I never thought waiting could feel like this — so loud, even in the quiet.
It’s been six months since I lost my job. Every morning, I get up for fajr, stretching my hands toward a sky that feels silent. I make wudu slowly, hoping the chill of water will wake more than just my limbs. I whisper my duas with as much sincerity as I can muster, but there are mornings when the words feel stale, like leftovers reheated too many times. Allah, You are the Sustainer… I know this. Then why does it feel like I’m drifting?
The fridge hums louder than usual. I sit on the fraying edge of the couch, sipping tea my neighbor dropped off yesterday — jasmine, her favorite. She’s always giving, even though she has so little. I used to be like that, when things were better. Back when my wife and I would argue over whether to send dad’s old bicycle to the refugees or keep it just in case. I miss that kind of abundance — not of money, but of intention.
Today was supposed to be hopeful. A job interview. Something small, part-time, but honest work. I ironed my shirt three times, combed my hair with trembling hands, tried to smile in the mirror. But halfway across town, the bus stuttered to a stop and never started again. I watched time slip away with each passing minute. My phone called out the hour like a sentence nearing its end.
I never made it.
I stood under the concrete overpass for a long time, watching pigeons shuffle along the ledge above. One of them dropped down, landing near my feet, pecking at invisible crumbs. It looked up at me — eyes beady, unafraid. I swear, for a second, I felt seen.
“Even this bird,” I muttered aloud. “You feed it.”
It lingered for a moment before fluttering away. And then, like a wind not heard but felt, a verse slid into my heart: “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it. And whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7-8)
I’d memorized it in school years ago, but it hit different now.
Had Allah really seen all of it? The job apps typed until fajr bled into sunrise? The way I bit my tongue when despair begged me to snap at my wife? The times I reached into my grocery bag and slipped half to the neighbor without a word?
Was He counting it? Every atom?
I let the thought settle deep. Not as a guarantee of outcome, but as a promise of meaning. Nothing had been lost — not to the silence, the missed interview, not even to my own doubts.
I walked home slower, not because I was tired, but because I wasn’t in a hurry to escape anything anymore.
That evening, as the sun lowered itself into the crease between two buildings, I sat on the prayer mat longer than usual. I didn’t ask for anything. I just sat.
Just breathed.
Pictures of my children in the corner shelf caught the light, and I smiled — not at achievement, not at provision secured, but at that soft edge of trust that crept in around the heart.
Allah sees. That’s enough.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
I never thought waiting could feel like this — so loud, even in the quiet.
It’s been six months since I lost my job. Every morning, I get up for fajr, stretching my hands toward a sky that feels silent. I make wudu slowly, hoping the chill of water will wake more than just my limbs. I whisper my duas with as much sincerity as I can muster, but there are mornings when the words feel stale, like leftovers reheated too many times. Allah, You are the Sustainer… I know this. Then why does it feel like I’m drifting?
The fridge hums louder than usual. I sit on the fraying edge of the couch, sipping tea my neighbor dropped off yesterday — jasmine, her favorite. She’s always giving, even though she has so little. I used to be like that, when things were better. Back when my wife and I would argue over whether to send dad’s old bicycle to the refugees or keep it just in case. I miss that kind of abundance — not of money, but of intention.
Today was supposed to be hopeful. A job interview. Something small, part-time, but honest work. I ironed my shirt three times, combed my hair with trembling hands, tried to smile in the mirror. But halfway across town, the bus stuttered to a stop and never started again. I watched time slip away with each passing minute. My phone called out the hour like a sentence nearing its end.
I never made it.
I stood under the concrete overpass for a long time, watching pigeons shuffle along the ledge above. One of them dropped down, landing near my feet, pecking at invisible crumbs. It looked up at me — eyes beady, unafraid. I swear, for a second, I felt seen.
“Even this bird,” I muttered aloud. “You feed it.”
It lingered for a moment before fluttering away. And then, like a wind not heard but felt, a verse slid into my heart: “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it. And whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7-8)
I’d memorized it in school years ago, but it hit different now.
Had Allah really seen all of it? The job apps typed until fajr bled into sunrise? The way I bit my tongue when despair begged me to snap at my wife? The times I reached into my grocery bag and slipped half to the neighbor without a word?
Was He counting it? Every atom?
I let the thought settle deep. Not as a guarantee of outcome, but as a promise of meaning. Nothing had been lost — not to the silence, the missed interview, not even to my own doubts.
I walked home slower, not because I was tired, but because I wasn’t in a hurry to escape anything anymore.
That evening, as the sun lowered itself into the crease between two buildings, I sat on the prayer mat longer than usual. I didn’t ask for anything. I just sat.
Just breathed.
Pictures of my children in the corner shelf caught the light, and I smiled — not at achievement, not at provision secured, but at that soft edge of trust that crept in around the heart.
Allah sees. That’s enough.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
