“And when I am ill, it is He Who cures me.” (26:80)
Last month I fell sick – not only had I caught the flu bug, I was struck with a bit of fever & a series of coughs as well. (So you can imagine my sengau voice haha.) I hadn’t been that sick since quite some time and this sickness affected me for a few weeks bringing me to my almost lowest point of my immune system. I didn’t feel like doing anything. I just wanted to stay in my super comfy bed & snuggle up with my comforter.
Yes, didn’t even feel like climbing. That’s how sick I was. I’m currently recovering alhamdulillah. (& my voice is resuming well to its natural being) :D
Good thing I fell sick tho. It was a test & blessing at the same time for many reasons.
One of it being I was reminded of a story I once read about an old man who cried after receiving his hospital bill and when asked, he actually had not cried because of the amount in any case it was too much, but he cried because all this time when he was healthy and given him a working immune system, God did not charge a single cent but when he fell sick he had to pay to repair his system – How many times have we thanked Him for giving us a healthy, working immune system that allows us to walk, talk, perform daily activities everyday without being asked anything in return except to remember him and be grateful…? We can’t be regretting & realising only when we are struck with major illness can we?
I couldn’t find that story but I found another one at Qisas.com – Yey to that website for being back up & running again! For a while it was down I think, and wasn’t accessible at all – I simply love going there for its inspiring reads that also serves as daily reminders.
And this story I feel, is one of those stories that deeply impacted me the most. You know the kind where you feel like you just got slapped in the face or just got thrown a cold bucket of water? Read on.
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “People I Have Liked.” I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.
And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalogue system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory could not match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named “Friends” was next to one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed.” The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read,” “Lies I Have Told,” “Comfort I Have Given,” “Jokes I Have Laughed At.”
Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: “Things I’ve Yelled at My Brothers.”
Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in My Anger,” “Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents.” I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 30 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listened To,” I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, ashamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of wasted time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked “Lustful Thoughts,” I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!”
In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it.
The title bore “Time I Have Spent in Learning About Allah and His Tawheed”. The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. The cards in it were so few, so inadequate, that I could count them on just one hand! And the amount of time I had spent in learning about Allah, in understanding His Tawheed, in studying the correct Islamic Aqeedah – the time I had spent on all this was so tiny, so miniscule and irrelevant that I was embarrassed beyond words . . .
It was then that the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the over-whelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room.
I must lock it up and hide the key.