The water boiled over as I stared blankly at the stove, steam hissing like an accusation. Another burned pot. Another sign that I wasn't truly here.
Lately, my prayers felt like echoes in an empty room. I would stand, go through the motions of salah—bow, prostrate, whisper words I’d memorized since childhood—yet nothing moved inside me. The walls around my heart felt thick. Heavily bricked over with disappointment and weariness I couldn’t name.
It started after my job ended.
Not suddenly. Companies downsized all the time. I didn’t panic at first. “Allah will provide,” I told myself, quoting the ayah I’d recited so often: And put your trust in Allah; indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him. (3:159)
But the weeks turned into months. My savings thinned to nothing. Interview after interview ended in silence. Rent warnings stacked up near the door like wilted flowers no one wanted.
I stopped talking about it with anyone. Friends would say, “Make dua, brother,” and I’d nod, smiling like that was enough. Like I hadn’t pleaded, weeping against the wall at night.
One Thursday, I saw a child sitting on the curb outside our building. A girl, maybe five or six, cradling a brown paper bag like it held treasure. A simple white hijab framed her face, crookedly pinned.
She smiled at me with peanut butter smeared on her cheek.
“You want sandwich?” she asked.
I blinked, startled. “No, habibti. You have it.”
Her brow furrowed. “It's for you.” She thrust the bag at me. Inside were two small triangles wrapped in foil and a red juice box. “Mama said sometimes people need help, even if they're grown-ups.”
Tears prickled before I could stop them. I nodded, took the bag with hands that trembled.
That night, I didn’t ask for anything in my prayer. No requests for work, for money, for answers. I simply knelt on the worn carpet and whispered, “You see me, don’t You?”
A breeze slipped in through the window left ajar, soft and cool. The silence shifted. No sudden miracles. But something inside me—a tight, aching weight—melted a little.
The next morning, I prayed Fajr with a heart not yet healed but hopeful. I walked to the masjid for the first time in weeks. Not to ask. Just to be.
It was strange, how the worst season had quietly become the most sincere.
My situation didn’t improve overnight. I still had no job. But little things began to stitch light into my day—finding an old coat with a forgotten twenty in its pocket, a neighbor fixing my leaky tap without being asked, a call from a friend who just wanted to hear my voice.
I still don’t know what tomorrow holds.
But that child with smeared peanut butter reminded me: you’re never too far from His mercy. From His gaze. From His silent, steady kindness.
Tawakkul isn't trust because things get better. It's trust that, even if they don’t, you are not alone.
Qur’an and Hadith References:
The water boiled over as I stared blankly at the stove, steam hissing like an accusation. Another burned pot. Another sign that I wasn't truly here.
Lately, my prayers felt like echoes in an empty room. I would stand, go through the motions of salah—bow, prostrate, whisper words I’d memorized since childhood—yet nothing moved inside me. The walls around my heart felt thick. Heavily bricked over with disappointment and weariness I couldn’t name.
It started after my job ended.
Not suddenly. Companies downsized all the time. I didn’t panic at first. “Allah will provide,” I told myself, quoting the ayah I’d recited so often: And put your trust in Allah; indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him. (3:159)
But the weeks turned into months. My savings thinned to nothing. Interview after interview ended in silence. Rent warnings stacked up near the door like wilted flowers no one wanted.
I stopped talking about it with anyone. Friends would say, “Make dua, brother,” and I’d nod, smiling like that was enough. Like I hadn’t pleaded, weeping against the wall at night.
One Thursday, I saw a child sitting on the curb outside our building. A girl, maybe five or six, cradling a brown paper bag like it held treasure. A simple white hijab framed her face, crookedly pinned.
She smiled at me with peanut butter smeared on her cheek.
“You want sandwich?” she asked.
I blinked, startled. “No, habibti. You have it.”
Her brow furrowed. “It's for you.” She thrust the bag at me. Inside were two small triangles wrapped in foil and a red juice box. “Mama said sometimes people need help, even if they're grown-ups.”
Tears prickled before I could stop them. I nodded, took the bag with hands that trembled.
That night, I didn’t ask for anything in my prayer. No requests for work, for money, for answers. I simply knelt on the worn carpet and whispered, “You see me, don’t You?”
A breeze slipped in through the window left ajar, soft and cool. The silence shifted. No sudden miracles. But something inside me—a tight, aching weight—melted a little.
The next morning, I prayed Fajr with a heart not yet healed but hopeful. I walked to the masjid for the first time in weeks. Not to ask. Just to be.
It was strange, how the worst season had quietly become the most sincere.
My situation didn’t improve overnight. I still had no job. But little things began to stitch light into my day—finding an old coat with a forgotten twenty in its pocket, a neighbor fixing my leaky tap without being asked, a call from a friend who just wanted to hear my voice.
I still don’t know what tomorrow holds.
But that child with smeared peanut butter reminded me: you’re never too far from His mercy. From His gaze. From His silent, steady kindness.
Tawakkul isn't trust because things get better. It's trust that, even if they don’t, you are not alone.
Qur’an and Hadith References:
