The apartment was too quiet. It made the ticking of the old wall clock feel louder than usual — each tick like a reminder that time had passed and Allah had still not answered my dua.
I sat by the window, watching the neighbors come and go, their lives seemingly rolling forward without delay. Mine felt paused. Stuck. Weighted by the silence between prayers and outcomes.
It had been over a year since I lost my job. At first, I told myself this was a test of sabr — patience. I prayed every night, tears soaking my prayer rug. I researched job postings between making lunch and wiping down the kitchen counter. I kept smiling for my wife’s sake, even though my chest often clenched with worry. It wasn’t just the finances. It was the feeling of being invisible. Forgotten.
I kept asking, “Why not yet, Ya Allah? Others get relief. Others are guided back. Am I doing something wrong?”
One morning, I lingered in sujood longer than usual. My forehead pressed against the mat, I let the silence stretch between me and my Lord. I didn’t say much. Just let the ache seep into the floor — the ache of waiting, wondering, doubting.
Afterward, I opened the Qur’an randomly. A verse caught my eye like the flicker of a candle in pitch dark:
"Say, 'O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.'" (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
I had read that ayah before. Many times. But in that moment, it felt like an answer — but to a question I hadn’t dared to voice: Did I fall too far? Was my past the reason He wasn’t answering?
I closed the Qur’an slowly, holding my breath as something shifted inside me — not a solution, but a reminder. That He hadn’t forgotten me. That maybe the unseen delay was not punishment.
Maybe it was mercy in disguise.
***
It wasn't long after that morning when something small happened.
I was in a bookstore — just killing time between errands, trying not to feel like a man waiting for direction. A boy, maybe five or six, was tugging at his mother’s scarf, pointing to a shelf. "Mama, can we get this one for Baba? So he can smile again?"
I don’t know why that moment caught me so hard. The gentleness in the boy’s face. The way he believed that a book could bring his father joy. That hope had not shrunk in him, even if the wait was long.
Tears blurred my eyes. I turned away, pretending to browse another shelf, but that small gesture stayed with me.
Later that night, I whispered a dua, not asking for a job this time — just asking to keep trusting the One who holds time. Asking for the strength to believe He hadn’t forgotten me.
That was the shift.
Not the call that came the next week from an old friend offering me part-time work.
Not even the job interview a few days later that felt like the start of something new.
No, the real turning point came in the quiet — when I accepted that Allah’s timing was never late. Just wrapped in a wisdom I couldn’t yet see.
And when the road finally opened, I didn’t shout. I simply sat beside my wife one evening, held her hand, and whispered, “Alhamdulillah.”
Because even the waiting had been part of the mercy.
Even the patience that hurt had been heard.
**
Qur’an and Hadith References:
The apartment was too quiet. It made the ticking of the old wall clock feel louder than usual — each tick like a reminder that time had passed and Allah had still not answered my dua.
I sat by the window, watching the neighbors come and go, their lives seemingly rolling forward without delay. Mine felt paused. Stuck. Weighted by the silence between prayers and outcomes.
It had been over a year since I lost my job. At first, I told myself this was a test of sabr — patience. I prayed every night, tears soaking my prayer rug. I researched job postings between making lunch and wiping down the kitchen counter. I kept smiling for my wife’s sake, even though my chest often clenched with worry. It wasn’t just the finances. It was the feeling of being invisible. Forgotten.
I kept asking, “Why not yet, Ya Allah? Others get relief. Others are guided back. Am I doing something wrong?”
One morning, I lingered in sujood longer than usual. My forehead pressed against the mat, I let the silence stretch between me and my Lord. I didn’t say much. Just let the ache seep into the floor — the ache of waiting, wondering, doubting.
Afterward, I opened the Qur’an randomly. A verse caught my eye like the flicker of a candle in pitch dark:
"Say, 'O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.'" (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
I had read that ayah before. Many times. But in that moment, it felt like an answer — but to a question I hadn’t dared to voice: Did I fall too far? Was my past the reason He wasn’t answering?
I closed the Qur’an slowly, holding my breath as something shifted inside me — not a solution, but a reminder. That He hadn’t forgotten me. That maybe the unseen delay was not punishment.
Maybe it was mercy in disguise.
***
It wasn't long after that morning when something small happened.
I was in a bookstore — just killing time between errands, trying not to feel like a man waiting for direction. A boy, maybe five or six, was tugging at his mother’s scarf, pointing to a shelf. "Mama, can we get this one for Baba? So he can smile again?"
I don’t know why that moment caught me so hard. The gentleness in the boy’s face. The way he believed that a book could bring his father joy. That hope had not shrunk in him, even if the wait was long.
Tears blurred my eyes. I turned away, pretending to browse another shelf, but that small gesture stayed with me.
Later that night, I whispered a dua, not asking for a job this time — just asking to keep trusting the One who holds time. Asking for the strength to believe He hadn’t forgotten me.
That was the shift.
Not the call that came the next week from an old friend offering me part-time work.
Not even the job interview a few days later that felt like the start of something new.
No, the real turning point came in the quiet — when I accepted that Allah’s timing was never late. Just wrapped in a wisdom I couldn’t yet see.
And when the road finally opened, I didn’t shout. I simply sat beside my wife one evening, held her hand, and whispered, “Alhamdulillah.”
Because even the waiting had been part of the mercy.
Even the patience that hurt had been heard.
**
Qur’an and Hadith References:
