A Second Chance

As the years pass by, there is always a part of us that wants to look backwards, to reminisce about a life we have left behind now. We travelled up to North Yorkshire this weekend to visit my parents and I had in mind to take a detour to Hull on our return: to remember old friends, revisit old streets and see how much has changed. We didn’t get to go there as it happened, but I did realise another desire of mine: to return to York mosque.

We left the Rectory half way through the morning on Monday and made good progress back past York and towards the M1. We had travelled about 30 miles and were about 10 miles short of the motorway when my wife suddenly remembered that we had forgotten our coats. She insisted on going back for them since they are all we have to protect us from the cold through the winter and my asthma medicine was with mine. Grudgingly I took the next slip road off the bypass, crossed the bridge and headed back in the opposite direction. We had travelled for forty minutes already and I was mindful of the 200 miles still to go ahead of us, but it was the only way.

Alhamdulilah for that. Though perhaps I was irritated as I counted an extra sixty miles and another hour added to our journey, I can only say Alhamdulilah. This time, setting off for home once more I gave more thought to the nagging within which asked me to revisit that old mosque of mine. I don’t know how many times over the years I have told myself that I must pop in to whisper salams, but it seems that I was never able to. Alhamdulilah; had we not forgotten our coats we would never have returned perhaps.

I am so glad that we did. We arrived there in time for dhuhr prayer and just before a lovely gentleman arrived to open up the doors and let us in. Last time I visited, the mosque committee was raising funds to build an extension for women and the growing community at large. As I skirted the small building I wondered if they had ever realised that goal, for it was a long time since my last visit. It was only after standing in the prayer hall for a couple of minutes that I realised just how tiny the original mosque had been, recalling the tight dimensions of those Friday prayers I had once sought out so keenly.

I realised that it was eight years since I last visited and yet this kind man somehow remembered me. He greeted my wife with salams, opened the prayer room for her and switched the amplifiers on without any intervention on my part (we have to specifically ask at my local mosque). His warmth and beautiful nature reminded me what I so loved about that modest little mosque as a visiting stranger almost a decade ago. Although I was travelling, I just had to do dhuhr with them and stay for a little time in that now slightly bigger mosque before our long journey onwards.

My brief return made me so happy and it was alhamdulilah-for-forgetting-our-coats all the way home. Alhamdulilah that Allah gave us a second chance. Thinking about it now, it seems a rather fitting parable for our lives.

O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind. O son of Adam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you. O son of Adam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the earth and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring you forgiveness nearly as great as it.

Hadith Qudsi reported in the collections of Tirmidhi and Ahmad.

Thank God for Muslim immigrants

I was so incredibly grateful to the poor Bengali community who, in their island of red brick terraces nestled between smart office blocks and towering skyscrapers, established that little mosque on the edge of the City. I am travelling to that unfamiliar quarter of Capitalist fame every day this week for training on developing .NET applications (yes, I know what you’re thinking) and their masjid was my rescue. Thank God for Britain’s Muslim immigrants who over the past forty years have established these little mosques – by their own efforts and with their own earnings – for the likes of me, wandering into unfamiliar territory and wondering where I will find a place to pray today. May God reward them all. I cannot express my gratitude enough.

To the Sea

When I was studying in Scotland six years ago, I lived in Broomhall Castle on the side of the Ochil Hills in Menstrie. At weekends I used to climb over the fence behind that sandstone building and ascend vast hills on foot. High up there were great views of Stirling and the Firth of Forth. Once over the hill, I would trample down into the valley and follow the rivers and streams as far as I could. I learnt a lot from those rivers. Sometimes I would encounter a stream that was nothing but a dribble through the grass, sometimes a bubbling brook. Every beck was fed by scores of tiny tributaries, and every small river by dozens of streams. In one afternoon I would pass hundreds of watery veins across the fields and rocks, feeding one new watercourse after another. I would ponder on those waterways dribbling down the higher ground at their source, for on my way I had passed the rushing torrent heading out of the valley, carving its way between the huge boulders. Across the lowland, through the village, this wide river joined another, that one joining another and on and on, until it joined the magnificent shining Firth of Forth far in the distance. One particular afternoon, while heading onwards further than before, I understood the parable in that magnificent landscape. We are not required to be mighty rivers to get our life’s work done. Each of us can contribute to a wider goal by performing even the smallest deed. Some of us are the tiny tributaries feeding the larger streams. Some are energetic brooks feeding the rivers. Some are cascading rivers swelling the wide, deep estuaries. All of us have a role and however insignificant it may seem at the time, it will always makes a huge difference in the end. The signs of creation if only we took heed; a lesson from my aimless meanders in Clackmannanshire’s hills.

Good Counsel

One of the beauties of brotherhood as we experience it within the fold of Islam is sincerity amongst friends. In my days before Islam, friends were people who told me exactly what I wanted to hear. My true friends today are those who speak the truth and grant me wise counsel even when this is not what I want to hear.

I have a dear friend to whom I am still indebted because of his wise counsel. I was studying in Scotland and passing through a difficult period of my life. This friend of mine travelled 420 miles north from London to tell me that Allah had done His part in guiding me to Islam: now it was my turn to repay Him. I had been dwelling in self-pity and, witnessing this, my friend travelled all this way to give me his sound advice. He did not go the extra mile to help me: he went the extra four-hundred and twenty miles.

Giving and receiving good counsel is key part of brotherhood, as An-Nawawi illustrated in his Riyad as-Salihin (The Meadows of the Righteous):

22. Chapter: On Good Counsel

Allah says, “The believers are brothers,” (49:10), and the Almighty said, reporting about Nuh, “I am giving you good counsel,” (7:62) and about Hud, “I am a faithful counsellor to you.” (7:68)

181. Abu Ruqayya Tamim ibn Aws ad-Dari reported the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, “The deen is good counsel.” We said, “For whom?” He said, “For Allah, His Book, His Messenger, the Imams of the Muslims and their common people.”

182. Jarir ibn ‘Abdullah said, “I gave allegiance to the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, on the basis of performing the prayer, paying the zakat and giving good counsel to every Muslim.”

183. Anas reported that the Messenger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, “None of you can truly be said to believe until he wants for his brother what he wants for himself.”

I pray that my friends will continue to grant me their wise counsel. It is one of the greatest blessings of Islam, that a friend can come round for dinner and speak the truth to his brother.

Allah’s Grand Design

Today we visited friends near Dorking in Surrey. The landscape out there is magnificent – forested rolling hills. Our hosts – an Englishman and his US Puerto Recon wife – have been friends of my wife ever since they worked together as Social Workers in west London some years back. We headed down the M25 late morning, arriving at their remote flat around lunchtime, and hour and a quarter after our departure. The greenbelt around the Capital is really amazing – amidst the cityscape you would never imagine that such beauty was so easily within reach – our Chiltern Hills and these Surrey Downs. Late afternoon our friends drove us up to Leith Hill, upon which sits an 18th century folly noted to be the highest point in southeast England. On clear days it apparently offers views as far as St. Paul’s Cathedral in London to the north and the English Channel to the south, but the sky was overcast and grey today so we could only see as far as the next hill. Still, the landscape was lovely. And the peace – that’s another thing; but for the call of pheasants, there was utter peace, alhamdulilah. The signs of Allah surround us. His creation truly is awe-inspiring, if only we would reflect.

Tis merriment

What tremendous weather we have been blessed with today. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and it is hot out there. I have just returned from a short walk in my lunch break. I walked along by the shallow River Misbourne and watched the minnows darting about beneath the surface. Then I ascended the hill where I walked between the yellow flowering oil seed rape – the scent of which was delicious – stopping for a while at the 1930s stone memorial at the top. This tall column in a wild garden of its own behind high hedges is inscribed with the following words: “The Noble Army of Martyrs Praise Thee”. Underneath there continues a short paragraph:

“In the shallow of depression at a spot 100 yards left of this monument seven Protestants, six men and one woman were burned to death at the stake. They died for the principles of religious liberty, for the right to read and interpret the Holy Scriptures and to worship God according to their consciences as revealed through God’s Holy Word. Their names shall live for ever.”

It is followed by the name of each of them. I stood in that garden for a little while, pondering England’s history. I could not stay for long, however, because I had to get back to work. So I walked on along the baked clay pathway across the top of the hill and then passed into the shade of the forest, descending back down the hill. The unceasing whine of the traffic in the valley below impacted on the sense of peace, but still it was a pleasant and welcome break. Coming into the town again, I wandered through the churchyard, where someone asked me if I was the minister and then if I could lend them 20p. Two minutes after that it was back to work for me.

But hark! What a jolly splendid day!