My dear, when I tell you about hope, I want you to imagine the sweat dropping off Hajra’s skin as she insistently runs for water in the midst of the desert. I want you to feel the pain and the strength of a father like Ibrahim when he looked into his son’s eyes as a sacrifice to God; Feel the betrayal in Yusuf’s heart when his own flesh and blood tossed him away like garbage and the thick darkness inside a whale where Yunus resided, alone. I want you to picture the wide sea in front of your feet as Musa fled from the pharaoh and how terrified Asiyah must’ve been as she resisted her violent husband. Scream, as Bilal’s bones get crushed while his mouth uttered the shahada and wonder how Rasulullah could still continue his path as blood was flowing down his head and soiled meat was thrown at him. And maybe then when you see it all, feel it all, imagine it all, you would learn that thirst didn’t win over Hajra and Ismael, and Ismael wasn’t slayed. Neither did Yusuf end up unsuccessful and Yunus forgotten. Musa and his people still crossed the sea, Bilal saved out of nowhere and Muhammad’s mission is blooming like never before - because my dear hope means not seeing an escape yourself, but knowing that Allah always does.
“O you who believe! be patient and excel in patience and remain steadfast, and be careful of (your duty to) Allah, that you may be successful.” (3:200)
