For every time she tended to The graze upon my knee, The bruise upon my elbow, my Each boyhood injury; For when she cooled my burning brow, That stoked her many fears, With prayer-laden breaths of love, Each moistened by her tears; Then in my adolescent years Of indiscretions lie, Which she did veil and temper neath My father’s watchful eye; She stayed my anchor through the storms, Revolving ’round my life, That stress the bonds that men must keep Through every form of strife. And now I stand a broken man, With nothing to repay The multitude of kindnesses She’s shown me to this day. O Allah, hear my call to You By virtue of that part Of Rahmah You bestow upon Each wretched, beating heart: I pray to You to ease her pains, To cool her fevered brow, To draw a veil upon her faults And grant her comfort now, That she may be delivered to A peaceful place of rest, To gaze upon the Garden where Her home with You is blessed. Allah, forgive her sins that she, Beside the fount serene, May quench her thirst forever with Sayyid-al-Mursaleen. And I as well. Aameen.
Motivated by a talk given by Shaykh Amin on the 23rd night of this Ramadan. I borrowed the words for my ending from this inspiring post. To know the power of a night Well hidden from all things, Come quench your thirst from where this fount Of Word eternal springs; There surely falls upon the lands A blessed night of power, Apportioning divine commands To all within its hour; For on that night, descend the hosts Of every angel rank, Upon each mountain, desert, plain And every river bank; They flush the night with light so bright For every seeking soul, That it may be at peace with what Is out of its control. With every life decreed, be peace With every death ordained, With every kind of loss, be peace With every profit gained. There is no soul more steeped in wealth Than one that shuns despair, And submits all without complaint, No matter the affair. A thousand blessed months in this Angelic flood of light; Beloved, bare your heart unto The reaches of this night. Till comes the dawn in sight.
“That’s just how I feel, Mom. I can’t lie, I’m not a hypocrite.” It was a very matter-of-fact statement, made in Aisle 5 at the grocery store somewhere between the baked beans and tomato paste. The speaker was a girl, probably thirteen, maybe fourteen years of age. Her mother instantly disconnected from her mentally, and the girl reciprocated. As they ambled down the aisle filling their cart, I could sense they were in their separate worlds. And pretty soon, I was in mine. As a father of four, I fully expect to suffer that sort of rejoinder in the coming years. But what got me writing this article was the confidence and self-assurance with which we, adults and children alike, see ourselves above being hypocrites. We are quite vocal about not being hypocrites, are we not? At first blush, that seems quite honorable. In fact, let me be clear. That is honorable. No one should want to be a hypocrite. Nothing good about being hypocritical. Hypocrisy is a universally despicable attribute, best not to have applied to yourself. But we know the world has its share of hypocrites. The trouble is we also seem to know we’re never among them. So, okay…what on earth am I trying to say here? Let’s look back a thousand years in time, at giants of men and women, people of substance, their bodies and souls flushed with a maturity that saw them shoulder responsibility the likes of which very few adults in today’s world can even relate to. I will consider only one example. Umar. May God be pleased with him. Umar […]
Order. It pervades all things, inextricably linking what we sense in this world with what we cannot beyond it. It’s everywhere. The stars above, and the galaxies of souls below. The tongue, and the eternal Garden it tends to. The soft bloom of a rose welcoming sun, and a prayer answered. The silent obeisance of the trees, and the circumambulation of the planets. I imagine the marauding armies of men portending hosts of avenging angels joined in ranks, faithfully holding back for an appointed time. I suppose then that one may hope to divine the next move of a man by looking to what his child has done. But then I also expect rain at my every act of heedlessness. It seldom falls. In Sonnet Each thing that meets the eye is but a sign Of something that lives on beyond this earth; Our souls reflect celestial design, And cool remembrance brings a Garden’s birth; The answer to a prayer like the sun That bathes the petals of a blooming rose; The silent bowing of the trees as one To match the manner every planet goes. I wonder if the blood that armies spill Portends a host of angels foming ranks Awaiting the allowance of their will To carry out the justice it demands. I often think my sins will bring the rain, But all that falls are hopes that rise again.