. Sometimes I’d feel nothing at all.
But the steps — those tiny, trembling ones — kept adding up.
Days passed. Then weeks. Somewhere in that ordinary rhythm of showing up imperfectly, faith started whispering back.
One afternoon, walking home from prayer, I saw the same girl outside her building, this time with gloves on and a juice box in hand.
She waved like I was an old friend.
And maybe, in a way, she was.
Not because she gave me warmth for my hands.
But because her small kindness woke something shivering inside me.
My prayer is still not perfect.
Neither am I.
But the climb back to Allah — it starts with a single step.
And I’m taking them now.
References:
"Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves."
— Qur’an 2:222
"So remember Me; I will remember you. And be grateful to Me and do not deny Me."
— Qur’an 2:152
“Take on only as much as you can bear of good deeds, for the best deeds are those done consistently, even if they are few.”
— Hadith: Sahih al-Bukhari, 5861
"O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient."
— Qur’an 2:153
“My servant draws near to Me with none more beloved to Me than the obligations I have imposed upon him. Then he continues to draw near to Me with voluntary acts until I love him…”
— Hadith Qudsi: Sahih al-Bukhari
