The day my husband left, the rain didn’t stop all morning. I remember standing at the kitchen sink, my hands motionless under the cold faucet, the sound of water mingling with the downpour outside. The front door had closed quietly behind him — no shouting, no slammed doors. Just a man worn thin by joblessness, bills, and shadows I couldn’t name.
I didn’t cry. Not that day. I just stood there, the water filling up a cup that had tipped in the basin, overflowing quietly, the way my chest had started to feel.
That evening, I prayed maghrib and sat on my dusty prayer mat long after the salām. My hands cupped uncertainly beneath my chin. “Ya Rabb…” I began, my voice thin and unsure even in the empty room. I had read about tawakkul before — that deep surrender. But now it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like being pushed off a cliff and asked to believe in wings.
I was still jobless myself. Three children under ten, a fridge nearly empty, rent three weeks overdue.
But that night, I whispered a dua — a prayer from the heart — into the dark. I didn’t ask for miracles. Just enough. Just stability. Just the ability to breathe again.
Days stretched. The house became quieter. The children knew something had shifted, but didn’t know the why. My littlest, Amal, began waking in the night and crawling into bed with me, her tiny palms curled around my arm, as if anchoring me.
One Thursday afternoon, I took the children to the park. Cheap diversion. As they tumbled through the aging playground, I sat on a bench, running lists through my mind — jobs I wasn’t qualified for, bills I couldn’t pay. I pressed my forehead into my palms.
And then, without warning, a gust of wind moved through the birch trees behind me. It wasn’t dramatic, just sudden. Leaves whispered and lifted like green birds. I looked up. Through the moving branches, I could see scattered light breaking through grey clouds — unexpected and golden.
It reminded me of a verse my mother used to recite when she was worried. “And whosoever puts his trust in Allah — then He will make a way for him. And provide for him from where he does not expect.” (Qur’an 65:2–3)
I hadn’t thought about that verse in years.
I stood and called the children. They came running, laughing, hair messy, shirts stained. As I held Amal’s hand, she looked up and said, “Mama, Allah will make it okay, right?”
I nodded. Not because I knew how. But because in that moment, I believed enough for both of us.
A week later, a sister from the masjid messaged me. Her office was short-staffed. It wasn’t perfect — just part-time data entry — but it fit between school drop-offs and pick-ups.
Three months on, we're still in the same apartment. It's still tight. The fridge isn’t full, but it's not empty either. There’s laughter again, even if soft around the edges.
The world still feels heavy sometimes. But now, when it does, I close my eyes and picture the birch trees moving, and the light that found its way through. I remember that sustenance isn’t always a sudden miracle. Sometimes, it’s quiet things: a whispered verse, a child’s trust, a stranger’s message.
And sometimes, hope is just waking up and still believing Allah is near — even with nothing in your hands but prayer.
—
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
The day my husband left, the rain didn’t stop all morning. I remember standing at the kitchen sink, my hands motionless under the cold faucet, the sound of water mingling with the downpour outside. The front door had closed quietly behind him — no shouting, no slammed doors. Just a man worn thin by joblessness, bills, and shadows I couldn’t name.
I didn’t cry. Not that day. I just stood there, the water filling up a cup that had tipped in the basin, overflowing quietly, the way my chest had started to feel.
That evening, I prayed maghrib and sat on my dusty prayer mat long after the salām. My hands cupped uncertainly beneath my chin. “Ya Rabb…” I began, my voice thin and unsure even in the empty room. I had read about tawakkul before — that deep surrender. But now it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like being pushed off a cliff and asked to believe in wings.
I was still jobless myself. Three children under ten, a fridge nearly empty, rent three weeks overdue.
But that night, I whispered a dua — a prayer from the heart — into the dark. I didn’t ask for miracles. Just enough. Just stability. Just the ability to breathe again.
Days stretched. The house became quieter. The children knew something had shifted, but didn’t know the why. My littlest, Amal, began waking in the night and crawling into bed with me, her tiny palms curled around my arm, as if anchoring me.
One Thursday afternoon, I took the children to the park. Cheap diversion. As they tumbled through the aging playground, I sat on a bench, running lists through my mind — jobs I wasn’t qualified for, bills I couldn’t pay. I pressed my forehead into my palms.
And then, without warning, a gust of wind moved through the birch trees behind me. It wasn’t dramatic, just sudden. Leaves whispered and lifted like green birds. I looked up. Through the moving branches, I could see scattered light breaking through grey clouds — unexpected and golden.
It reminded me of a verse my mother used to recite when she was worried. “And whosoever puts his trust in Allah — then He will make a way for him. And provide for him from where he does not expect.” (Qur’an 65:2–3)
I hadn’t thought about that verse in years.
I stood and called the children. They came running, laughing, hair messy, shirts stained. As I held Amal’s hand, she looked up and said, “Mama, Allah will make it okay, right?”
I nodded. Not because I knew how. But because in that moment, I believed enough for both of us.
A week later, a sister from the masjid messaged me. Her office was short-staffed. It wasn’t perfect — just part-time data entry — but it fit between school drop-offs and pick-ups.
Three months on, we're still in the same apartment. It's still tight. The fridge isn’t full, but it's not empty either. There’s laughter again, even if soft around the edges.
The world still feels heavy sometimes. But now, when it does, I close my eyes and picture the birch trees moving, and the light that found its way through. I remember that sustenance isn’t always a sudden miracle. Sometimes, it’s quiet things: a whispered verse, a child’s trust, a stranger’s message.
And sometimes, hope is just waking up and still believing Allah is near — even with nothing in your hands but prayer.
—
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
