This morning I saw a wasp on my patio, exhausted and weak from relentlessly buzzing in circles, no doubt seeking plants, flowers and home. But tracing the same paths back and forth, again and again, had left it frustrated and trapped on the concrete; a self-made prison. After a few minutes, it snapped out of this trance and veered left discovering a dying potted plant on the patio floor. No doubt it was delighted with its discovery; even a single wilting and diseased flower felt lavish and verdant in comparison to the seemingly endless tiles on the ground. My heart went out to the little creature and I knew it would be far happier and better off at the back of the garden, where there are beautiful wildflowers, roses and lavender, and where the other wasps and bees live. I did not know how this one had managed to stray so far from home, but I had no doubt whatsoever that it would not survive on this rotten plant on the patio.

I tried to encourage it off the sickly flower with a couple of leaves, intending to carry it to the lush greenery further back, but it would not cooperate. This was understandable. It had finally found respite from the harsh slabs of flooring, after much frustration and toil, and now it was being forced away. It struggled and fought with all its little body had left to remain with its prize. Each time I tried to pry it onto my leaf it would scramble away, and eventually tried to hide.

I wished I could communicate with the wasp to explain my intention; to tell it to trust me, because I could see much further. I was taking it to a better place, that I knew it would thank me for. I wanted it to know that there was abundance, beauty, sustenance and far more hope if it would only surrender and climb aboard.

The wasp reminded me of myself not too long ago; short-sighted, fearful of vulnerability and uncertainty. Content to settle for what seemed like the safer, easier option because I was paralysed by fear of what potentially lay ahead. Eventually, the wasp gave in and sat still on the leaf while I took it and set it down amongst its family, in what was a paradise compared to my patio. It must have been annoyed, terrified and confused. It may have cried, trembled or even felt despairing at points along the walk to the back of the garden, but it came nonetheless. In the end, it was gently given more than its tiny mind could have ever imagined. All because it trusted, hoped and let me carry it there.

We are told constantly to place our trust in Allah subhanahu wa ta`ala (exalted is He). With every prayer, we affirm our reliance; but how many of us fully and truly submit and surrender, in utter hope and certainty that He can see further than us and He knows better? He is perfect, merciful and knows of all the metaphorical gardens we may be seeking, in this life and the next. He never empties our hands of anything except in His infinite wisdom, to replace it with something better. We are short-sighted; we can only see the flower we are currently on, and often cannot fathom the beauty He may be pushing us towards instead.

“And whoever relies upon Allah – then He is sufficient for him.” (Qur’an 65:3)

May we all be granted the courage and guidance to be freed from the shackles of fear and doubt, and to trust and rely wholly on the All-Powerful, the All-Wise, the All-Compassionate.

Photo: Shandi-lee Cox

In the field behind my house, there is a garden where my memories grow. Scattered by the wind, yet perfectly sorted by time. Some have yet to grow and blossom into their full potential, while others are so withered, it’s a wonder they are still alive. From time to time I go out and walk through my garden, trying to appreciate the beauty of the blessed landscape that my life has, over time, sown.

It is always the same, yet each time a little bit different. It begins as something joyous, something I look forward to. But then my heart gets entangled in the weeds, I see the flowers that have died, and my heart turns hard and cold. Gardens should be a source of pleasure, but mine has at times been a source of heart-gripping nostalgia and at other times a source of tears—from wounds that have never been healed.

This time was different. This time, I decided to take the gardener along with me on my stroll. Well, I didn’t really decide to take him with me; it had been decided for me. It was as if God was reminding me that I was never taught to be a gardener, yet I had relied upon my own gardening skills, which was a recipe for failure. So when he came to me, with his brimmed sun hat and garden tools in hand, I opened the gate and invited him in. At first I wanted him to take the stroll himself; if he had come to fix things, if he had come to make my garden beautiful, then he could do it on his own. But without a word he shook his head and handed me a tool as well.

I took the tool from him and stood behind him, hoping that he would shield me from the view of the garden that I was just too tired to look at any longer. He grabbed my hand and ran to the opposite side. I never started with this side of the garden, so usually by the time I got here I was too tired to see what was growing. He fell to his knees and pulled me down beside him. “These are the oldest of your flowers, yet they look the youngest. These are the flowers that started it all. These are the flowers you should cherish and take care of always. They don’t have any thorns; they don’t have any sharp edges. They are just flowers.” And as I looked at them, I began to smile, from molar to molar. Buttercups! Buttercups! I had never noticed that they were my childhood favorite, buttercups. And I began to laugh as I remembered how we would find the buttercups as children and pick off the stem. We would hold the flower to our lips and suck, ever so gently, finding the sweetness of the nectar dripping onto our tongues and invigorating our hearts. We’d then throw the flowers down and lay in the grass, talking about nothing and everything all at the same time. Buttercups. All this time they were right there, but I had always started at the wrong side of my garden, so I never noticed.

I had gotten lost in thought and forgotten the gardener was waiting for me. I looked up at him, ready to apologize for wasting his time, but I found him simply sitting. Sitting and smiling. He stood up and took my hand and walked me over to another part of my garden. He looked a little concerned, but not too much so. He sat down and gently tapped the ground so I could sit beside him. “These flowers look a bit rough. They are beautiful flowers, but they have begun to grow small thorns on the stems, so you must be careful when you touch them. There are many small weeds growing in this part of the garden, and they don’t need to be here. They are taking the nutrients from the flowers and taking away from their beauty. Together we will pull out these weeds. Be gentle—do not tear them. Pull them from the root, and put them in the bucket. I will show you what we will use them for later.” I nodded my head and watched as he showed me how to weed the garden. I had never before weeded anything, but he was so skilled that when I began to follow his lead, I learned quickly. Each time I pulled one of the small weeds, the garden seemed to radiate more and more, the beauty of the flowers finally emerging. After we finished, the bucket where the weeds lay looked dark and cold. Just looking at the weeds made my chest tighten and tears well up in my eyes. He put his hand on my heart. “Don’t worry, you will soon understand. We need these weeds for later.” I had no idea what he was saying, but I had come to trust him so much that I didn’t need to understand. I took another look at the now beautiful portion of my garden, and took in a deep breath, smelling the sweet aroma of flowers that had never before made it to my soul. He put his hand on my shoulder and urged me to move on.

I found myself standing in front of the last planted portion of my garden. This was the portion that I usually began with, the portion that was the ugliest, the most neglected. Just looking at this part made me sick to my stomach. I looked for a few seconds, hit the floor with my knees, and covered my face. This wasn’t even a garden; it was a garbage dump. I began to cry, not really understanding why, but when I looked at him, he nodded in recognition. He knew why I was crying, and it was okay. He waited until I was done, and gently sat next to me in front of the horrific scene before us. “Look closely. If you look past the entangled jumble of weeds, past the dead leaves and bugs, you will see tiny little flowers. They are there, but they haven’t been taken care of at all and the weeds have cut off their supply of nutrients. They get smaller every day and have never been given a chance. Look at the weeds. They have sharp thorns that can cut your hand if you touch them. Look at the dead leaves. All over them there are bugs that are eating away at the soul of the flowers. These too can bite you if you are not careful. For this garden, you must wear gloves. You will wear gloves and tear away all of the overgrown weeds, cut off all of the dead leaves, and spray them with food that will nourish the small flowers. Again, make sure not to cut the tiny flowers, and make sure to get the weeds at the root. These too will go into our bucket.”

He handed me the strongest leather gloves that I had ever seen. I put them on, and then I noticed that he didn’t put any on. I asked him why; wouldn’t he get hurt? He responded, “I am a gardener. I am experienced in the gardens of weeds, thorns, and bugs. My hands have built their own shields, and I feel no pain when I touch them. They can no longer affect me.” I nodded my head, not fully understanding, but hoping that one day I would. I began pulling at the weeds, revealing tiny flowers I had never seen before, which had sadly been deprived of nutrients for so long. This part of the garden took the longest. We spent hours and hours plucking away at the weeds, until finally we had finished. He then took out the nutrient water and sprayed the area. Before my eyes, I saw the flowers begin to strengthen and grow. “You must spray this garden every day for some time in order for the flowers to reach their full potential. If you forget, the weeds will return, and it will go back to being the ugly place it was before.” I nodded my head and promised that I would.

We finished all the planted areas of the garden. Now all that was left was a barren space that had never been sown. Before I had a chance to explain that this hadn’t been planted yet, I saw him reach for the bucket of weeds. He began to spray them with nutrient water and crush them with his hands. Under the pressure of his touch, they crumbled and became like powder. When he finished, he handed me the bucket of powder that his hands had produced. “Go to that barren area, and spread this dust all over the untouched soil. This will be the fertilizer by which new flowers will grow. You will see that the flowers that are produced in this area will be more beautiful and more fragrant than any other part of your garden. They will be stronger, and they will have fewer thorns. They will be the flowers that you admire most. They will be what makes your garden complete. And the only reason they will have been able to grow in such magnificent ways is because of the fertilizer that we made, together from the weeds that clouded your other flowers.” I took the bucket and did as he said. Before my eyes I saw small green plants begin to bud. I could not tell what color the flowers would be, or even what kind they would be. But I could tell that these flowers were not like anything I had ever dreamed of having in my garden.

The sun began to set, and the gardener handed me the tools that were in his hands. “I must go now, but I have given you exactly what you need to take care of your garden. If you need me, just call out and I will be at your door in a minute. You did a great job today. Don’t forget that.” He turned and walked away, leaving me sitting in my garden, this time with a joyous relief and gratitude I had never felt before. This was my garden of memories, and it was the most beautiful garden I had ever seen.

“This is our chance!”

What we hoped for was to reach the blessed Rawḍah, an especially sacred area of the Mosque. As we got closer, we heard the din and hum of voices like bees getting louder. The Mosque wasn’t empty. Everyone was trying to get to the Rawḍah just as we were. Nonetheless, we hadn’t reached this far yet, so we were hopeful. We politely zigzagged our way through the crowd and neared the blessed pulpit of the Prophet ﷺ to our right. I explained to my sons the saying of the Prophet ﷺ,

“.مَا بَيْنَ بَيْتِي وَمِنْبَرِي رَوْضَةٌ مِنْ رِيَاضِ الْجَنَّةِ وَمِنْبَرِي عَلَى حَوْضِي”

“Between my house and my pulpit is a Garden from the Gardens of Paradise, and my pulpit rests upon my wellspring.” ((Jami` al-Saḥiḥ li-l Bukhari, Imam al-Bukhari’s Authenticated Collection))

Imams al-Nawawi and Ibn Ḥajar give two possible interpretations to the statement “Garden from the Gardens of Paradise.” The first being that it is literally a Garden of Paradise in a quantum trans-dimensional sense and the very area itself will be seen, as it is, in Paradise. The second interpretation being that worship therein leads to Paradise. ((Sharḥ al-Nawawi `ala Muslim, Imam al-Nawawi’s Commentary on Imam Muslim’s Authenticated Collection.)) Ibn Ḥajar adds a third to these two, saying that the Divine Love and Mercy one feels in there is as if one were in Paradise. ((Fatḥ al-Bari, Imam Ibn Ḥajar’s commentary on Imam Bukhari’s Authenticated Collection.))

In regards to the closing statement of the narration, “my pulpit rests upon my wellspring,” the renowned Maliki Jurisprudent and martyr, al-Qaḍi `Iyyad, said, “Most of the scholars have said this refers to his pulpit itself, as it was in the world.” ((Sharḥ al-Nawawi `ala Muslim, Imam al-Nawawi’s Commentary on Imam Muslim’s Authenticated Collection.)) It will rise upon the Wellspring of al-Kawthar where we will meet our beloved Prophet ﷺ. He will not be a King seated upon a throne but a humble friend feeding us water, quenching our thirst from the toils of Judgment Day, water he will feed us from his very own hands.

The Prophet ﷺ often told his Companions, “Be patient until you meet me at the Wellspring.” ((Jami` al-Saḥiḥ li-l Bukhari, Imam al-Bukhari’s Authenticated Collection)) Anas bin Malik radi allahu `anhu (may God be pleased with him) once asked the Prophet ﷺ, “Will you intercede for me with God?” He replied, “I am the one to do that.” Then Anas (ra) asked, “Where should I look for you?” The Prophet replied, “Seek me at the Ṣirat.” ((Ṣirat: The bridge all mankind will have to cross on the Day of Judgment.)) Anas then asked, “And what if I don’t find you there?” The Prophet replied, “Seek me at the scale.” ((The scale, called al-Mizan in Arabic, upon which the good and evil of everyone will be weighed.)) Anas asked again, “And what if I don’t find you there?” Finally, the Prophet replied, “You will find me at the Wellspring.” ((Musnad al-Imam Aḥmad, Imam Aḥmad’s Collection; Sunan al-Tirmidhi, Imam al-Tirmidhi’s Collection))

Telling my sons about this made them even more eager to reach the Rawḍah, but how would we get there beyond such a large crowd? We didn’t push. We didn’t shove. We stepped aside so that others could pass. We trusted in God.

Finally, after so much difficulty, my sons and I found ourselves within the enclosure of the Rawḍah. Yet everyone was shoulder to shoulder and we couldn’t find any room to pray. The people who were praying had others waiting behind them for their turn to pray. All the while, police were maintaining order by ushering people out who had finished praying so new people could pray, or asking people who were taking too long to hurry up. I had already resolved that I would focus upon making space for my boys to pray before I worried about myself. An Indonesian man, who apparently didn’t speak English well, gestured to Ibrahim saying, “Baby boy! Baby boy!” and motioning that Ibrahim should take his spot in line. I hugged him and thanked him in earnest. I will always pray for him. Just then, as Ibrahim took his spot, two spots opened in front of us so that all three of us could pray together. As I fell down and pressed my face to the ground I began to hyperventilate as tears poured from my eyes. It was as if I was no longer in control. Everything came rushing to me at once as if God was extracting all my pain out of me like poison from a wound. As I rose from prostration and completed my prayer, I raised my hands to the sky and cried,

“اللهم رب الناس أذهب الباس إشف إبني عبد الله وأنت الشافي ولا شافي إلّا أنت ولا شفاء إلّا شفاؤك شفاء لا يغادر سقما!”

“O God! Lord of humankind! Remove this ill and please heal my son Abdullah! For you are the Healer and there is no Healer other than You! Neither is there any healing other than Your healing. Let it be a healing that leaves no ailment behind!”

My boys and I were able to pray to our heart’s content. It was spiritually liberating in a way that made me realize how enslaving pain and sadness can be. For the past few months, as I watched my Abdullah lose every golden hair from his head and then eventually his entire body, I had wished that his affliction would leave him and afflict me instead. How helpless I’ve felt as a father unable to rescue my son. So I laid it all out before God.

There was, and is, nowhere else to go.

As we left the Rawḍah, a police officer grabbed my hand and asked me, “Were you able to pray as much as you needed?” I replied in the affirmative. Seeing my tear scarred face he asked, “What troubles you?” I put my hand on Abdullah’s shoulder and told him, my voice cracking, “My son has an auto-immune condition and we came here all the way from America specifically to pray for his healing.” The officer then began to pray for Abdullah and told me to have faith and trust in God who is One. The One who afflicts is the very One who cures. In every hardship is a lesson to be learned and, thereafter, is relief. But you must trust in God alone and no one else. Along with this advice, he repeatedly looked me straight in the eye and exhorted me, “Do not despair! Do not get weak!” He asked me to translate for Abdullah, so I did.

Then, immediately after the Rawḍah, we approached the resting place of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. The Prophet ﷺ is buried in the house he shared with his wife `Aisha, in the very spot of their resting quarters. On each side of him rests his two companions and successors, Abu Bakr and `Umar (ra).

One of the religious administrators put his arm around my shoulder and told me, “Here is where Abu Bakr rests, and there is where `Umar rests, and in the middle is the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him.” My sons and I greeted them, “Peace be upon you, O beloved Messenger of God! Peace be upon you, O Abu Bakr! Peace be upon you, O `Umar!” Then, in the same way we entered the Rawḍah, we followed the waves of people, as comforting as the waves of the ocean, towards the exit gates of the Mosque. As we walked out I turned back and gazed upon the Prophet’s resting place one last time.

“You have, indeed, conveyed the greatest message, O Messenger of God! I will see you at the Wellspring.”

I placed my arms around my sons and squeezed them as we walked out, telling them that the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ felt helpless and lost as he desperately hid in a cold cave for days asking God to reveal Himself. Then God answered him, guided him, and raised him up to the point that, today, “Muhammad” is recorded as the most given male name on the planet. I gestured to the magnificent forest of pillars and minarets spiraling out from the smooth marble floors.

“This all started in a dark cave, on a cold night, in a mountain of light.”

I eased my grip on my sons. As they get older, I notice that at times I’m smothering them. They’re not babies anymore as much as I wish that they were. They are now men. Yet, as I eased my grip I noticed theirs tightening. All praise and thanks are due to God. My purpose for visiting Medina was fulfilled.

I came home and recorded all my experiences and thoughts into what you are reading now. I figured my son wouldn’t want the world knowing what he’s going through so I left out all our names and made it anonymous. We haven’t told anyone other than immediate family and very few close friends. Even though I wrote this anonymously, I felt that Abdullah still had to read it first. If he objected even in the slightest, I would have discarded it and never spoken of it again. He had an emotionless expression on his face as he read it. He handed it back to me and smiled.

“So what did you think?”

“I loved it, Daddy. But I want you to change one thing.”

“What’s that, Abdullah?”

“Put our names in it.”