The night felt heavier than usual as I stepped into the empty masjid. The air was still, save for the faint hum of a ceiling fan lazily turning above. I walked toward the last row, sank into sujood on the worn carpet, and let my forehead linger there longer than usual.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just stayed down there, hoping Allah would pick up on everything I couldn’t say.
Lately, I’d been slipping. No—I’d already slipped. The sweetness of faith, that calm belief I used to carry like a hidden gem in my chest, had dulled. My prayers had become short, mechanical movements. My duas, if made at all, were rushed whispers. Nothing felt close. Nothing felt like Him.
Maybe it started months ago, when I got laid off. Or maybe it began even before, in the silence that followed all the unanswered prayers. Every resume unacknowledged, every door closed. I tried to believe it was all for the best. But when the bills piled up and relatives started making those subtle comments—you know the kind, laced with concern but heavy with judgment—I started to wonder if I had really placed my trust in Allah, or just in the idea that things would get better.
Tonight was my breaking point. I didn’t even come here for answers. I just wanted to breathe without someone asking how the job search was going.
I sat back on my heels. The stillness of the mosque pressed in on me. I closed my eyes and whispered a dua—not for a job, not even for things to work out—just for peace. Even just a glimpse of it.
I opened the Qur’an stored in the small shelf in front of me and flipped pages mindlessly, until my eyes caught the familiar words of Surah Al-Imran.
"So by mercy from Allah, [O Muhammad], you were lenient with them... And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him." (3:159)
Something in me seized. I read it again, slower. "Then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him."
I had read this verse dozens of times before, but tonight it cracked something open. I had been waiting for things to align before entrusting everything to Allah. Waiting for signs of mercy before leaning into tawakkul, that sacred surrender. But maybe that wasn’t trust at all. Maybe real trust was in the unseen, in the silence, in the wait.
I left the masjid without any grand transformation. There was no miracle, no shower of light. Just a subtle calm—a tiny sliver of peace that hadn’t been there when I walked in.
That night, I offered tahajjud at home, not to ask for anything new, but to feel near again. The prayer didn’t sound eloquent, and the tears didn’t come rushing. But my voice steadied by the second rak’ah, and for the first time in months, I said "Alhamdulillah" and meant it.
Not because things had changed.
But because I had started to.
And quietly, without me noticing it, the seed of iman was being watered again.
---
Relevant Qur’an Verses and Hadith:
The night felt heavier than usual as I stepped into the empty masjid. The air was still, save for the faint hum of a ceiling fan lazily turning above. I walked toward the last row, sank into sujood on the worn carpet, and let my forehead linger there longer than usual.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just stayed down there, hoping Allah would pick up on everything I couldn’t say.
Lately, I’d been slipping. No—I’d already slipped. The sweetness of faith, that calm belief I used to carry like a hidden gem in my chest, had dulled. My prayers had become short, mechanical movements. My duas, if made at all, were rushed whispers. Nothing felt close. Nothing felt like Him.
Maybe it started months ago, when I got laid off. Or maybe it began even before, in the silence that followed all the unanswered prayers. Every resume unacknowledged, every door closed. I tried to believe it was all for the best. But when the bills piled up and relatives started making those subtle comments—you know the kind, laced with concern but heavy with judgment—I started to wonder if I had really placed my trust in Allah, or just in the idea that things would get better.
Tonight was my breaking point. I didn’t even come here for answers. I just wanted to breathe without someone asking how the job search was going.
I sat back on my heels. The stillness of the mosque pressed in on me. I closed my eyes and whispered a dua—not for a job, not even for things to work out—just for peace. Even just a glimpse of it.
I opened the Qur’an stored in the small shelf in front of me and flipped pages mindlessly, until my eyes caught the familiar words of Surah Al-Imran.
"So by mercy from Allah, [O Muhammad], you were lenient with them... And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him." (3:159)
Something in me seized. I read it again, slower. "Then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him."
I had read this verse dozens of times before, but tonight it cracked something open. I had been waiting for things to align before entrusting everything to Allah. Waiting for signs of mercy before leaning into tawakkul, that sacred surrender. But maybe that wasn’t trust at all. Maybe real trust was in the unseen, in the silence, in the wait.
I left the masjid without any grand transformation. There was no miracle, no shower of light. Just a subtle calm—a tiny sliver of peace that hadn’t been there when I walked in.
That night, I offered tahajjud at home, not to ask for anything new, but to feel near again. The prayer didn’t sound eloquent, and the tears didn’t come rushing. But my voice steadied by the second rak’ah, and for the first time in months, I said "Alhamdulillah" and meant it.
Not because things had changed.
But because I had started to.
And quietly, without me noticing it, the seed of iman was being watered again.
---
Relevant Qur’an Verses and Hadith:
