Quran Blogger

An alligator was eating my son, and my wife and I were helpless to stop it. That was my wife’s dream last week. A large alligator. Eating our son. And we were helpless to stop it. Ridiculous, right?

On Friday of last week, after a long week of late nights and hard work at my job, I got an e-mail from a client—in the afternoon, no less—with a 60 page document attached to it. The client wanted to “discuss plans for reviewing” the document. An hour later, I learned that “discuss plans for reviewing the document” was client-speak for “tell you that I want a full revision of the document by Monday at 8:00 a.m.” My weekend was shot. I wouldn’t sleep but 45 minutes total (and by accident) between Saturday morning and Monday morning, and I worked on it for over 43 hours during that stretch, stopping only to eat and to doze off inadvertently and, for three hours, to attend a dinner at the house of a family friend. It was a horror story as far as work goes, but I didn’t think anything of it. I have to do that kind of stuff from time to time. No big deal.

On Saturday, as I sat on my dining room table, papers sprawled out before me, a strange thing happened. My son, and all two-and-a-half feet of his 18-month-old body, tripped over his wobbly running legs and careened toward a doorway just in front of the table on which I sat. The entire weight of his 26 pounds fell forward, pushing his temple into the angled edge of the doorway. The gash was deep, and the blood poured from his head like lava, making its way down his face and onto his clothes. His wails rang through me. I was helpless to ease his pain. As I applied pressure to the opening and tried to calm down my son, I thought of how close a call his fall was. Another inch this way or that, a little faster of a running start, a little more forward in his lean, a little less fortunate, and my boy may not have been screaming but instead silent from a blow that struck him unconscious or, worse, caused an injury to his neck or spine. My wife took him to his doctor to treat the wound. I went back to work. Crisis averted. He would be fine. Kids, especially active little boys, fall and get hurt from time to time. No big deal.

On Sunday, my kids got up early. I was still in my spot on the dining room table, working away. My five year old daughter said hello, surprised that I was already downstairs and working. My son seemed happy to see me, albeit with the ugly effects of the previous day’s spill prominently featured on his forehead. I pressed on with my work as the kids went off to be busy being kids.

We were invited, later that evening, to attend a dinner at the house of a family friend. The friend had made some comments to some of my family members about how excited he was that we were coming to his dinner and how much he was looking forward to it. I had made a commitment. I could not skip it, despite the lack of sleep and looming deadline, nor did I want to. I pressed on with my work as hard and as fast as I could, determined to make the dinner. When the time came to leave for the dinner, I was not done revising the document, but I knew that I was far enough along that I could finish up when I got back if I worked through the night again. I was pushing through a tunnel of darkness, and lo, there was light, distant and faded. It was more a loose suggestion of light, really, than actual light, but it was enough: we would attend the dinner.

We shuffled the kids into the car, stopped at a bakery, and were off to the dinner. I was exhausted, but I tried not to let myself relax on the 35 minute drive over. If I relaxed, I would not be able to work efficiently later on that night. I needed to keep my adrenalized, focused edge. I needed to stay alert.

Let’s call our gracious host this evening Abraham (a pseudonym chosen to reflect the generosity of this particular host: “There came Our Messengers to Abraham with glad tidings. They said, Peace!” He answered, “Peace!” and hastened to entertain them with a roasted calf.” [11:69]). Abraham’s house is set on a side street in a neighborhood that is more “urbanscape” than landscape. It is half a block from a busy, bustling street of commerce, which is packed with cars and busses and people and vans and all sorts of things you might find in a place where various ethnic minorities stake claim to the same neighborhood: clothing stores, bodegas, cultural centers, pharmacies, butcher shops, etc., each with a sign indicating that its inhabitants spoke some foreign language or other (although one is never quite sure if they mean in addition to or in lieu of English). Abraham’s house is also a duplex: Abraham’s side is on the left (when facing the house), neighbors live on the right. One group sat inside, another outside in the backyard. As we walked up, Abraham called me to join him in the backyard.

We dined outdoors, and the food was delicious. My son sat on my lap and ate half my food. My daughter and nieces played in the grassy area behind me. My son joined them to play after we ate. I was taking a break from work. I was exhausted, but having a blast. I was determined to make the most of my three hours or so before returning to the mad rush to finish revising my document. Life was good.

Abraham had insisted that I take a chair at one end of the table. My chair was facing my eight dining companions. The kids were behind me. Every few minutes, I would ask one of my dining companions if he could see all of the kids behind me and whether they were getting into any shenanigans. My son almost ate some dirt. One of my nieces fell on the grass. No big deal.

I turned around every so often too, to look at them. One time I turned around and my son was not in view. I asked my daughter where he was. He was behind the tree. It was pretty thick and he’s still pretty small. I leaned to the side. I saw his jeans protruding from behind the tree. He was there. He was ok. Everything was fine. No big deal.

A few minutes later one of my dining companions alerted me to the fact that my son and my niece were wandering together into an area we could not see from our table. I jumped to my feet and raced over. I discovered then that the backyard was not closed off or fenced in. It turns out that the table on which we dined was on Abraham’s side, but the grassy area where the children played was the neighbors’ side. My son and niece were wandering off toward the neighbors’ driveway on the other side of the house. The neighbor was there and saw me pick up my son. “It’s fine,” the man said. “They can play there.” He got in his car, and he, his wife and his car vacated the driveway. I went back to my spot at the table, carrying my son and leading my niece away from the driveway. My son went back to playing on the grass.

Normal conversation resumed.

 “Do you see the kids?”

“Yeah, they’re fine.”

Abraham has a garden. He grows tomatoes, mint and cucumbers. He saves a lot of money. He loves the taste and working to make the plants grow.

“How about now?”

“Still fine.”

Tiger Woods just lost the PGA Championship at Hazleton. Lost to some unknown Asian guy by three strokes. First time he’s lost after being up after 54 holes. Remarkable. He’s still the best.

To my daughter: “Do you see [my son]?”

“Yes. He’s behind the tree again.”

“OK I see him. Great.”

Mexico and the US played a big soccer game last week. Mexico won after falling behind early. The World Cup will be in South Africa next year.

Work is going fine for everyone. One of Abraham’s sons is not at the table, or at the dinner at all. Where is he? He has a job. First job ever, entry level. Fantastic.

To my daughter: “Do you see [my son]?”

Her eyes dart. Her mouth falls agape.

 “I don’t see him”

I get up and look around the tree. Not there.

I skip over to the driveway. No dice.

I run into the street. Nothing.

My heart is on the floor. My stomach is in my throat. My legs are lead.

I look away from the hustle of the busy street, down the long street in the other direction. Nothing.

I call out, probably for the third time. I look toward the busy street.

A woman is pointing. Back toward me, but across the street.

I scan the sidewalk across the side street. Not there.

Five more steps to the west, a mountain of trash. Next to it: a small boy, just then realizing his solitude, just then starting to cry.

I am there in microseconds. He’s in my arms again, weeping, shaking with fright, wailing loudly. I am helpless to ease his pain. He was alone, shaken by the uncertainty of the unfamiliar; devastated. I cradled him in my arms and sat back down at the table, trying to comfort him. His grandfather took him to his mother, who was dining with the other group inside. I drank my coffee in relative silence. I skipped dessert.

I tried to think about what had just happened, tried to rationalize it, compartmentalize it, reduce it to some platitude or generalization about how life works, how close calls sometimes happen, how none of this is unusual in the ordinary course of life. Kids walk off sometimes. No bid dea….

God sends us signs in many ways.

It is easy, especially when we are young and strong, energetic and bold, to think unconsciously that we are invincible. It is natural, when we can eschew sleep for days to pound our chests at some gargantuan victory; when life lies stretched out before our feet; when all things are possible; when optimism flows abundant; to forget how fragile we are.

90 seconds. Maybe 120. Maybe 200. Maybe a little longer. He crossed the street. He is too small to have been seen by a cruising SUV, too weak to have fought back against an ill-intentioned adult or teenager, too tiny to have screamed out over a muffling hand, above the sounds of a busy neighborhood; too short to outrun alligators.

All it takes is a moment; a moment between being me and being that guy: the guy who lost his kid, the guy whose son was kidnapped, the guy whose son was killed.

Could I survive that? Could my marriage? Would my life ever be the same? Where would my faith be? There but for the grace of God go I(?).

“Alif Lam Mim. Do the people think that they will be left alone on saying, ‘We believe,’ and that they will not be tested? We did test those before them, and Allah will certainly know those who are true from those who are false.” [29:1-3]

I’ve been tested before; everyone has. Bad things happen in life. Loved ones get sick. Friends die. Plans fail. Things don’t always go your way. Life is altered in moments.

But what bigger test is coming? Can I make it through? Can my faith?

In the span of three days, I had a bad experience at work, my son had a freak fall right in front of me, and then he walked into and across a busy street on his own. Another few moments of inattentiveness, one more distraction, and things might have been different. Maybe all of this was a coincidence—maybe. But maybe these are reminders. Maybe I was getting too comfortable, too confident, too involved in my life and career. Maybe I was feeling too invincible, or cavalier.

At some point, everyone needs to feel helpless.

“Every soul shall have a taste of death: and only on the Day of Judgment shall you be paid your full recompense. Only he who is saved far from the Fire and admitted to the Garden will have attained the object (of Life): for the life of this world is nothing but goods and chattels of deception.” [3:185]

We are all going to die, and most of us won’t choose how or when. Likely it will be some outside force over which we have no control that sends us off to another life. Think about how it will happen to you.

Will it be a car accident? I am usually in control in a car, but what if some other driver strikes a third, and a piece of one vehicle flies through my windshield at 80 mph. How helpless will I feel in that split second before impact?

What if I get sick? What if my body betrays me? How helpless will I feel staring at the mirror every morning, watching myself wither into a corpse with the slow passage of time? Helpless. Without Control. Fragile. Weak.

So far in our lives, each of us has been perfect in avoiding death. Every experience we have ever had, every accident, every close call; we’ve successfully navigated through them all. But one day, we won’t be so in control, or so fortunate. One day you or I will be in the lead car on the way to the funeral. I think we all understand that. We all live with that reality. We all try to remember death. But there are things worse than death—things much worse. Maybe, this Ramadan, we should also think about strengthening our faith and our connection to God so that we are better equipped to handle tragedies that befall us, to prepare for those things that are worse than death. Maybe we should spend time being thankful rather than being greedy. We ask God for a lot; maybe we need to thank Him for more.

Maybe I was getting too comfortable with my life, too secure. Maybe I was taking for granted the blessings I have. Maybe I had become comfortable, or grown ungrateful. Maybe I wasn’t praying enough, or sincerely enough. Maybe prayer became too much routine and too little feeling. Maybe I felt strong. In control. Able. Maybe I was becoming insolent. Or arrogant. Maybe these were reminders of how precarious living can be.

I recalled an ayah:

“[And do not] walk on the Earth with insolence: for you cannot rend the earth asunder, nor reach the mountains in height.” [17:37].

All it takes is a moment. Everything can change. No one is immune. No one has enough power.  No one reaches the mountains in height, or causes the Earth to crack beneath his feet.  The successes we have, the good situations we work so hard to build, the achievements we notch; they could all be rendered meaningless in an instant, reduced to a simple prologue to the story about that guy to whom horrible thing x happened. We all live in the shadow of God’s grace, and the sun can shift at any time, leaving us exposed to all manner of life-altering contingency.

I am humbled. I am fragile. An alligator could eat my son, and I might be helpless to stop it.

Seek refuge in God, alone and in no other.

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p.s.: I realize this is now three posts without real analysis of the ayahs of the Quran. We will return to that soon, God willing.