Aminah Assilmi passed away on March 5, 2010. She was the director of the International Union of Muslim Women, an internationally respected author, an advocate for women’s rights, and a renowned speaker on Islam who educated Muslim and non-Muslim audiences alike. To Allah we belong and to Him we shall return.

For those of us who grew up in the nineties, her presence will be remembered and dearly missed. May Allah (swt) forgive her, shower His mercy on her, and grant her the highest level of Paradise.

Read some excerpts of her biography below. You can read her complete story here.

“That was enough for her. She came back home and decided not to go back to the class anymore. It was not possible for her to be in the middle of Arabs. “There was no way I was going to sit in a room full of dirty heathens!” Her husband was calm as usual. He pointed out to her that God has a reason for everything and that she should think about more before quitting. Besides, there was the scholarship that was paying her tuition. She went behind locked doors for 2 days to think about. When she came out, she decided to continue the class. She felt that God gave her a task to convert the Arabs into Christianity…

“…At her request, one student gave her a copy of the Qur’an and another book on Islam. With these two books she started on her research, which she was to continue for the next one and half years. She read the Qur’an fully and another fifteen books on Islam. Then she came back to the Qur’an and re-read it. During her research, she started taking notes that she found objectionable and which she would be able to use to prove that Islam was a false religion. Unconsciously, however, she was changing from within…”

“…But the difficulty that Aminah Assilimi had to go through and the sacrifice that she had to make for the sake of her conviction and faith is almost unheard of. There are few who could rely so much on Allah as she did, standing firm and meeting the challenges, making sacrifices, and yet maintaining a positive posture and influencing people around with the beauty of what she found and believed in. She lost most of her friends, for she was “no fun anymore”. Her mother did not accept her becoming a Muslim and hoped that it was a temporary zeal and that she would soon grow out of it. Her sister thought that she lost her mind. She attempted to put her in a mental health institution. Her father was a calm and wise man. People would come to him for advice and he could comfort anyone in distress. But when he heard that his daughter became a Muslim, he loaded his double-barrel shotgun and started on his way to kill her. “It is better that she be dead rather than suffering in the deepest of Hell”, he said. She was now without friends and without family…”

“…After she openly accepted Islam, it became worse. A divorce was now inevitable. This was a time when Islam was little known, much less understood for what it is. She had two little children whom she loved dearly and whose custody should have rightfully be given to her. But in a grave violation of justice, she was denied their custody just because she became a Muslim. Before giving the formal verdict, the judge offered her a harsh choice: either renounce Islam and get custody of the children, or keep Islam and leave the children. She was given 20 minutes to make a decision…”

“…By accepting Islam, she became a changed person, and a much better person. So much so that her family, relatives, and people around her started appreciating her mannerism and the faith that brought about such changes in her. Despite her family’s initial reaction, she remained in touch with them and addressed them with respect and humility, just as the Qur’an enjoins the Muslims to do. She would send cards to her parents on different occasions, but she would always write down a verse from the Qur’an or the Hadith without mentioning the source of such beautiful words of wisdom. It was not long before she started making a positive influence among her family members…”

Read the entire story here.

Approaching 40 years old, I contemplate this new age dawning and wonder why is it important to me?  Why do I care?  No other decade did I think I was sitting on the brink of significance. Maybe it’s because my mom told me that it was in her forties that she really “came into myself”.  I think about umme too.  My mom and my umme (dh’s mama) are the same age. And although they walked completely different paths on opposite continents, they share many similarities.  I find it funny how sometimes when things are so different, they become the same, having the same effect.  Mom and my Umme- one I’ve known my whole life, the other just recently. Both of them re-define and inspire my definition of woman and believer.  And then there’s my dear sister (ds), who was my age. The death of my ds, half way around the world, affected me in ways I can not even articulate. But there are two things in particular . . .

The first is umme coming to live with us and caring for her. Umme has Alzheimer’s disease and it is progressive with complete memory loss and the physical and mental inability to manage even the simplest of tasks that we take for granted.  Umme’s bedridden.  Although she doesn’t have her faculties about her, I believe we have established a strong, personal relationship.  I didn’t really get to know Umme before Alzheimer’s took hold of her. but I like to think we would have been much like we are now, inseparable.  I catch myself speaking about umme as if I’ve known her my whole life, like the way a daughter knows her mama, that mystical connection.  Sometimes it makes me feel ashamed, like I don’t have the right to claim that sacred privilege on her behalf.  I believe umme speaks to me with her eyes.  Although umme has chronic pain, she manages to get a smile out (of herself and me) in the most challenging and difficult situations.  Ma’sha Allah, what a strong, amazing woman.  Umme’s slate has been wiped clean.  I look at her and I see perfection.  She is innocent.  Subhan Allah.  My umme has brought more hassanat to me than I could ever imagine.  Her presence has forever changed me and how I view things.

I also reflect on the morning we got the call. I remember my ds’s husband and the one thing that I re-play in my mind is when I joined him.  He was sitting outside on the grass with our immediate family.  My ds’s death just news to us but maybe an hour or so.  I see him reading Quran.  Oh, it was so quiet.  So so quiet. He breaks the silence and I recognize he’s reciting Surat Al ikhlas, as it’s only one of few surahs I know.  His recitation is clear, confidant and painfully beautiful. Everyone joins in. Over and over again, they recite this surah.  In all my life, I’ve never witnessed anything quite like that. With ds’s husband leading, I see my dh, my brother in law, ds’s daughter, ds’s son reciting.  Amidst all the chaos in my heart and overcome by His Absolute Existence, I exhale and allow the calm wash over me.  Allah’s words envelope me, shielding and protecting me from myself- my own agony.  Allah saves me.  I fail and He continues to rescue me. I am so grateful that He is without beginning or end, unlimited to human restraints and constraints.  I am so grateful that He anchors this vast universe for me, that He is All Knowing, and I’m not left to my own devices.  From my new muslim’s perpective, I feel so validated.  All those years, pre-shahada, of pondering and theorizing, and thinking to myself, really, what is this façade I call life?  I have said it a million times but each time it’s like anew- so awesome, so real, so unique, so incomparable. . . He is Allah, the One and Only. He is Allah, the One and Only. He is Allah, the One and Only.

Say: He is Allah

The One and Only

Allah, the Eternal, Absolute

He begetteth not,

Nor is He begotten,

And there is none

Like unto Him.

Kelly Taira
Kelly Taira (Suliman) lives in Maryland, with her husband, five daughters and imaginary friends. Kelly loves things that inspire Allah’s love, homeschooling, and staring at her baby’s perfect toes.

Around strangers, teachers, and acquaintances, my four and a half year old daughter is almost completely mute. Her fingers crammed in her mouth and her sullen eyes downcast, her pediatrician asked me if she was, “a little infantile, no?”

The comment was annoying, but it did not trouble me. I know that my girl is exuberant and brazen around people she is comfortable with, which include a wide circle of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. She throws her head back and laughs like a kookaburra at the slightest thing, up and down, up and down, until tears run down her cheeks and she is gasping for breath.

But the shyness does touch a sensitive point in me. I don’t want my children to lose out on the enriching and confidence-building interactions with other adults, especially people we run into everyday like the friendly librarian, the fireman who offers to show her where they stow the hose, the pediatrician who asks what her favorite color is, and the naturalist who gives her an owl feather. I was painfully shy and awkward all my life, hiding behind books and my mother’s skirt. People assume it was because I was homeschooled, but I doubt it, since I had quite my fair share of school too. I wonder if she gets it from me. Certainly, I want to embrace my children for who they are. If my daughter is naturally shy, then I would not want to push her to be something else, but rather work with that quality and make it one of her strengths. But I also want to give her opportunities to develop the ease around people that I never had.

At karate lessons, she is the new kid in class. The teacher asks her name, and she sucks her fingers and stares. Sitting on the bleachers, I decide not to save her this time and let my daughter to be called “little lady” for the rest of the class. I suggest gently afterwards, “Let’s go up to the teacher and tell her your name, OK?” She nods eagerly, revved up, since she likes the teacher a lot.

“Excuse me, my daughter wants to tell you her name.” And suddenly, I am left in the lurch while my little girl looks as if she swallowed a frog, staring at the teacher. After at least fifteen seconds and quite a bit of nudging, I fill in for her, embarrassed.

Another evening at home, we practice asking the librarian for tickets for the storytime. The children love role-playing, and we take turns being the librarian and being the shy little girl. Sometimes, we pretend the librarian mispronounces her name or counts the wrong number of tickets or simply can’t hear very well, and she shrieks with laughter.

When we walk into the library, I stop at the book drop to empty bags filled with dozens of picture books. I let my children go ahead of me, hurrying through the aisles to the children’s desk, where my daughter blurts out, “Excuse me, may I have four tickets please?”

Sometimes, she remembers to say thank you. Other times, she is so proud that she comes bounding back to me, brandishing the hard-won tickets. I don’t know if the librarian knows how hard she had practiced that line. But I do.

Maha Ezzeddine

Maha Ezzeddine lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and three daughters. She is a committed MAS member and worker, part-time writer, mother, and homemaker.

What is it that makes a house our home? Where does comfort, “Gemuetlichkeit”, come from? What are the things that make us feel cozy and warm? What is the secret of creating a soulful, welcoming atmosphere with a lovely spirit in our houses?

I am a real home bird, a homebody that loves to be “chez moi”.
With the (…) cold season and shifting more inside, I am asking myself often questions on how to beautify our own rooms and how to create a surrounding that would please Allah, a house the Prophet (sws) would feel comfortable in and a home the angels love to enter.

During my university years, while studying interior architecture, I learned a lot about forms and function, about building techniques, about shape and “good design”.  But we never really discussed the question of what gives the home a heart.

I don’t think it’s the furniture or the size and the shape of the rooms that make a home – I really believe that it’s the little personal stuff, materials that resonate with our souls, things that mirror our personality, our dreams, our values, our mood:  a garden flower, a children’s drawing, a handmade pillow or a piece of wood from the seashore; a lightened candle, some old family treasures, a piece of jewelry, the afternoon sun falling into a window; a pile of books, little pebbles or a beautiful leaf from the woods, a weaved basket or a wooden toy…

I think it’s imperfection that gives our homes a lively lovely spirit; it’s the things we’ve put our love and heart in, things that tell tales about our daily life.

I am not talking about expensive art paintings, about senseless magazine-like artificial decoration, nor about over loaded spaces – I am talking about gathered pieces of beauty, about inherited goods and crafted things, about things that remind us about our outside adventures and the blessings given by Allah.

“A real home is a place that nurtures us on every level… a home with a heart embraces us when we walk through the door; we can almost feel it wrap its healing around us…” (Jane Alexander in “Spirit of the Home”).

So how can we improve a good and healthy spirit in our houses? How can we make the home a real mirror of our selves, of our dreams and our personality?

I think sometimes we have to take time to ask ourselves what message our rooms send out, what vibration they give. And we have to check out if being at home nourishes our soul and makes us really feel good.

Sometimes we have to de-clutter the rooms, we have to clean and tidy up and rearrange some things: to give hidden or forgotten corners a new purpose, to redecorate some places and to purify everything from Djinn and negative energies by letting in some fresh air, by playing some qur’anic recitation, by spraying out some natural fragrances, by displaying some beautiful calligraphy or landscape photography, by creating a little corner for devotion, filled with Islamic literature and a nice prayer mat and by cherishing Allah’s blessings by putting around some seasonal pieces brought in from nature.

And last but not least: we should always enter the house with a blissful “salamou alaikoum – may peace be with you!”

By doing so we may feel an uplifting move in ourselves, we may feel free in our mind and renewed, full of life and new power – and eventually the surroundings become a home that nourishes our family, that warmly welcomes visitors, that radiates with a joyful “charisma” and a faithful soul and that incha’allah really becomes an oasis of peace and happiness, just as Allah promises us in His Holy Book: “And Allah has made in your homes an abode of comfort…” (Qur’an Sura An-Nahl, 16,80).

What do you feel comfortable with and what means “home” to you?

Itto
Itto is a German Muslim woman living in Morocco, a (re-)convert to Islam, a servant to Allah and the wife of a Berber-man. She is an interior architect but now (by choice) is a fulltime mother of three little kids. This post has been reprinted with permission from her blog….Itto’s Living Faith

I recently came across an elementary student’s written reflections on how to improve her behavior. She wrote something to the effect: “I think I can improve my behavior by having more taqwa. When I have taqwa, I feel that Allah (SWT) is watching me. I also remember that my classmates are my brothers and sisters…”

Allah is watching me. It sounds like a title of a children’s theme song. However, we as adults certainly need to be reminded of this. In the end, our actions, big or small, done publicly or privately, will be judged. I decided to ask more young students what they understood from the word “taqwa” and this is what I got:

Our words will be judged. Our actions will be judged. Our decisions will be judged. Every single little thing we say or do will be judged, for we cannot hide anything from Allah (SWT). He tells us so many times in the Quran to have taqwa. When we have taqwa, we do not make a single act or say a single word until we are sure that it will not displease Allah (SWT). Having taqwa is an important attribute for us, as Muslims, in this world. By having taqwa, we not only become better people, but we begin to lead by example and spread Islam throughout the world.

These days, there are so many negative stereotypes, and the best way to shatter these stereotypes and show the world that Muslims are really not bad people is to have taqwa, because taqwa is, essentially, the remembrance of Allah (SWT)’s instructions and the obedience of these instructions. Allah (SWT) tells us in the Quran not only to have taqwa, but to do good deeds, to care for our neighbors, to donate to the poor, and more. Go into the city one day with a few of your friends and display some taqwa: donate to the poor and the needy begging for money in the street, and donate generously… Not only is this showing taqwa but we also are spreading Islam and performing da’wa.

Taqwa. It’s a big topic. We are taught to look for it as the most important attribute in a spouse. I remember my mother saying something to the effect, “If he has taqwa, he will take care of you.”

But how does one build and nurture one’s taqwa? Is it a sort of magical feeling that comes with testifying one’s faith as a Muslim? We need to work at developing taqwa. There are always temptations; we can fall vulnerable and be weak. Making dhikr, keeping up with our salat, reading Qur’an and making du’aa … these all cultivate taqwa. If we start to slip in these areas, we start falling and our taqwa suffers.

I remember being at a Muslim youth conference so many years ago where a participant addressing the topic of “imaan” presented the analogy of the wheelbarrow. We have moments when we push that wheelbarrow up that hill and sometimes we slip and the wheelbarrow slides down. It’s not magic. We have to work at pushing that wheelbarrow up. Getting help to push that wheelbarrow up is nothing to be ashamed of either. Sowing the seeds of taqwa is hard work and we can’t always do it alone.

Mayce Ibraheem
Mayce Ibraheem lives in Ontario, Canada with her husband and two sons.

I was always a smart student, in a sense. I could get A’s barely studying and figure out how to write the essay that would impress the instructor but take minimal effort from me. I knew all the shortcuts that would keep schoolwork down to a minimum, freeing up time for my real interests.

For a time, as a mother, I looked for the perfect formula that would produce the best results in my children while taking minimal effort from me. I imagined that my house would run like clockwork, everything would get done, my interests would be fulfilled, and my children would be angels, if I just got the equation right. I looked at what mothers before me had done right, what they wished they could change, poured over parenting books and theories, kept looking for the best parenting techniques. And today, fifty books, three kids, and two cluttered houses later, I still am, in some ways, looking for a shortcut.

Again and again, I find myself at the same dead end, with the truth that parenting is less of a science than an art, and less of an art than toiling in the hot, dry soil hoping that something will grow. Motherhood is a pragmatic skill. It is not a masterpiece, a product of inspiration, but a slow methodical process, similar perhaps to weaving. While the colors and technique in a woven fabric are important, it is the continual, patient up-down, in-out weaving of the threads that creates the finished work.

There are no shortcuts in parenting. I can be the best parent in theory, but it is the day-to-day mindfulness, patience, and attention that helps a child grow, not the brilliant parenting techniques. To a mother who applies herself, the parenting techniques will bring power and purpose to her ability to influence and nurture her children. To a flaky parent, they won’t be of much help.

I am beginning to realize that it does not matter so much what I do as a mom, as long as I have the right perspective and basic values down. What matters more is how hard I work at it, how much I reflect on my own self, how in synch I am with my children’s needs, and how much time I spend in thoughtful engagement as opposed to reaction mode.

I am suddenly filled with respect for our mothers and all the mothers of the previous generation. Although we can point to the things we will do differently, one thing they had down right was the effort and striving they put into their children. That effort, not a shortcut or a mindset, is what has made the greatest mothers.

Maha Ezzeddine

Maha Ezzeddine lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and three daughters. She is a dedicated MAS worker, part-time writer, and creative homemaker.

It started out when she smiled at me, so thankfully.  It made me feel bad.  Why was I so begrudging of this empty spot next to me?  Why was I being so greedy with something that didn’t belong to me.  Why couldn’t I just smile, graciously, when she asked me if there was any space next to me for her and her friend to pray in.  Instead, I shook my head vigorously and mouthed, “No,” and made the sign for ‘one person’ with my hand.  Only one of you can come.  And that, without a smile.

I was standing in the Haram, in the Holy Mosque, in Makkah.  I was there for my first Hajj, and my days were filled with love and worship.  And yet, I had learned to fight for my spot when it was time for prayer.  And that first day in Makkah, on the third floor, three rows back from the balcony overlooking the Ka’ba and the crowds, I was in bliss.  But when I stood up to pray, I could only begrudgingly scoot over and make room for a sister. What scrooges we humans are.

A couple of days later, the crowds had swelled in Makkah, as more and more hujjaj arrived from Madina and from all over the world.  I was continually being reminded by my sheikh to be patient, to flow with the crowd, to remember that I would be tested to my breaking point, and yet I must stand patient.  And so I learned not to fight the crowds when one million of us were walking in every direction trying to get in for prayer.  And I learned to let the crowd move me when prayers were over and we needed to head back to our hotel for sleep or food.  And I learned to appreciate that most people around me were moving with the flow; weren’t fighting it.

And then we tried to make it in for Maghrib prayer a couple of nights before Arafat.  We were determined that within these 45 minutes, we’d make it in and not be praying outside our hotel lobby or in the streets in front of the Haram.  We struggled and walked and slipped through, but the only place that we could make it into was the basement of the Haram.

It was just minutes before Iqama as we looked around for a spot.  There were no spots.  But if people just moved around a little, scooted their bodies over, I’d definitely make it in.  So I headed for a relatively spacious line and asked a few women, in sign language, if I could pray next to them.  ‘No,’ they vigorously shook their heads.  I signed, ‘Just move over a few inches and I’ll be ok. ‘  Again, ‘No.  No room.’

I wasn’t going to fight about it, so again, I started scanning the crowds for another possible line.  But right then, a big, matronly woman from Mali, sitting right next to these women who had refused to move over for me, spoke to me.  She waved her hands, ‘Come over here, there’s space.’  And she scooted her self over and helped force me into that space.  She then took my shoe bag from me and put it in front of her.  I was unbelievably grateful to her.  I was so thankful.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  It felt so good to have this stranger save me from my wandering over outstretched legs and crowded spaces.  And she had done it so graciously, with a smile, without me even asking her.

May Allah reward her.  She made my Hajj.  Not because she moved over for me when no one else would, not only because she did it without me asking her, not only because she did it so nicely, but because she taught me a lesson in kindness and generosity.  These are the traits that Allah SWT wants us to have when He teaches us His names of Al Mannan and Al Kareem.  You do good things.  You do them generously, with a smile, with an open heart.  You don’t begrudge your daughter your time when she asks you for the umpteenth time to get her more milk.  You don’t begrudge your sister when you drive her out of your way because she doesn’t have her car.  You don’t hold your friend up for a favor because you baby-sat her daughter.  And you don’t think you are generous because you moved over five inches for your sister to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, in prayer.

You remember His bounty on you for giving you that space, for giving you the ability to give it.  O Allah, You are the Most Generous, the Most Kind.  Give her more than I can ever give her and reward her for teaching me to be kind and generous with what I have.

Fatima Abdallah
Fatima lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and two daughters.  She is currently a full-time mother and part-time youth worker with MAS Youth.

My husband was hospitalized last month with pneumonia. He had gone to work as usual but hadn’t slept well the night before and was feeling really unwell. In spite of my insistence that I call our son-in-law to take him to the hospital (women can’t drive here), he told me that he would go to the university clinic and see a doctor there. When his colleagues saw his condition, they bundled him into a car and took him straight to the university hospital.

There had been a disastrous and unprecedented flood three days previously, and no one was completely aware of the extent of the devastation. The university hospital was closed because the lower floors were flooded and none of the machinery was working. Although both he and I (he as a staff member of the university and I as his dependant) are guaranteed free care at the university hospital, that was no longer possible. His friends took him to what may be the best private hospital in the city and no one was thinking about cost at that time. We have no health insurance at all because of the university hospital guarantee.

Days passed with my husband in critical condition, and my daughter briefly mentioned the possibility of transferring to another, less expensive, hospital, but that was out of the question. We stayed there and prayed for his full recovery and watched over him like hawks. Paying the hospital bills was the furthest thing from our minds.

There was a steady stream of visitors. My husband’s students were coming, sometimes six at a time, and colleagues and friends were coming every day. Some colleagues came not just every day but often twice a day. Not one visitor came empty-handed, and the room became so full of flowers and candy and dates and potted plants that my daughter and I had to bring some of them home in order to clear spaces for hospital equipment.

Masha Allah, these visitors were so generous with their time and gifts, as if they had nothing else in the world to do except sit with my husband and pray for him and entertain him and shop for the best dates and chocolates and flowers for him. Some of the men were working on flood-damage cleanup and came to the hospital after 18-hour workdays. Jazahum Allah khairan katheeran. May Allah give them the best of rewards.

Finally, after eleven days in the hospital, my husband was well enough to be discharged, alhamdulillah, although he could barely take a few steps without sitting down and was eating only applesauce and watery oatmeal. He had lost more than 22 pounds in those eleven days. I had brought our credit card to the hospital, but I still had no idea how I might pay because the bill was sure to be far, far more than was in our bank account. I thought that I might just hand over the card to the discharge office and tell them to withdraw my husband’s entire salary every month until the bill was paid. How we would live in the meantime was beyond me. My husband was still too sick for me to bother him with this matter.

When the doctor said that we could leave, I called the discharge office and asked if I could come down and talk about payment. The lady there said that the discharge papers weren’t quite complete and she would call me shortly. In a short time, she called me back and told me that we were now free to leave. I said that there was the small matter of payment. And then she dropped a bombshell. Our bill had been paid in full by A.M.; one of my husband’s former students who is now a colleague at the university and who had visited twice a day during those long eleven days and had come with cakes and hot milk and potted plants and had sat and talked and talked and entertained his teacher.

Subhan Allah. We have never in our lives witnessed such generosity. I was so stunned that I began sobbing and could hardly get the words out to tell my husband what I was crying about. May Allah bless this good friend and give him the best of rewards and a place in the highest level of Jannah. Jazahu Allah khairan katheeran.

Susan Akyurt
Susan Akyurt has lived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia with her husband for the last 31 years. She has four daughters, one living near her in Jeddah and three living in the DC metropolitan area. She loves reading, writing and corresponding with her family.

How I dread grocery shopping alone with my girls.

I will put it off. I will avoid it. I will find excuses not to do it. But the day comes when I look in the fridge and I realize with a sinking heart that I have to.

Today was one of those days. I had to go shopping with my 18-month-old daughters. And I had to go to two different places, which made my heart feel even heavier.

So I made istikharah, coaxed them into the car, and off we went, with my mind imagining every scenario possible and thinking of how I would deal with the situation. What if there isn’t a double-seater cart? I’ll take a regular one and make one sit in it while the other walks behind me. What if they both refuse? I’ll let them walk behind me, but keep my eyes on them while I try to shop. What if they start playing hide-and-seek? I stop thinking at that point and just pray for the best.

When I get there, both girls are asleep. I put one in the basket of the cart, and ball the other up into the front of the cart where she’s supposed to sit, but can’t, since she’s sleeping. I wish I have a camera with me. I start rolling my cart down the aisles. I finish shopping. The kids are still asleep.

Alhamdulillah. What a small thing to happen - they fell asleep, but what a huge burden lifted off my mind.

Now it’s time to head for the whole-sale center, and I make sure I have all my coupons with me. I’m holding one coupon especially tight: $3 off a large lasagna. I’m hungry, and my mouth waters at the thought, but my heart tells me I shouldn’t be buying this: it’s not essential, since I can easily cook other things, so it’s wasting money on things I don’t really need; it’s not the healthiest food to buy, with all the fat it; and in the end I’m just buying it to indulge my stomach’s desire. Not the best reason to buy something.

But I decide anyway that I will buy it, and push the guilty thoughts to the side. While I’m shopping, I take a look at my coupons, and realize the lasagna coupon isn’t there! What? I just had it in my hand! I look furiously for it, searching my purse for it, going through my pockets, looking on the floor behind me - perhaps I dropped it. But it’s no where to be found.

My heart has a sad face on it now, but I continue shopping, with both girls wondering what Mama’s looking for so carefully. I finish shopping, with both girls on their best behavior, thankfully, and go back to the car. As I’m unloading the cart into the trunk, I lift the last package, and what do I see under it?

The lasagna coupon.

For a second, I feel great regret. Why didn’t I look for it better when I was in the store? I’m not about to go back in now with both girls just to buy that. But after getting in the car and driving away, a strange new sensation befell me. What a Wonderful, Caring, Kind Lord I have. I felt Allah was taking care of me, by making me lose the coupon. Perhaps I would have gained 5 pounds after eating it, and He knows how I hate gaining weight. Perhaps one of my daughters would have had an allergic reaction to something in it, and He knows she’s had so many already. Perhaps He’s helping me save my money for more important things.

Such a small thing to happen - losing a coupon, but what a happy feeling it gave me. I felt cared for, looked out for, and loved.

Asiya Akyurt

Asiya Akyurt lives in Virginia with her husband and twin daughters. She is an active MAS member with an ijaza (certificate) in Qur’anic recitation and tajweed, and enjoys teaching, interpreting and translating.

I’m dedicating this one to my aunties. Auntie, khala, tante, whatever you call them, they are your mother’s friends and they probably played a role in raising you. Maybe they rocked you as a baby, taught you the Arabic alphabet at Sunday school, took you strawberry picking, cooked for your youth group events, or threw you a surprise bridal shower. They watched you grow, hosted you numerous times, gave you their time, advice and love, and then you got married and left.

Have you kept in touch? We all tend to move on and get absorbed in our new lives as married women and mothers. Perhaps we don’t make the time to pick up the phone to say salaam, ask about their health or visit in person when we go back to our hometown.

I only started to think about this recently when I went back to my hometown for Eid-ul-Fitr. The aunties I met at Eid prayer kept commenting on how long it has been since they had seen me as they squeezed me tight with their hugs. One auntie even exclaimed that seeing me was the best Eid present she could ever receive! Needless to say, I was deeply touched but I also felt a pang of guilt. Don’t I owe these women something?

Taking this one step further, don’t I owe my Muslim community something? This is the community that provided social outlets for me as a child as we gathered together regularly for potluck dinners, picnics, and Eid celebrations. This is the community that offered a weekend Islamic school so that I could learn more about our deen and feel stronger in practicing it. This is the community that supported our youth group and MSA, allowing us to be active in Islamic work and feel proud of our Muslim identity. In essence, the community served as a kind of extended family. This was especially important because my own uncles, aunts, and cousins lived so far away. Looking back at everything my community did for me during my years of growing up, shouldn’t I be grateful? In a hadith (narrated by Imam Ahmad and others) the Prophet (PBUH) says, “One who does not thank others does not thank Allah (SWT).”

Certainly, when I go back to my hometown Islamic Centre to visit I feel like an alumni member and in that spirit, shouldn’t I give something back? A monetary donation is merely a symbol, a token to say “thank you” for everything you have done. What I really want to say is thank you for the positive influence you had on my life. Thank you for Islamic school, youth leadership opportunities, creative and social activities and perhaps most importantly, for giving me a sense of community and a sense of belonging.

And to my aunties, thank you for the parties, the laughs, and the words of encouragement. Simply put, thank you for being there.

Mayce Ibraheem
Mayce Ibraheem lives in Ontario, Canada with her husband and two sons.