It is uncommon that we observe the background details of a well-produced film or notice the subtle masterpieces behind a state-of-the-art play. Aside from those that are very observant, these elements usually only come into view when production experiences a horrible mishap, perhaps if an actor’s costume is ruined or they forget their lines. The same can be said for the quiet mechanisms and systems, which our lives are dependent on, on a daily basis, namely our organs and their exceptionally complex makeup that we often take for granted. This issue aims to take a deep look at some of the processes that affect us every day that we usually do not think about.

Modern medicine is perhaps one of the greatest blessings of our time, as synthetic drugs are able to cure complex diseases in previously unknown ways. These medicines undergo intense research, testing, and scrutiny before being released to the general public. We quickly rush to the doctor’s office and pop a few pills when we feel ill, yet we rarely ponder over highly exhausting and costly process of developing these drugs.

Our hearts never rest from the moment we are born to the day we die. This organ we don’t usually think about pumps onwards multiple times per minute and allows us to perform our daily functions. In her piece in this issue, Ceyda Sablak reminds us how delicate the anatomy of this organ is and why we should maintain a healthy, balanced life of physical and spiritual activity, as many spiritual masters have seen a connection between our biological heart and our spiritual well-being.

Stem cell research has been a common point of discussion, debate, and controversy in the past few decades. Researchers argue that they possess an almost endless number of possibilities while advocates argue that they are derived in an unethical manner. The science behind them is fascinating, and the potential that they possess is undoubtedly inspiring.

Lastly, it turns out that our tears are integral to keeping our eyes healthy and itch-free. A lack of tears can result in a multitude of annoying and harmful disorders that can severely affect a person’s life. Searches have been underway to find the perfect “alternative tear” for those that suffer from tear related disorders. Who would have thought that something so simple contributes so much to our normal happiness and peace?

Question: Among things Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, sought refuge from were “knowledge, hearts, prayers, and eyes” according to one specific tradition? Why did he do so? Are there types of knowledge and prayers we need to be cautious of?

It is related that the noble Messenger of God would often repeat the following prayer: “My Lord! I seek refuge in You from knowledge that is of no benefit, a heart that does not tremble in respect, from a carnal soul that is never satisfied, and from prayer that is not answered.” It is also related in another tradition that he sought refuge from calamities, diseases, and “eyes that do not well up with tears.”    

Knowledge that is of no benefit

The Qur’an says, “Is that of a donkey carrying a load of books (it transports what it does not understand)” (Al-Jumu’ah, 62:5). There are some people who wrote books, completed doctorate upon doctorate, and became “wise” men. Yet, in the words of Sadi, this newfound knowledge is largely useless and non-beneficial if they do not incorporate it into their nature and practice what they have learned.      

Nowadays, there are plenty of ignorant people with degrees. Their mouths are filled with tar and darkness from the lies, deceit, slander and misinterpretations that they spew. All of the knowledge they have learned and all of the books they have written (even if they have written about the heart and spirit of Islam) are of no use if this knowledge is not going to bring them closer to God, be their route into Paradise, and allow them to experience Divine grace.

It is important to read abundantly and to look at a wide variety of books in order to broaden our perspectives, however it is even more important to incorporate that knowledge into our daily lives. Sadi says, “If you do not believe with your knowledge, then you are the epitome of ignorance.” Such people are not only ignorant, but also are ignorant of their ignorance. All the while, some among them arrogantly assume that they are aware of everything. This is described as “triple ignorance.”

A heart that does not tremble

Secondly, the noble Prophet says, “I seek refuge from a heart that does not tremble.”

The word used in the original text is “yahsha,” which refers to a sense of reverence or awe that manifests itself in one’s actions. It is a measure that shows the depth of one’s position before God. It is acting with the consciousness of ihsan, the conviction that we are being seen by God all the time.

The Prophet says that the reverence in one’s heart manifests in that person’s outward form. If one is truly reverent to God then, it will pour out through their iris, facial expressions, hand gestures, tone of voice, and even in the ideas they put forth. Bediuzzaman Said Nursi (d. 1960) was a scholar who had the utmost reverence to God and His creation. When he used to retreat to his wooden rack on top of a tree for prayers and contemplation, he would say:

Listen to the stars, to their delightful sermon,

Listen to their message of luminous wisdom

And see what is written in their declaration

“Of all His servants, only those who possess true knowledge stand in awe of God” (Al-Fatir 35:28).             

People with deep understanding have a unique perspective. They are the ones who have engraved their knowledge into their neurons, and this tends to be reflected in all of their actions in such a way that anyone who saw them would notice the deep effects of their faith. When an observer saw such people in prostration he or she would see them in full humility for they pray in a state of “being seen by God.” Little, if any, doubt would be left unresolved with such a representation and state of being.

A carnal soul that is never satisfied

The third thing God’s Messenger sought refuge from was “a carnal soul that is never satisfied.” The Qur’an narrates the story of Korah, who serves as a primary example of a person with such a soul:

“We gave him treasures, the keys alone to which were a heavy weight for a party of strong men” (Al-Qasas, 28:76).

Korah had amassed so much wealth that even the keys to his treasure chests required ten strong men to carry them. The Prophet considered such a greedy soul to be so dangerous that he listed it after useless knowledge and a heart that does not tremble in fear.  

Prayers that are not answered

The Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, says, “God does not accept the prayer of the heart which does not know what it wants and desires.” We really need to consider how we recite prayers and supplications from memory: are we doing praying with sincerity or without deeply reflecting upon what we are asking? A person could pray for something good such as, “O God, keep us far away from Hellfire, save us, protect us.” In regards to such a prayer, one should spend a few extra minutes pondering about our lives, try to close their eyes and imagine being in the presence of God, consider the consequences of an irresponsible life. One can even imagine themselves walking on the bridge above the fire. The All-Merciful God will not leave such a vivid seeker of protection in vain.

While praying, “Take us to Paradise along with those righteous people” one should imagine the gardens, trees, and flowers of Paradise to the extent that is humanly possible.        

Prayers are best when they come sincerely from the heart, not subconsciously and without meaning. It is as if something is raining into the hands of the people who sincerely turn to God when they pray to Him.

This is a personal experience that can be achieved through deep reflection and sincerity. There are some steps that can be followed in order to reach such a pious state.

First, God Almighty will accept your prayers and supplications when you are standing in the presence of your Lord with deep concentration, knowing that you are being seen by God and aiming to be in a state as if you are seeing God, too.

Secondly, it is important to make supplications over and over. God Almighty wants to hear the supplications of His servants and wants their prayers to be in their book of good deeds. Consequently, God gives whatever His servant desires depending on how insistent they are in their supplications.

In another tradition, the Prophet says that prayers are answered and advises believers to be patient and not say things such as, “I kept offering my supplications and prayers, but they were not accepted” out of desperation and impatience.

Surely believers will be rewarded with mercy should they remain at God’s doorstep in deep loyalty. He does not leave us completely deprived either, even if He does not give us exactly what we want when we want it.

When the Messenger of God takes refuge in God from supplications that are not accepted, he is referring to those who get weary of making prayers and supplicate with little to no sincerity. God knows best.

Bediuzzaman said the following about the severe pains he felt in his body: “I have supplicated for thirty years to be healed; my prayers have not been accepted externally, yet it has never occurred to me to abandon my prayers. Because illness is the occasion or time for prayer; to be cured is not the result of the prayer.”

Persecuted by oppressive regime, Bediuzzaman was poisoned twenty-one times when he was behind bars. It has not been recorded, or known, that Bediuzzaman ever once made prayers of revenge in his life despite all of the hardship that he endured. He was an emblem of forgiveness and grace, and this character fits monumental personages like him.

This is what we must strive to do as well. Prepare yourself to forgive those who are persecuting you. This is surely a heroic thing to do that takes much strength. Do not respond to evil with evil.

“If you have to respond to any wrong, respond (only) to the measure of the wrong done to you,             

but if you endure patiently, it is indeed better for the patient” (An-Nahl 16:126).

Jesus, peace be upon him, said that excellence in faith is not acting in kindness to those who act kindly to you; excellence in faith is to respond with kindness to those who treat you with evil.             

Be kind to the person who harms you. At least give the alms of a smile, if just a smile. Others may act like monsters, as would be expected from monsters. God has created us as humans, what befits us is to act with humanity. It is impermissible for a true believer to abandon this demeanor.

Eyes that don’t water with tears of sincerity

May God bless us with eyes filled with tears. If there is one antidote to put out the flames of Hell, it would be tears. If there is one thing to take our prayers straight to God, it is the tears we pour for God’s sake.

God’s Messenger, peace and blessings be upon him, said: “Don’t laugh too much.      It kills the heart.”

Your prayer mats should be soaked so much so that your mats speak back in their tongue of disposition, “That is enough! I have become fully soaked, that is enough.”          In the dark night, when you try to turn on the lights to the Intermediate Realm, your tears, in a way, should be like oxygen or energy. Your tears will provide light and illumination. May God make us like those who have such eyes.

It was a blustery February morning, and just a few days before my 40^th birthday, when my cell phone rang. I thought perhaps it was someone offering me early well wishes. But it was my mom, calling with news that would forever alter the course of my life.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I sat down. “How are you?”
“Not good,” she whispered like a frightened child sharing a dark secret. “You know I’ve been feeling really down lately.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, matching her breathy tone.

She was talking so quietly that I cupped my hand over my left ear so I could hear her.
“I just swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills,” she blurted out.

My eyes widened as I sprung to my feet, nearly tripping over my toddler.

“A bunch? Like, how many?” I asked.

“I dunno,” she replied. “A lot.”

I raced to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I fumbled to dial 911 from the landline while trying to keep Mom talking to me on my cell.

A few moments later, I told her that the paramedics were on their way. She mumbled something incoherent. I could already feel her drifting away.

“Can you hear me?”

Numbing silence filled the line. Desperate to keep her awake, I continued talking, my voice growing louder each time I spoke.

“Are you still with me? Mom? Mom!”

Sensing the intensity to my tone, my 8-year-old son asked what was wrong. I wanted to comfort him, but I had to keep focused on Mom. Meanwhile, my toddler, who had only just realized his grandmother was on the phone, threw his goldfish crackers to the floor and pleaded to speak with her. He reached for the receiver with his tiny, cheddar-stained hands and shrieked, “I talk to Ga-ma!”

“Not now,” I said gently.

Both my boys burst into tears as my mind raced with worry. I paced the floor and repeatedly asked, “Are you still there, Mom? Keep talking to me.”

But I only heard a hint of monosyllabic mumbles, then a thud.

I stopped for a moment and stood beside the sliding glass door, shifting my weight from my right leg to my left as I stared out at the falling snow. I kept my eyes fixed on a specific tree branch in an effort to still my mind even as my restless stomach churned.

The wind whipped wildly, which made the snowflakes look as if they were engaged in a vicious game of tug-of-war. Blowing in umpteen different directions, the blustery scene depicted my current state of mind: frenzied, scattered, unsettled. My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the ticking clock, my wailing kids, and the straining pine trees in the backyard.

Finally, I heard the paramedics in the background and for the first time in forever, I took a breath.

I shot off a text message to my brother.

“Call me,” I wrote. “Mom just tried to kill herself.”

Even as I hit “send” with my quivering thumb, the moment seemed surreal. Did this really just happen? How? Why?

As I drove to Missouri, I tried to imagine what was running through my mom’s desperate mind as she ingested an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I envisioned her in her soft flannel pajamas, sitting on the cold tile bathroom floor, swallowing one handful of pills after another. My eyes squeezed shut and a lump formed in the back of my throat. I knew clinical depression was scary, but I’d never seen it up-close-and-personal.

When I stepped inside the hospital room, Mom’s eyes revealed a mixture of sorrow, regret, guilt, and fear. I sat next to her on her bed. She clasped my hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said softly, staring at the floor.

It’s okay,” I replied.

The truth was that it wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit. But what else could I say?

I stayed with her for several days, trying to soothe her by offering hugs and encouraging her by offering advice.

“Go to group therapy. Go to individual therapy. Do anything and everything to help you feel better,” I suggested. “Snarf up every resource possible.”

But instead of concentrating on getting better, she seemed more concerned with how her behavior would be perceived.

“What will people say if they find out what I did?” Mom asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

After she was released from the hospital, I went back home to Indiana. The following month, I was cautiously optimistic when Mom invited me, my husband, and our sons to visit her for her birthday and stay through Easter weekend. I took it as a good sign that she wanted to reconnect with her grandsons, so we packed our bags and drove west.

Though it was great to spend time with Mom, she was anxious and unsettled, worried that the kids might make a mess in her house. This was a far cry from the woman who in the past would often jump into the lake to entertain her grandsons. She spoke slowly and methodically yet still stumbled on her words. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. She wouldn’t even sit down to eat meals. Instead she stood by the sink, nervously nibbling at her food like a rodent.

One morning when the house was quiet, Mom approached me and said meekly, “Christy. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

I didn’t want to rush her or force her, but I was desperate to hear what she had to say.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she said, squeezing my hands as if to relay some sort of message to me through code.

“Honest about what?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. I pressed her a bit more.

“You can tell me, Mom. Whatever it is, I’ll help you. What are you not being honest about?”

“We’d better get ready,” she said tersely, releasing my hands. “The boys want to go to the zoo today.”

Just like that, the moment was gone.

At the zoo, the kids had fun seeing the animals and riding the train, but I couldn’t get past the vacant stare in Mom’s eyes. It was like she was looking past everybody—like she wasn’t all there. Anytime I tried to engage with her, I’d get the same response: “I’m tired.”

That evening after tucking the boys into bed, I asked Mom if she wanted to talk. She looked at me with a pained expression, like she was gripping a hot plate without a pot holder.

“Well, I…um, I,” she muttered.

I don’t know if she couldn’t speak or wouldn’t speak or what was going on. But her mind definitely seemed muddled. I knew something was gnawing at Mom, but I didn’t know how to pull it out of her.

When I laid down to bed that night, tears welled up in my eyes as I confided to my husband, “I think Mom may still be suicidal.”

I hated to admit it out loud, and yet, I could sense a definite heaviness to her spirit.

“Why do you say that?” Eric asked.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s definitely not herself. She’s apologized profusely for trying to kill herself, but earlier today she told me that she’s not been completely honest with me, and when I asked her what about, she clammed up. Have you noticed how empty her eyes look?”

“What do we do? Your dad won’t listen. He’s adamant that she’s getting better.”

“But clearly she’s not. I wish I could get her to confide in me, but I feel like us being here is stressing her out more,” I said. “If the boys’ energy is causing her anxiety to spike, maybe we should take off and let her and Dad have a quiet holiday weekend.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed.

The next morning, I found Mom in the kitchen. She wasn’t eating, cooking, or doing dishes. She was simply standing in her housecoat staring into space. Until she caught a glimpse of my oldest son. Then her eyes moved to him and she watched him intently, like she was memorizing his every move. She did the same when my younger son entered the room. When I sat down, she acknowledged me with a weak, forced smile like she was using every last bit of energy to keep from crying.

I approached her and said softly, “Mom, we’ve decided to leave early.”

“When?”

“Here in a few minutes,” I said. “Eric’s packing the car.”

Confusion, sadness, and relief simultaneously spread across her face.

“Why today?” she asked.

“I can tell you’re struggling, Mom, and I know the boys have a lot of energy. I want you to be able to rest so I think it’s best if we get out of your hair.”

Her lips began to quiver, her brows furrowed, and she said with palpable remorse, “I’m sorry, Christy. I’m so sorry.”

It was a phrase she had repeated numerous times over the past three days so I didn’t think much of it. I replied in the same way I had all weekend—by telling her, “It’s okay.”

We hugged and I told her I loved her.

“Things will get better,” I whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

Those were the last words I ever spoke to my mother.

Six weeks later, my phone rang again. When I answered, I heard my dad’s voice, low and scratchy, say my name, followed by a long pause.

“She did it again,” he said quietly.

My gut clenched as all the color drained from my face.

“What?” I asked.

“She was doing better. She seemed stronger….” he said, his voice cracking.

My entire body began to tremble.

“It’s far worse this time,” he continued. “She swallowed hundreds of pills of all different kinds.”
My knees buckled.

“No-no-no-no,” I repeated.

How could this be happening again?

“I’ll jump in the car,” I told my dad as tears sprang to my burning eyes. “I can leave right now and be there by midnight.”

“Even if you left now, I don’t think you’d make it in time to say goodbye.”

Wait. What? Goodbye? Oh, Jesus!

My breath caught in my throat as my heart splintered.

When I got news in the middle of the night that Mom had died from the overdose, my world faded to grey.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

A thousand other questions bombarded my brain, but this was the predominant one. I could not, for the life of me, make sense of the fact that my sweet, loving, kind, compassionate mom would choose to take her own life. It defied logic and left me feeling helpless, hopeless, and hollow. How was I supposed to go on? How was I to let go of the guilt that gnawed at me round the clock? How was I to ever smile again? None of it seemed possible.

“Everything’s possible with God,” well-meaning people told me. But their platitudes and looks of pity only pissed me off. They didn’t know what it felt like to be leveled by grief. Though friends encouraged me to find peace through prayer, I did the opposite and gave God the silent treatment. What did I have to say to Him, anyway? I was angry that He had not only taken away my mom but that He had allowed her to exit the earth in such a terrible, tragic way. Having been a Christian all my life, I’ll admit it felt strange to cut Christ from my life, but I didn’t know what else to do. Many days, I found myself curled in the fetal position, sobbing and gasping for air.

Over the next six months, everything was a chore—driving, cooking, reading, even sleeping. Then one night I fell into a deep slumber and was met by a vivid dream that seemed to carry with it a distinct message.
I was at home when suddenly bright blue skies began to darken as a slight breeze tickled the shutters. Instantaneously, the sky transformed into a greenish-black hue. A small hiss followed a rumble, then a booming crash. The ground shook with a sinister force. Giant tree limbs snapped. Heavy shutters broke. Tin mailboxes crumpled. Wooden dog houses cracked. As the wind continued to howl, dirt, debris, and trash swirled through the air like frenzied snowflakes. Fence sections and lawn ornaments crashed through windows and dented car doors.

The scene was chaotic and scary. I glanced out the window, helpless and weak. Then, just as quickly as it built, the storm died out, and the world grew eerily still. I stepped outside to assess the damage and my jaw dropped at the sight of the devastation. Our beautiful house—a house I had always perceived to be strong and indestructible—was now a shell of its former self.

As I walked the perimeter of the house, I saw that it was uprooted from its foundation. It became evident that we wouldn’t have access to power or water anytime soon. It was going to take a lot of time and effort to rebuild this foundation—to start fresh. As a result, we would not be living comfortably for quite some time.

There was a silver lining, however. Despite such extensive damage, we determined that we could stay in the house, which provided a degree of comfort.

I stood in stunned silence, beholding the wreckage that surrounded me. I couldn’t believe the massive devastation that had leveled my life in the blink of an eye. But…I had survived.

For the first time since Mom’s suicide, I woke up with a sense of peace. I knew I would still face challenges and cry countless tears. But I had survived the worst, and though my foundation was shaky, I was still standing. And I could feel God standing beside me.

In the weeks and months ahead, I began surrounding myself with others who needed love and support, and, together, we journeyed through our pain: we shared tears, smiles, and embraces, and we held one another up, day in and day out. I learned that being in a community is perhaps the most important piece of life’s puzzle when it comes to maintaining a healthy existence. I also found that even in the deepest, darkest pit of despair, one can find a sliver of light, a glimmer of hope, a hint of peace. And that is what propels us forward, enabling us to breathe in, breathe out, and carry on.

Adjusting her position on the floor, Hannah told herself, “I have just one choice now. I have to pray to God.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, where she thought there was a heaven, where she thought she might find God. But her mind was unclear about what to do or say next. She didn’t really know how to pray but she hoped, if there was a God, He would hear her wherever she was…wouldn’t He? She didn’t really know much about belief. Religion didn’t play a big part in her family’s life; perhaps this had led her to believe she didn’t need religion or God in her life.

For the past 10 years, she had been living like so many young people of her time, never once contemplating God, religion, or even the difference between right and wrong. She had followed the crowd and her own egotistical desires. Ironically, it was this crooked path that led her to God’s door. She was standing now at a dangerous intersection, 30 years old with no home of her own, no job, pregnant out of wedlock, and trying to make a responsible decision for the life she carried inside.

Growing up, it was clear that her parents had hopes and dreams for all their children to be successful, good people. Her generation had their marching orders: make the family proud. They strove to be the brightest in school, the most talented musicians, and the toughest players on the football field. Her family was well-known in town for owning the biggest house, buying the best clothes, and driving the newest cars.

As a child, she had lived a sheltered, lonely and isolated life. Her playmates were her cousins and siblings. When she grew older, her friends became the most important people in her life. And although she tried, she didn’t fit in with her peers; perhaps the reason was because she didn’t belong to a community of faithful believers, or perhaps because her skin was a shade too dark. Being different had impacted her identity negatively. Despite all the love her family had shared, she was unhappy with herself. Hannah couldn’t wait to get away from that town, that family, and the unanswered questions about why she didn’t fit in.

Hannah’s life changed drastically after she went to college. There, she was free. What she did with her newfound freedom was not inhibited by her skin color, her parents, or by any relationship with God. She cared nothing about what God thought of her, and only about what people thought of her. Her sole ambition was to appear liberated from any sense of guilt or shame, even after wronging herself or another.

After college, her parents expected her to move back home, but Hannah refused. By then, her taste for freedom had become as precious as gold, and she couldn’t imagine losing even one piece of it. So, with her parents’ reluctant support, she moved to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a rich and famous songwriter and singer.

After seven years, and some success in the music business, she returned home—secretly pregnant. Deeply disappointed by her mistakes and the dissatisfying path she had chosen, Hannah sought shelter in her mother’s home, until she could figure out what to do next. In her room, Hannah prepared to pray, closing her eyes and fearing God. Praying was something she hadn’t done since she was an innocent child. She wondered,“Will God listen to me? But then, why should He?”

Hannah struggled to find the right words, to move beyond her fears and doubts. How could she ask for something from someone she hardly knew or trusted? Finally, she managed to speak: “God, I am unworthy; too unworthy to ask for your help.”

With her head bowed, Hannah began to sob, “But I’m in trouble. You have to help me…I have nowhere to turn, no one else to ask. Oh, dear God. Please help me…”

In tears, and feeling her prayer was futile, Hannah was about to give up, when she was struck by a clear, cold reality: God was her only Helper. This truism awakened a longing deep inside of her. She kept pushing, praying, putting aside her pride, and then, she began to beg: “Oh, my God, I’m going to do the most impossible thing. But You…You have to help me, because without Your help, I couldn’t do it…”

She heard her own voice, crying out, asking for a change in her life. Like the Israelites, who had cried out to God from the depths of their souls to be released from slavery. God answered their cry and gave them Moses.

Praying was evidence of a change taking place within Hannah. But she had to wonder, was it really enough, if absolutely nothing about her situation had changed? She had no plan of action, no partner, no place to live, no money, and no job; and yet, she now believed that everything in the universe could change by God’s will:

“…Truly, never will God change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves…”

Hannah began to think of other changes she could make to her life, asking herself for the first time: “Could I change my way of life? Would God guide me if I asked to be guided?”

When she finished crying and praying, and opened her eyes, Hannah felt better. She had an inexplicable sense of peace, and felt confident about her sudden decisiveness. She passed her hands over her face, still wet with her tears and whispered into the air: “I’m going to have this baby and God is going to help me.”

From that day forward, Hannah’s awareness of and deep need for God would determine all her choices. For Hannah, it was the beginning of a renewed relationship with God, a way for her to learn how to trust in God. Some call it “a leap of faith.” But years later, Hannah would describe the experience in her room as the day she surrendered to God. She experienced the true meaning of faith that day; the moment of her surrender came when she realized with her whole heart that she had only One True Helper.

Tears dried and spirits surprisingly high, Hannah left her room and headed downstairs to the pantry. Starving, she held a salty pickled turnip in one hand and a sweet piece of baklava in the other, when her mother came upon her and asked innocently,“What are you doing, Hannah? Why are you eating both of those at once? You’re going to get sick!”

When she saw the love and concern on her mother’s face, and thought about the gift from God growing inside her body, Hannah was overcome by a profound sense of gratitude, and the vision of a new life, with God as her guide.

“Say, ‘Come, I will rehearse what God has really prohibited you from: Join not anything as equal with Him; be good to your parents; kill not your children on a plea of want.’ We provide sustenance for you and for them…come not near to shameful deeds, whether open or in secret. Take not life, which God has made sacred, except by way of justice and law. Thus does He command you that you may learn wisdom.” (Qur’an 6:151)

Afterword: Hannah and her child never experienced a single day of want. Today, her son is 28 years old and has far exceeded the hopes and dreams a mother could have for a child. She often refers to him as the “jewel in her crown.” And each fall she makes him his favorite dish, salty pickled turnips.

They took their muddy shoes and heavy coats off. Dad, looking very sad, sat down on the sofa while my mom whispered something quickly to my sister before vanishing to her bedroom. I could only catch some ominous words like, “…dead…. wake…. we got to go.” My sister did not ask any questions. In no time, Mom came out of her room dressed in black, kissed me on the cheeks, and left. Dad, who up to that moment had been silently gazing at the brown carpet, robotically stood up and followed her. On his way out, he reminded my sister to lock the door.

My sister turned the key twice as if the Big Bad Wolf might knock on the door in a minute. Then she turned off the TV-custom dictates that there is no music or laughter in a mourning house. We sat there looking at each other in silence. My sister looked pitiful, so I gave her some time to digest whatever Mom had whispered to her. Meanwhile, I started to decode what my little radar had caught.

Someone is dead-no doubt about it. Since the news was given sotto voce, it had to have been a shameful death like committing suicide or being shot while stealing. Or, God forbid, it might be an awful death like being crushed by a train or chopped to pieces by a revenge murderer. Since my parents were grieving, it probably involved somebody significant to us. Could it be one of their coworkers? A relative? At this point I grew so anxious I knew I would explode if I did not ask. “Who is dead?” I asked in a trembling voice. “Dad’s stepmother,” my sister answered matter-of-factly.

The answer took me by surprise because I did not know Dad had a stepmother. I knew he had lost his mother suddenly at age six and had lost his father ten years later. I sensed a mystery concealed before me and I could have sworn my sister knew more. The question was how I could fish out the secrets my sister’s heart held so faithfully.

My sister, an ordinary eighteen-year-old, was nice to me most of the time except when I asked too many questions and messed up her drawers. She would never repeat what she knew about her friends and acquaintances, so at times I felt my sister was a mysterious person and I imagined her heart was full of secrets.

“Dad’s stepmother?” I repeated it in my mind over and over trying to define what it meant to me. I knew of only one stepmother, a pretty infamous one for that matter: Snow White’s stepmother. She was mean and cruel. Some people would rejoice at such a person’s death. Yet, everybody was sad. I made up my mind to go ahead and ask my sister no matter what the consequences. My assumptions were taking me nowhere. “Where did she live?” I asked, expecting to be hushed. “In our town,” my sister answered. “Is she nice?” I asked, then corrected myself. “I mean, was she nice?” My sister nodded. Seeing her handle my interrogation calmly, I was encouraged to ask more. Mercifully, my sister spared me all the sweating by revealing the story on her own.

“Dad was six years old when his mother died. Grandpa married again right away so that somebody would take care of his little boy. He chose to marry a close relative of his first wife. Apparently, everybody was surprised that an attractive man with a high standard of education married someone so plain and uneducated. But I guess he only cared that a relative of Grandma would treat his son nicely. He had three more children with his second wife, two girls and a boy.”

I stood there all ears, almost forgetting to breathe, listening to this astonishing revelation. Not only had I a step-grandmother, but a step-uncle and two step-aunts as well. I forced myself to stop wondering and focus on my sister, who, after taking a deep breath, went on:

“Grandfather was right. She took care of Dad so well that she didn’t make any difference between her own children and him. She continued to be good to him even after Grandfather died ten years later. She never remarried. She worked hard to make ends meet, and Dad, because he was the eldest child, helped by dropping out of high school to work full time. That was when he took evening courses and learned to be an electrical repairman.

“At twenty-six, Dad married Mom. I heard that his stepmother loved Mom and boasted to her neighbors about what a fine lady her son had married. In the beginning, everything was fine and they all lived happily together in the same house. After a while, Dad started to give less and less to the family budget and spent more and more from his pay on gifts and movie theater tickets. Mom and Dad used to like to go to the movies every week in those days.

“One night Dad’s stepmother apparently complained. She reminded Dad that she was having a hard time paying the bills. Dad accused her of being interfering and jealous of his love for his wife. His stepmother must have felt humiliated because she vowed that unless he apologized and changed his ways, she wouldn’t speak to him again. Dad insisted he had done no wrong and saw no reason to apologize. Both of them must have gone to bed feeling sore and angry at each other.

The next day, when his stepmother came home from work, most likely hoping that the new day might have helped him to see things in their true color, she found that Dad and Mom had packed up their stuff and moved out. She must have felt betrayed. The sting in her heart, I reckon, made her swear an oath that she never broke. She sent word to Dad telling him that from now on she would have nothing to do with him and warned him never to come back.” My sister stopped her narration and it felt as if time had stopped, too.

“This is too awful to be true,” I mumbled in disbelief. “Did they ever speak again?” I asked, hoping against hope. My sister shook her head. “Neither she nor her children ever spoke to our parents.” My sister continued, “They saw each other almost every day on the street, in the shops, at the stadium, at the hospital, at the post office, you name it. But they changed paths or ignored each other.” She shook her head. “Pride is such a terrible thing sometimes,” she concluded, and I could not have agreed more.

“You know, you met her once!” My sister startled me with this exciting remark. “I did? When? Where?” I impatiently looked into her eyes. “Remember the day when you hurt your knee in the park and when we were on our way back home, and you were limping, two old ladies stopped us in the middle of the road?”

“Yes, I remember,” I interrupted her. Although it had happened almost five years ago I recalled the incident clearly because that peculiar encounter had made quite an impression on me. The intensity with which one of the old ladies looked at me, the way my sister looked around as if she did not want to get caught doing something wrong, had naturally not escaped my curious eye.

“I remember, one of the old ladies kissed you on the cheeks. Then she looked at me and asked her friend, ‘Is this his youngest daughter?’ Her friend said yes and then the first lady hugged me, wiped tears from my face with a tissue, and gave me two candies. Then you pulled me away. You said we were late and our parents would be worried. I followed you but I was looking behind, waving back at the nice lady because she made me feel so special. Later, when I kept asking you who she was, you hushed me. You were angry and sorry at the same time. I even saw you wiping your eyes. I thought you were crying because she didn’t give you any candies.”

“No, silly,” my sister tried to laugh, though I sensed that the same mood of anger and sorrow had overtaken her. “I was crying,” she explained, “for all the things we missed. Every day I came home from school with our neighbor’s son, passing by their door, stopping by just to breathe in the wonderful smell of baking bread and to envy the big smile of his grandmother, knowing quite well that a cold and empty home was waiting for me to turn the key. I was angry with Dad because his pride was depriving us of a God-given right-the wonderful presence of a grandmother. Why did everyone in town just stand by and watch this tragedy? Everyone was pretending to mind their business. No one had the courage to intervene and bring it to an end.”

My sister started crying and I felt pity for us my eyes watered too. Who knows what beautiful bedtime stories she might have known, who knows what delicious meals she could have prepared, and whether she would have had the ear to listen to me-the ear my mom, who worked full time, never had.

“But why did she kiss me twice and give me two candies?” I asked, almost to myself, fearing that my sister would reprimand me for such a stupid question. “She…,” my sister sniffed trying to collect her voice, ”she worked in the only day care our town had. So she practically took care of me and our big sister and big brother as a part of her job for four whole years each. When you were born she had retired. I guess she was sad that she never got to hold you as a baby.” I could hold the tears no longer. Her soft kiss on my cheeks and her compassionate, intense look lingered in my mind. She would have made a wonderful grandmother.

The doorbell startled us, and we hurried to open the door, wiping the tears on our way. Surprisingly, my parents had returned in much worse shape than they had left. Usually close relatives of the deceased stay at the wake until dawn. My parents had been gone for barely an hour. This time Dad, soaked to the bone with rain, his face swollen red from crying, went straight to their room. Mother looked distressed too. She sat on the coach and took several deep breaths.

“What happened?” asked my sister when she realized that Mom was not going to tell us without prompting. “We were not wanted there,” Mom managed to say before she broke down in tears. I shivered as I imagined someone yelling at my parents, “Get out of here!”

“Who told you that?” my sister demanded.

“Her son,” Mom said. I could not help but note that “her son” would have been our uncle, had all this not happened.

“He shoved us out,” Mom continued, sniffing. “He told us that it’s useless to honor the dead when we had shown her no respect in her lifetime.” That made sense to me as much as I wished it did not.

“What did Dad do?” asked my sister. I was becoming annoyed with Ms. Detective. I was afraid of what was coming next. “What could he do?” Mom took a deep breath. “Your Dad stood there speechless for a few minutes. He couldn’t confront his stepbrother. No one at the wake came to his defense, so we left the house in humiliation. He wept all the way home,” Mom said breaking into tears again.

A deep sadness flooded my heart as I realized that our step-grandmother had taken with her to the grave any chance of reconciliation and that I would never come to meet my uncles and aunts. I left Mom to my sister’s questioning and went to check on my dad. The door of their room was ajar. He was sitting on the bed, his back bent, his gaze fixed on the floor. I wished I could read his mind, but more than anything I wished I could console him. But how could I?

There sat my dad, a middle-aged man, proud father of a son and three daughters. There sat my dad, a diligent follower of politics who never missed the evening news in the election season. There sat my dad, a faithful patron of the coffee shop, and a big fan of soccer who could never get enough of the Brazil team at the World Cup. There sat a man sobbing like a child with his head between his palms. I wondered if he felt like a loser. For some unknown reason I could not side with him, although my heart was breaking with pity. And suddenly, I realized that I had spent the whole afternoon utterly fascinated by my sister’s account of my parents’ sins. Immediately, I felt sick and afraid. Did disloyalty flow in our veins? Was that to be the inheritance in our family?

Right at that moment Dad raised his head and looked at me with an expression pleading for something neither I nor anybody else breathing on earth could grant him: forgiveness. Avoiding my reproachful look, he raised his fists and started hitting his graying temples, shouting painfully to himself, “Ungrateful, Ungrateful!”

I could not stand watching him any longer. I backed out and closed the door. And at every rapid beat of my heart I prayed to God to have mercy on us all for what we had done to our parents and to show us a way of atonement.

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

Some mothers are silent, indistinct, and unknown but nevertheless undertake the highly sensitive and difficult task of raising children, who resemble roses and fine plants; others sacrifice so much that even their portrayals in legends and main characters is novels cannot do them justice.

Earth is a mother to seeds and a spring to a waterfall, just as Eve is mother to humanity, the Virgin Mary to a Spirit, and Amina is a mother to reality, creation’s secret, and the essence of secrets (Prophet Muhammad).

There are mothers who are good and those who are not so good. People gladly sacrifice their lives for good mothers, and stay silent for those who could not make their children happy or were not made happy by their children.

Mothers and their children are two spirits in one body. Children are a piece of their mother’s body, a heartbreaking lover in their laps, a crawling baby at the beginning, and later on a brazier that burns the bosom, a spear in the heart with endless separations.Each developmental period and educational experience makes a mother’s hearts jump with fear. She weeps when her precious one starts school, goes to college, joins the service, and gets married. Yes, she always cries and extends her love like an incense burner extends its scent throughout one’s house. Sometimes she is consoled; sometimes she bursts into tears.

Don’t cry anymore, Mother, for the clouds formed by your tears are coming to give you peace of mind, and all of us are trying to ease your sorrow and pain.

Together with Abu Jafar al-Mansur and Ma’mun, Harun al-Rashid was one of the most celebrated rulers of the ‘Abbasids. He ruled over a very vast land stretching from Morocco to China and from Abyssinia to the Caucuses. Although he was not as famous for justice and piety as Mahdi, he was also a just and upright man.

Once he visited the renowned scholars and saints among the people one by one. Dissatisfied with the advice and manners of welcome he received from some of the scholars, he finally knocked at the door of Fudayl ibn ‘Iyad.

Fudayl had lived on plundering. Since he had a powerful gang and himself was very good at fighting, travellers had been much afraid of him. However, he had later repented of what he had been doing and become a much renowned saint of the time.

Fudayl opened his door to the Caliph and without inviting him in, warned him severely. He reminded him of the Day of Judgement and gave him other advice. When one of the men escorting the Caliph attempted to stop Fudayl, the latter reprimanded him, saying: ‘It is you and those like you who seduce the rulers. You do whatever they wish and agree with whatever they order and decree.’ Harun al-Rashid was greatly moved by Fudayl’s warnings and wept for a long time.

Harun al-Rashid was once doing Hajj (pilgrimage) when a man from amongst the crowd called him, saying: ‘O Commander of the Believers! Would you please listen me for a short while? The man was ‘Abdullah a grandson of ‘Umar Bin ‘Abd al-‘Aziz. The Caliph took him aside and the following exchange ensued between them:

– O Commander of the Believers! How many people do you guess there are here doing pilgrimage?

– So many as only God knows their number.

– Now, beware O Commander of the Believers! All of those who are shedding tears are doing so out of the fear that they may be unable to account in the Hereafter, each for his own deeds. However, you will be called to account for both your own self and all of those people.

This led the Caliph to think deeply for a while. Then he requested the pious scholar to continue. The scholar added:

– By God, O Commander of the Believers! If a man neglects to do his own duty and wastes his own property, the Almighty will punish him. But, have you ever thought what will happen to him if he, as a ruler of innumerable people, neglects to do his duties with respect to the peopie and wastes public property?

This time the Caliph could not help but weep heartfelt tears.

expressing joy and grief, hope and despair.

When consumed with pangs of separation, melting like candle,

man breathes in tears and speaks in tears.

A time comes when man rejoices child-like with tears of joy,

as he sees dawn begin to break all over the world.

At another time he burns with inward sorrow, like a furnace,

when his horizons are clouded over with grief.

Tears are water of life putting out fires,

A membrane protective against the fire of Hell.

By tears ideals find their realization in the outer world;

by tears the arid world changes into gardens.

An eye sincerely tearful is like an eye vigilant at the front.

Eyes shedding tears for god’s sake do not see Hellfire.

The shedding of tears sounds the depths of desire.

Only they perceive this who sense god inwardly.

I am always gloomy with sorrowful tidings;

My loved ones are ‘flying away’ one after another.

My feelings are hurt, my eyes filled with tears,

Springs come only to terminate in autumn!

Life means hardship, and when you reach fifty-five,

desires are no more; ambitions fall like yellow leaves;

limbs and organs become enfeebled for the unknown end,

and you feel the last stop is only a little way ahead.

On the horizon is either blood or an eternal light,

towards which believing souls walk without pausing;

whatever is promised-happy or unhappy-will be revealed:

some faces pitch-dark, and others bright with joy.

I am utterly at a loss, my head between my hands,

for fear that my flowers of hope should be frost-bitten;

I do not know how near I am to the final end,

but feel my spirit whispering to the Angel of Death.

We are, all together, on a way surrendered

to the music of eternity, with our spirits

like butterflies flying upward to eternity,

and yielding to the most pleasant of declines.

The spirit, like a flute, weeps bitterly a whole lifetime;

neither its exile nor period of vanishing comes to an end….

It travels ceaselessly in crazy pursuit of Him, with eyes

strained by sorrows of separation and a heart beating fast.

***

Shed tears, O eyes, so that the sun may rise and set

over the streams formed of the tears you let fall!

Weep so that ‘Niles’ may flow in valleys, and fires enveloping Abraham

may be put out, and spells broken with the Staff of truth!

Weep so that the mountain said to surround the world may sunder

and water of life gush therefrom, and the dead be revived;

Weep so that the chains around the will may be broken,

and the cavalry of dawn come galloping one after the other!