I sat on the prayer mat long after fajr had ended, light from the window stretching across the carpet like fingers reaching toward something I couldn’t see. My hands were still in my lap, loosely folded, my lips dry from whispering the same dua over and over again.
Please, Ya Allah. Open a path. Let it happen this time.
My voice had grown tired over the months, because my heart was tired too. Every effort I made seemed to fall into silence. Every door I knocked on — for a job, for resolution, for healing — remained closed. I kept telling myself to be patient, to do sabr. But wasn’t sabr supposed to have an end? A reward? A sign?
I thought of the hadith my mother used to recite when I was younger. “No fatigue, nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness, nor hurt… befalls a Muslim, even if it were the prick he receives from a thorn, but that Allah expiates some of his sins for it.” Back then, it sounded gentle, beautiful. Now, bruised by disappointment, it felt like cold comfort.
Days stretched long. One morning, I walked to the small park near my building — just to escape the walls closing in. The wind was sharp, the trees bare. Winter had stripped everything down to its bones. I sat on a cold bench and watched two children tossing breadcrumbs to sparrows. They laughed at the birds’ flutters, completely unaware of the cold, or the weight of waiting.
I closed my eyes, my breath visible in the air. “Ya Rabb,” I murmured. “Am I doing something wrong? Or are You just… angry with me?”
A sparrow landed not far from my foot. It was small, ruffled from the wind, pecking at a bit of crust. Simple, undisturbed. And there — just for a moment — a verse I hadn’t thought of in years came into my mind.
“And there is no creature on earth but that upon Allah is its provision.”
(Qur’an 11:6)
My eyes stung. It didn’t answer my question, not directly. But it brushed against something deep — an echo of solace. That even a hungry sparrow in winter hadn’t been forgotten. Even the crusts had been allotted to it.
Maybe it wasn’t about my effort not being enough. Or me being overlooked. Maybe the delay was mercy. A shield I couldn’t see. A growth I hadn’t yet recognized.
I sat in the wind until my hands numbed. And somehow, the cold didn’t bite the same way. It wasn’t warmth, exactly — but peace. A quiet resignation. A whisper of trust.
I began rising for tahajjud again, not with demands, but with presence. I still asked — but I added, “If not this, then something better. And let my heart accept it.”
Weeks later, a door cracked open — different than the one I had begged for, but leading somewhere real and good. I didn’t shout gratitude. I cried quietly in sujood. Not because the wait had ended — but because I now understood it had never been empty.
Even in silence, He had been listening.
Even in delay, He had been kind.
---
References:
(Sahih al-Bukhari, 5641)
(Qur’an 11:6)
(Qur’an 94:6)
(Qur’an 30:60)
(Qur’an 65:3)
I sat on the prayer mat long after fajr had ended, light from the window stretching across the carpet like fingers reaching toward something I couldn’t see. My hands were still in my lap, loosely folded, my lips dry from whispering the same dua over and over again.
Please, Ya Allah. Open a path. Let it happen this time.
My voice had grown tired over the months, because my heart was tired too. Every effort I made seemed to fall into silence. Every door I knocked on — for a job, for resolution, for healing — remained closed. I kept telling myself to be patient, to do sabr. But wasn’t sabr supposed to have an end? A reward? A sign?
I thought of the hadith my mother used to recite when I was younger. “No fatigue, nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness, nor hurt… befalls a Muslim, even if it were the prick he receives from a thorn, but that Allah expiates some of his sins for it.” Back then, it sounded gentle, beautiful. Now, bruised by disappointment, it felt like cold comfort.
Days stretched long. One morning, I walked to the small park near my building — just to escape the walls closing in. The wind was sharp, the trees bare. Winter had stripped everything down to its bones. I sat on a cold bench and watched two children tossing breadcrumbs to sparrows. They laughed at the birds’ flutters, completely unaware of the cold, or the weight of waiting.
I closed my eyes, my breath visible in the air. “Ya Rabb,” I murmured. “Am I doing something wrong? Or are You just… angry with me?”
A sparrow landed not far from my foot. It was small, ruffled from the wind, pecking at a bit of crust. Simple, undisturbed. And there — just for a moment — a verse I hadn’t thought of in years came into my mind.
“And there is no creature on earth but that upon Allah is its provision.”
(Qur’an 11:6)
My eyes stung. It didn’t answer my question, not directly. But it brushed against something deep — an echo of solace. That even a hungry sparrow in winter hadn’t been forgotten. Even the crusts had been allotted to it.
Maybe it wasn’t about my effort not being enough. Or me being overlooked. Maybe the delay was mercy. A shield I couldn’t see. A growth I hadn’t yet recognized.
I sat in the wind until my hands numbed. And somehow, the cold didn’t bite the same way. It wasn’t warmth, exactly — but peace. A quiet resignation. A whisper of trust.
I began rising for tahajjud again, not with demands, but with presence. I still asked — but I added, “If not this, then something better. And let my heart accept it.”
Weeks later, a door cracked open — different than the one I had begged for, but leading somewhere real and good. I didn’t shout gratitude. I cried quietly in sujood. Not because the wait had ended — but because I now understood it had never been empty.
Even in silence, He had been listening.
Even in delay, He had been kind.
---
References:
(Sahih al-Bukhari, 5641)
(Qur’an 11:6)
(Qur’an 94:6)
(Qur’an 30:60)
(Qur’an 65:3)
