I hadn’t cried in the masjid before that afternoon.
The prayer hall was nearly empty—just the soft hum of the air vents and the occasional footsteps of people passing outside. I sat cross-legged in the back corner, hoodie up, pretending to busy myself with my phone. But really, I was hiding from the world.
It had been a month since I lost my job. The fifth rejection email had come that morning—another position I wasn’t qualified enough for. Or maybe I was just too invisible. Everyone kept telling me to trust Allah’s plan, but their words slid off me like rain on plastic. I wanted to believe, I truly did. But in that moment, the loneliness felt bigger than my faith.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and lowered my head.
"Ya Allah," I whispered, not even sure it counted as a real dua. "I don't even know what to ask for anymore."
I had always thought love—especially divine love—had to be earned. That I had to be better, purer, more devoted. But lately, I couldn’t even concentrate during salah. My sujood felt empty, like I was bowing out of habit, not hope. I worried secretly: what kind of believer was I?
That’s when she appeared.
A little girl, maybe four or five, wandered over from the women’s section. She had puffed-up pigtails and one sock missing. Her eyes were the kind that hadn't yet learned how to lie. She looked at me and smiled without hesitation.
Then she held out a crumpled lollipop. Sticky. Unwrapped. Strawberry-flavored, I think.
"For you," she said solemnly.
I blinked, startled.
Before I could respond, her mother called gently from around the corner. The girl scampered away without another word.
I looked down at the lollipop in my palm. It was silly. Gross, really. But something about that moment cracked something small and quiet inside my chest. That a child who didn’t know me could give me a gift without condition—without needing me to earn it—felt oddly profound.
It reminded me suddenly of something I had read long ago in Surah Al-Baqarah: “Indeed, Allah loves those who repent and those who purify themselves.” (2:222). Not those who are perfect. Not those who never stumble. But those who return.
Maybe I hadn’t been forgotten.
Maybe Allah didn't just love a future version of me—stronger, smarter, more saintly.
Maybe He loved me now, sitting broken in the prayer hall, jobless and unsure, nursing a sticky lollipop in my hand like it was an amulet.
The idea unsettled me. And comforted me.
I set the candy down and stood. My knees were stiff, but my chest felt lighter. I walked to the wudu area and washed slowly, deliberately. The cool water felt like mercy.
Later, during dhuhr, I still didn’t feel eloquent in my prayers. But I surrendered something. The need to prove I was worthy. I just let myself be held.
When I touched my forehead to the ground, I whispered again.
"Ya Allah… I’m still here."
And for the first time in weeks, I believed He was listening.
Qur'an and Hadith References:
I hadn’t cried in the masjid before that afternoon.
The prayer hall was nearly empty—just the soft hum of the air vents and the occasional footsteps of people passing outside. I sat cross-legged in the back corner, hoodie up, pretending to busy myself with my phone. But really, I was hiding from the world.
It had been a month since I lost my job. The fifth rejection email had come that morning—another position I wasn’t qualified enough for. Or maybe I was just too invisible. Everyone kept telling me to trust Allah’s plan, but their words slid off me like rain on plastic. I wanted to believe, I truly did. But in that moment, the loneliness felt bigger than my faith.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and lowered my head.
"Ya Allah," I whispered, not even sure it counted as a real dua. "I don't even know what to ask for anymore."
I had always thought love—especially divine love—had to be earned. That I had to be better, purer, more devoted. But lately, I couldn’t even concentrate during salah. My sujood felt empty, like I was bowing out of habit, not hope. I worried secretly: what kind of believer was I?
That’s when she appeared.
A little girl, maybe four or five, wandered over from the women’s section. She had puffed-up pigtails and one sock missing. Her eyes were the kind that hadn't yet learned how to lie. She looked at me and smiled without hesitation.
Then she held out a crumpled lollipop. Sticky. Unwrapped. Strawberry-flavored, I think.
"For you," she said solemnly.
I blinked, startled.
Before I could respond, her mother called gently from around the corner. The girl scampered away without another word.
I looked down at the lollipop in my palm. It was silly. Gross, really. But something about that moment cracked something small and quiet inside my chest. That a child who didn’t know me could give me a gift without condition—without needing me to earn it—felt oddly profound.
It reminded me suddenly of something I had read long ago in Surah Al-Baqarah: “Indeed, Allah loves those who repent and those who purify themselves.” (2:222). Not those who are perfect. Not those who never stumble. But those who return.
Maybe I hadn’t been forgotten.
Maybe Allah didn't just love a future version of me—stronger, smarter, more saintly.
Maybe He loved me now, sitting broken in the prayer hall, jobless and unsure, nursing a sticky lollipop in my hand like it was an amulet.
The idea unsettled me. And comforted me.
I set the candy down and stood. My knees were stiff, but my chest felt lighter. I walked to the wudu area and washed slowly, deliberately. The cool water felt like mercy.
Later, during dhuhr, I still didn’t feel eloquent in my prayers. But I surrendered something. The need to prove I was worthy. I just let myself be held.
When I touched my forehead to the ground, I whispered again.
"Ya Allah… I’m still here."
And for the first time in weeks, I believed He was listening.
Qur'an and Hadith References:
