The call to Maghrib faded into the dusky sky as I sat, unmoving, on the edge of the masjid’s courtyard. My prayer mat lay on the stone tiles beside me — untouched. Around me, the brothers gathered in rows like waves finding shore. I should have joined them. I wanted to. But something inside me had gone hollow, like a well run dry.
I hadn’t missed a prayer in years. But tonight, I let them pray without me.
It had been five months since we lost the baby.
I still remember the doctor’s voice — flat, professional — saying, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” I had blinked at the screen. No sound. Just the drumbeat of absence.
Since then, I had done everything I was taught to do. I said inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un — “to Allah we belong and to Him we return.” I prayed. I gave sadaqah. I tried to be grateful. But each day felt heavier, my heart sinking further through its own floor.
I told no one how dry my duas had become. How I still moved my lips, but the words felt like echoes in an empty room.
Everyone else had returned to normal. My wife smiled gently when people asked, “How are you feeling now?” She’d say, “We’re healing.” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. Healing felt like a thing that happened to other people. I just felt—stuck.
That evening, I stayed seated long after prayer ended. The mosque lights flickered on as the sky darkened into velvet. Then, without really thinking, I stood and began walking.
I had no plan in mind. My feet carried me to the small park behind the masjid—a quiet patch of grass, its borders marked by rose bushes and a few tired benches. I collapsed onto one, exhausted without knowing why.
That’s when I saw it.
A tiny girl, no more than three or four, was kneeling in the grass nearby. Her palms were folded like she was holding something. Curious, I leaned a little closer.
She was cupping a moth.
Its pale wings trembled gently between her fingers.
“It was hurt,” she said without looking up.
I nodded. “And now?”
She extended her hands. The moth took flight, rising with unsteady grace, and vanished into the air.
The girl beamed and ran off toward her mother’s waiting arms.
I sat frozen, eyes stinging.
That fragile thing had flown.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But something about it pierced through the silence I’d been carrying. I remembered then a verse I once heard during Ramadan:
“Indeed, Allah loves those who constantly turn to Him in repentance and those who purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
Taaiboon. Those who return.
The verse didn’t say: those who are strong. Or those who never falter. Or those who never break.
Just: those who return.
I bowed my head and finally whispered beneath my breath.
“Ya Allah, I don’t know how to heal. But I’m here.”
It wasn’t eloquent.
No rhyme, no rhythm.
Just raw truth — the kind I think He loves most.
I stayed under the tree until stars appeared. Just breathing. Just being.
And somehow, in that stillness, faith fluttered awkwardly back like that small moth — trembling, imperfect, alive.
Not a leap. Just a step.
But toward Him.
Always back toward Him.
---
Qur’an & Hadith References:
The call to Maghrib faded into the dusky sky as I sat, unmoving, on the edge of the masjid’s courtyard. My prayer mat lay on the stone tiles beside me — untouched. Around me, the brothers gathered in rows like waves finding shore. I should have joined them. I wanted to. But something inside me had gone hollow, like a well run dry.
I hadn’t missed a prayer in years. But tonight, I let them pray without me.
It had been five months since we lost the baby.
I still remember the doctor’s voice — flat, professional — saying, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” I had blinked at the screen. No sound. Just the drumbeat of absence.
Since then, I had done everything I was taught to do. I said inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un — “to Allah we belong and to Him we return.” I prayed. I gave sadaqah. I tried to be grateful. But each day felt heavier, my heart sinking further through its own floor.
I told no one how dry my duas had become. How I still moved my lips, but the words felt like echoes in an empty room.
Everyone else had returned to normal. My wife smiled gently when people asked, “How are you feeling now?” She’d say, “We’re healing.” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. Healing felt like a thing that happened to other people. I just felt—stuck.
That evening, I stayed seated long after prayer ended. The mosque lights flickered on as the sky darkened into velvet. Then, without really thinking, I stood and began walking.
I had no plan in mind. My feet carried me to the small park behind the masjid—a quiet patch of grass, its borders marked by rose bushes and a few tired benches. I collapsed onto one, exhausted without knowing why.
That’s when I saw it.
A tiny girl, no more than three or four, was kneeling in the grass nearby. Her palms were folded like she was holding something. Curious, I leaned a little closer.
She was cupping a moth.
Its pale wings trembled gently between her fingers.
“It was hurt,” she said without looking up.
I nodded. “And now?”
She extended her hands. The moth took flight, rising with unsteady grace, and vanished into the air.
The girl beamed and ran off toward her mother’s waiting arms.
I sat frozen, eyes stinging.
That fragile thing had flown.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But something about it pierced through the silence I’d been carrying. I remembered then a verse I once heard during Ramadan:
“Indeed, Allah loves those who constantly turn to Him in repentance and those who purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
Taaiboon. Those who return.
The verse didn’t say: those who are strong. Or those who never falter. Or those who never break.
Just: those who return.
I bowed my head and finally whispered beneath my breath.
“Ya Allah, I don’t know how to heal. But I’m here.”
It wasn’t eloquent.
No rhyme, no rhythm.
Just raw truth — the kind I think He loves most.
I stayed under the tree until stars appeared. Just breathing. Just being.
And somehow, in that stillness, faith fluttered awkwardly back like that small moth — trembling, imperfect, alive.
Not a leap. Just a step.
But toward Him.
Always back toward Him.
---
Qur’an & Hadith References:
