The masjid was only two streets away, but that night, it felt like a thousand miles. I sat beside the radiator in my small apartment, listening to the hum of the fridge, the murmur of the city outside, and the louder ache of my own silence.
I hadn’t prayed in days.
I knew the steps—I had known them all my life. Wudu. Facing the qiblah. Whispering the words that once brought me peace. But lately, they felt foreign, like reading from a page in someone else’s story. My faith felt like a broken bridge—planks missing, rope frayed—and I couldn’t cross to the other side.
It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. Losing my job. The rising debt. My mother’s stroke back home in Sudan and the guilt of not being able to travel. The days had blurred into nights, and I had stopped reaching for anything beyond survival.
And somewhere in that fog, I had stopped reaching for Him.
I remember once, when I was ten, tripping on a rock while carrying bread home. My mother didn’t scold me for dropping the loaves. She sat beside me on the sidewalk, wiped the blood from my knee with her shawl, and said, “When you fall, you don’t shout at your legs. You heal them. It’s the same with Iman, habibi. You don’t scold your heart when it slips. You take it back to the One who mends.”
Her words returned now, years later, in this cold apartment, as if she were sitting beside me again, brushing dust from my heart instead of a scraped knee.
I looked out the window. Rain had begun to fall softly, streaking the glass like tears. And something about it—the quiet mercy of rain gracing even this forgotten corner of the city—broke something open in me.
I whispered without fully knowing I was speaking, “Ya Allah… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
The words trembled, but they came. Again and again. “I don’t know what I’m doing… but if You’re still there, help me.”
It wasn’t eloquent. But it was real.
I stood slowly, unsure of what I expected. I walked to the tiny bathroom and turned on the faucet. The water ran clean and cold over my cupped hands. I washed my face, arms, feet. I felt the weight of days slip down the drain.
Then, on that worn rug in my living room, I faced the qiblah and bent in prayer.
My voice cracked as I said the opening takbir. My chest felt tight, like winter pressing against my ribs. But I kept going. Surah Al-Fatiha. A short surah. A bow. Prostration.
When my forehead touched the earth for the first time in what felt like forever, I wept into the carpet. Not loudly. Not tragically. I just cried, quietly, as if my soul had finally found air after drowning in silence.
And somewhere in that sajdah, a verse I hadn’t thought of in years flickered into my mind like the light beneath a door:
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur’an 94:5-6)
Twice. Not once, twice. As if Allah knew we would need to hear it more than once. As if He knew how fragile we become.
I didn’t get up from that prayer a changed man. But I did rise lighter. Not whole, but healing. Not strong, but no longer numb.
That was it. A step. Just one.
Faith would return slowly, moment by moment. Through broken prayers. Quiet nights. Cold water. Rain against windows. And the endless mercy of the One who waits even when we walk away.
He doesn’t slam doors. He leaves them ajar. Light slipping through, waiting for us to notice.
Just like rain on a forgotten night—falling steady on every rooftop, whether the hearts inside believe or not.
And that’s love. Unconditional. Eternal.
From Him.
Always.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
The masjid was only two streets away, but that night, it felt like a thousand miles. I sat beside the radiator in my small apartment, listening to the hum of the fridge, the murmur of the city outside, and the louder ache of my own silence.
I hadn’t prayed in days.
I knew the steps—I had known them all my life. Wudu. Facing the qiblah. Whispering the words that once brought me peace. But lately, they felt foreign, like reading from a page in someone else’s story. My faith felt like a broken bridge—planks missing, rope frayed—and I couldn’t cross to the other side.
It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. Losing my job. The rising debt. My mother’s stroke back home in Sudan and the guilt of not being able to travel. The days had blurred into nights, and I had stopped reaching for anything beyond survival.
And somewhere in that fog, I had stopped reaching for Him.
I remember once, when I was ten, tripping on a rock while carrying bread home. My mother didn’t scold me for dropping the loaves. She sat beside me on the sidewalk, wiped the blood from my knee with her shawl, and said, “When you fall, you don’t shout at your legs. You heal them. It’s the same with Iman, habibi. You don’t scold your heart when it slips. You take it back to the One who mends.”
Her words returned now, years later, in this cold apartment, as if she were sitting beside me again, brushing dust from my heart instead of a scraped knee.
I looked out the window. Rain had begun to fall softly, streaking the glass like tears. And something about it—the quiet mercy of rain gracing even this forgotten corner of the city—broke something open in me.
I whispered without fully knowing I was speaking, “Ya Allah… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
The words trembled, but they came. Again and again. “I don’t know what I’m doing… but if You’re still there, help me.”
It wasn’t eloquent. But it was real.
I stood slowly, unsure of what I expected. I walked to the tiny bathroom and turned on the faucet. The water ran clean and cold over my cupped hands. I washed my face, arms, feet. I felt the weight of days slip down the drain.
Then, on that worn rug in my living room, I faced the qiblah and bent in prayer.
My voice cracked as I said the opening takbir. My chest felt tight, like winter pressing against my ribs. But I kept going. Surah Al-Fatiha. A short surah. A bow. Prostration.
When my forehead touched the earth for the first time in what felt like forever, I wept into the carpet. Not loudly. Not tragically. I just cried, quietly, as if my soul had finally found air after drowning in silence.
And somewhere in that sajdah, a verse I hadn’t thought of in years flickered into my mind like the light beneath a door:
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur’an 94:5-6)
Twice. Not once, twice. As if Allah knew we would need to hear it more than once. As if He knew how fragile we become.
I didn’t get up from that prayer a changed man. But I did rise lighter. Not whole, but healing. Not strong, but no longer numb.
That was it. A step. Just one.
Faith would return slowly, moment by moment. Through broken prayers. Quiet nights. Cold water. Rain against windows. And the endless mercy of the One who waits even when we walk away.
He doesn’t slam doors. He leaves them ajar. Light slipping through, waiting for us to notice.
Just like rain on a forgotten night—falling steady on every rooftop, whether the hearts inside believe or not.
And that’s love. Unconditional. Eternal.
From Him.
Always.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
