A Journey to Islam

I would like to tell you a little story. This is a true story. It is the story of one persons journey. It is the story of my journey.

For you to understand my journey more fully I will start by telling you a little of my history. I became a born-again christian in 1979 at the age of 20. My christian walk was very sloppy at best for the first 6 years but at the age of 26 my commitment to christianity became very firm, steady, deep and strong. I walked this walk very devoutly for over 20 years. By 2006 I had raised my children to be good christians, taught many children about christianity and helped many to accept Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior, their mediator between them and God. I was part of the worship team at my church and a deacon on the church board. I had not questioned my beliefs and studied and prayed diligently. I walked firmly on the narrow path of christianity. I tell you this bit of history so you will see and understand that I am not a person who is blown about by the wind, who easily grasps different concepts, who is always looking for new ways of living or believing. I tell you this so you will know I am a person who does not change her beliefs easily by any means.

Now...to my journey. Early in December of 2006 as I was sitting at my computer a person I had never before met popped up on my screen via Yahoo messenger. He had seen my 360 page (a now defunct yahoo social network) and wanted to talk. He was probably one of the most polite, humble, honest and sincere men I had ever met in my life. He has remained so to this day without wavering. We talked and he shared with me that he was a Muslim and I shared with him that I was a christian. Never did he put me down for my beliefs but he did ask me questions about them. I did the same way with him. We quickly became very good and honest friends. We felt free to ask questions and share differences with no worry of condemnation.

Within a month or so of him popping into my life 2 other men also popped into my life in the same way. One of these men asked immediately if I would be an elder sister to him. At first I was very skeptical and untrusting but he was so kind, nice and polite in the way he spoke that over time I came to know he was sincere. The third man that came into my life came like a rush of wind and fire and yet he also possessed this same gentleness, humbleness and sincerity I had found in the others.

These men did not know each other. As a matter of fact they lived on 2 different continents. What they did have in common was their very wonderful and gentle way of behaving and their religious convictions. All of these men were Muslims. I find it amazing even now that after a life time of never meeting or knowing a single Muslim that in the space of 1-2 months had 3 of them enter my life, and all in the same way...by popping up on my computer screen. Looking back I see that Allah orchestrated everything so wonderfully.

I began to learn about what their beliefs were through a series of conversations. I read a small book that one of them sent to me so that I would see what he believed from his perspective. I decided to order a Quran to read it so I could tell these men how wrong they were in their beliefs and how badly they needed to become christians. Before I ever started to read I was praying and asking God to help me so I could tell them the truth. But, as I began to read...something happened. I found I was really intriuged by what I read. It seemed to reach down into somewhere deep inside me. I began praying diligently that God would make sure I was not mislead and that I would stand firmly on the truth no matter what. In this time, I continued sharing about christianity with these people but I also began asking more and more questions. Never once...not one time, did they push their beliefs on me, make me feel foolish for my questions or put me down for my beliefs. They answered my questions to the best of their ability and when they couldn't, my new brother would take the questions to his Imam (a man well versed in the Quran and Islam) and his Imam would hunt in his Quran and find the answers for me.

I went through so many thoughts and emotions in this time I cannot even begin to describe them...the one that stands out the most though is the feelings of fear as I began to doubt what I had believed for most of my life...Terrible fear as I realized that my entire life, my entire belief system may have been based on an untruth. But still I continued reading although now it was a quest to learn the truth instead of trying to convert these Muslim men into christians. As I studied, prayed, and thought on all I was reading I found my mind changing, my way of seeing things changing, my heart changing. All this time I continued praying for God to lead me to the truth no matter what it was. I sought Him as never before in this need to know what the truth was.

I would say it was probably mid February 2007 I knew I had come to a place where I could no longer pray to God in the name of Jesus...that I no longer believed I had to do that in order to talk with God...that I did not have to have this mediator to have a relationship with God...It was also in this time that I began to know I could call him Allah and it was not a bad thing but actually a good thing. I continued to pray, study, ask questions, think and talk with these 3 friends who had become so dear in this short span of time and over a little more time I knew that it was not them who was wrong or mislead but it was I who was. My heart and mind had changed in such ways that it amazed me.

By the second week of March of the same year I knew I was ready to make a commitment to become a Muslim...to embrace Islam. I knew this all the way through me. So I called a masjid (mosque) and made an appointment to meet with the Imam. On March 15th, 2007 I went to a masjid for the first time in my life. I met in person the first Muslim I had ever met besides on the internet. We talked for a few moments and then he led me through what is called the Shahadah.

This is what I said and meant with all my heart and mind: La ilaha illa Llah, Muhammad rasulu'Llah. This is the arabic transliteration which when translated to english means this: There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of God. I also made the confession that Jesus was not Lord and Savior but was a beloved and wonderful prophet of God.

This is an outline of my trip from Christianity to Islam. It took place over a period of about not quite 4 months. I now believe many things that happened before I began learning about Islam happened to bring me to the place I needed to be so I could hear and recieve this wonderful truth. I have learned that Allah did many amazing things so as to guide me to the truth and I am and will be forever thankful to Him for this.

This little story of my journey is only the beginning really. Now I am a revert to Islam with a lifetime of living and learning to do for Allah. HE is Most Gracious, Most Merciful. HE is All Knowing. He is Trustworthy. I will serve HIM with every fiber of my being and be forever thankful to HIM for guiding me to Islam and will always pray for HIM to continue guiding me on the right path.

Insha Allah, may it be so. Aameen

"Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom and fair preaching, and argue with them in a way that is better. Truly your Lord knows best who has gone astray from His path, and He is the Best Aware of those who are guided." (Surat An-Nahl 16:125)

The Birth Of My Daughter's Daughter

My first blog dealt with the death of my dad. This blog will go to the extreme opposite of death. This was also written in 2002 for a class and is a short narrative essay. It is the story of the birth of one of my grandchildren. In rewriting this for my blog I have made some minor modifications which I hope will improve the writing structure a bit. I have also changed the name of my family members so as to respect their privacy since I do not have permission to use them on the internet. I hope you will enjoy this short narrative.

The Birth of My Daughter’s Daughter

It is about 6:50 in the evening. I am in my daughter’s hospital room getting ready to say goodbye to her until tomorrow. The doctor came in about twenty minutes ago and speaking to my daughter he said, “The medicine to induce labor isn’t working. You’ll have to stay in the hospital for the night. In the morning I’ll attempt once again to get your labor going.”

Susan is sitting up on the end of her bed eating the stew that has been brought for her. Her husband Robert is sitting in the chair next to her bed. They are having a conversation. They are trying to decide if he should stay the night at the hospital or if he should go pick up their son and head on home.

Suddenly my daughter stiffens and drops her spoon into her bowl of stew. Then she grabs her stomach with both of her hands. At the same time this is happening I am seeing disbelief and panic in her eyes. I think, “She must be having a contraction but she looks so panicked. She has gone through this before. Why does she look so frightened at one contraction?” In a voice that carries the very force of the contraction she is having she shouts, “Oh my God! Robert, I want a pain killer and I want it now!” He is looking at her in disbelief and I’m thinking, “A pain killer? My goodness honey, this is your first contraction.” However, I know she means it because of the very tone of her voice. “What’s going on honey?” I ask. She looks at me with panic still clearly visible in her face and responds, “Mom, I’m scared. This contraction is too hard and it isn’t stopping” Robert asks her, “Do you think we should call the doctor?” to which she replies, “I don’t care. I just want a pain killer and I want it now!” I tell the kids, “I’ll go have the nurse call the doctor and let him know what is going on. I’ll also ask her to call the anesthesiologist.”

As I walk out of the room Susan is still clutching her stomach and looking horrified. I have so many thoughts just racing through my mind. One thought comes after another; then another. As fast as they come, they leave. “My poor baby. Why is this scaring you so bad? This must be one awful contraction. How I wish I could go through it for you. It is so hard to see you hurting so badly. How well I remember that pain from when you were born.” It only about 10 yards to the nurses’ station but I have hundreds of thoughts and feelings run though me in the short time it takes to get there. After explaining what is going on to the nurse and answering the questions she asks, I go back to the room. Unbelievably, Susan is still clinging to her stomach and looking very frightened. “I have to go to the bathroom” she cries.  “I need help.” Looking a little scared himself Robert helps her to walk the ten or twelve feet to the restroom.

When Susan is in the restroom, Robert and I suddenly hear her screaming, “The baby is coming! The baby is coming now!” As he rushes over to her I run out of the room. “I’ll get help!” I holler as I am hurrying out. Hearing Susan’s cries my body reacts by going hot and cold all at once. I want to cry because my baby is so scared and in such pain, yet I can do nothing to change it. When I get to the nurses station I see the nurse is already on the phone paging the doctor. After she finishes sending the page we run back into the room. Susan is still standing at the toilet with tears streaming down her face. She is no longer holding her stomach. Now she is holding her hands between her legs and she cries, “I can feel the baby’s head.” The nurse, taking complete charge of the situation begins shouting out orders, “Robert, you help me get Susan from the bathroom onto the bed! Susan’s mom, you get that bed stripped fast!” After I strip the bed faster than I’ve ever stripped a bed in my entire life, I sit down on the edge of the chair in the corner so I will be out of the way.

I watch as the nurse and Robert get my poor frightened baby to bed. I want to cry myself as I see her fear and pain. I want so desperately to say something, anything that will comfort her. However, I know I must not say a word. Nothing I can say will be of comfort to her right now. Also, if Susan realizes I am still in here she might make me leave. She has been so adamant about no one seeing her giving birth. I’ve always longed to see one of my grandchildren be born, so I sit here quietly with my hand over my mouth so I won’t make a sound; and I watch. I am overwhelmed with love and pride for my daughter at this moment. I’m also aching inside, knowing the pain she is going through. Yet I know she must go through it to get the prize at the end, to have this baby she will love so deeply. I know she will be a good mommy to the baby. She is already such a fine and loving mother to her son. I need to cry. I am so proud of her.

Oh, the baby is coming now. The head is out. I watch in amazement as the nurse is checking to make sure the umbilical cord is where it should be so it won’t hurt the baby. She tells Susan to push. As she pushes, I hold my breath, forgetting to even breathe. She gives one tremendously long, hard push. She screams with the power she must put into it, and it happens. The baby comes. She is so beautiful. She has the most stunning, thick, long, red hair I think I have ever seen on a newborn. She is my baby’s baby. I can hold back the tears no longer. They silently slide down my face. What an awesome thing to watch my daughter give birth to her daughter. A complete cycle of life has just taken place and I am in awe. I am overwhelmed at the very thought of it. My daughter now has a daughter.

The triumphant entry of Miss Lily Anne, as she will be called, has only taken an unbelievable eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes I will never forget for as long as I live. Eighteen minutes that will change my outlook on life forever.

My Dad

I hope to offer you many kinds of blogs ranging from ecstatically happy or maybe funny to some of the saddest times in my life. I hope to offer you my pondering's on things taking place in my world.  I hope to give you insight on my hopes and dreams, on where I am living and how I am living. I hope to offer you seriousness and silliness.

The first blog I give you is not a happy one. On the contrary it is probably one of the saddest I will ever write but it is my hope that it will help you begin to get to know the life, the heart, the mind of this person who is Noor.

The following is a descriptive essay I wrote for a class I was taking in 2002. I have rewritten it with a few minor modifications for this blog. It is a short story. It is about my dad.

My Dad

As I sit here in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair in room 110 at the hospital, I am watching my father sleep. It is not a contented and peaceful sleep but a fitful, unrewarding kind of sleep that comes out of desperate need and the use of medications. So very different than the kind of slumber one has when going to sleep at the end of a hard days work, ready for and in need of rest. As I watch him I can’t help but think back to when he and I were much younger than we are now. How handsome my dad was. I can see him now, standing there on the springboard with his strong arms held upward, pointing forward, clasped together just at the fingertips, head down in the proper position as he gets ready to do a perfect dive into the deep end of our kidney shaped pool. His back is long and straight, his legs muscular, strong and perfectly aligned with his feet placed together, ankles touching. He is a lean man who has the most stunning, natural, tawny brown skin. But his skin is tanned to an even deeper tone of brown with golden hues from all the hours outside in the pool. His hair, which is coal black, is wet and shimmering in the sun as he gets ready to dive. He is not a very big man standing only about 5 foot-5 inches tall but to me he is huge. He is the biggest man I have ever seen. Not because of his stature but because of who he is. He was my hero when I was a child. He is still my hero.

My dad taught backyard swim lessons in his spare time. Among his many students were two of my sisters and myself. My older sister was about as graceful as the proverbial bull in the china closet. However, when she went from dry land into water the most extraordinary thing would happen and she became the most graceful, angelic creature I had ever seen. She learned everything about swimming quickly and easily and to this day she loves-more than loves, she has a passion for swimming. Then there was my little sister. She, like me, was terrified of the water and was fearful to get in past her ankles. She learned though with my dad’s patient teaching and guidance and she developed a real enjoyment for swimming. And then there was me. I was afraid to get in the water, afraid to put my face in the water, afraid to let go of the coping (the tile that outlines the pool all the way around it), afraid to try to float on my back, afraid to float on my stomach. I was frightened of every aspect of swimming, just sure I was going to drown even if my dad was right there with me. Yet, after two full rounds of classes, many tears on my part and quite possibly my  father’s, he taught me how to swim. To this day I  don’t really care a lot for swimming but I am an extremely competent swimmer. So many times throughout my life I have been the fortunate recipient of my father’s choice to practice great love and patience.

My sisters and I had very different upbringings because of the different situations in our home. Some good but unfortunately some were not so good. My father treated us girls all very differently, trying hard to teach and love us in the way we would best respond to. I must admit though that I was favored. Being obviously favored by my dad, along with my mom impressing upon the other kids “Daddy loves her and not your baby sister, so we need to love your baby sister” made for a terrible and sad situation that built many walls between my dad and the other girls. It also provided the basis for numerous problems with all the other kids in the family and myself. The one other thing and the one good thing that this unfortunate state of affairs brought was a necessary and significant bond between my dad and I. We became extraordinarily close. Him reaching out to me, trying to protect me from the hurt the rest of the family imposed upon me and me reaching out to him because I honestly believed he was the only person in the world who loved me. This bond has ended up making for a life-long closeness that nothing, not time or circumstance has ever been able to intrude upon.

When I was twelve years old my parents’ marriage came to a not so peaceful end. Our lives were forever changed and the innocence of childhood was forever lost to all of us girls. We were suddenly thrown into a world of fighting, courtrooms and hatred that ran deep. That is another story though and not one I will go into at this time. I bring it up only to say that on my fourteenth birthday, the first day I could legally choose which parent I wanted to live with, I moved in with my now extremely sad, angry, lonely and broken father. The roles we had suddenly became reversed and instead of him protecting me and taking care of me, I now became the caretaker and defender. I lived with and cared for my father the rest of my growing up years and watched him turn into a shell of the man he had been when I was a child. He was still so loving and patient with me but he was not the same. I watched him go from an alive, vibrant man who enjoyed so much of life to a man who essentially just existed. I watched him change from a man who was full of the colors of life to a man who could best be described by the color brown, just brown. And now, I am watching him turn from brown to an ashen gray as he fights for his every breath. Many years have passed since I watched my dad get ready to jump off that springboard into our pool. Now he is seventy-nine years old and full of disease. His body is fighting against him in so many ways. I listen and watch as he fights for that next breath, panic coming into his eyes when he can’t find enough air and I want to scream “I’m scared Daddy! Make it better! Protect me!” I can’t though. I must stay silent. He can’t help me. Now I must practice the love and patience he practiced with me. I must hold his hand and tell him “it’s okay, don’t be scared, all will be well in the end.”

So I sit in this uncomfortable straight-backed chair in room 110 and I wait, wondering will this be the time he doesn’t go home ever again or will we have a little more time together? Wanting so selfishly, so desperately to have more time to love him and be loved by him but wanting just as desperately for him to pass away so he will not feel the fear of wondering how much longer it will be or how much more pain he will experience, so he will experience peace.

*An added note* My dad lived only about two and a half weeks after I wrote this. He slipped peacefully out of this world when Allah decided it was the right day, hour, moment.