The Night of Power

I replied to my friends wedding invite today. I prayed for them tonight, as I often do but especially tonight. Tonight was Lailat-ul-Qadr, "The Night of Power". See below for more info...http://2jay.wordpress.com/2007/10/01/lailat-ul-qadr-the-night-of-power/

When I was a kid, my mother used to prepare us for days prior for this night. We would look forward to it with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The thought that we would spend the whole night away from television (this for a 10 and 12 year old was pretty serious business) made us grimace. But on the night of, the house would be resplendent with smells of delicious foods cooking. My mom would, just before Magrib (the prayer at sundown), turn on all the lights in the house and light incense. I was always given the job to walk around to each room of the house waving the fragrant sticks and then settling them down into a little cup of rice in whichever room we would be praying.

My father would make himself scarce since he didn't ever pray but that didn't bother us. We were used to it and so when after eating and resting for a bit, it was time for the night prayer, my brother and I would put on fresh clean clothes, hurry to do Wudu (the obligatory ablutions) and come to stand on prayer mats on either side of my mother.

The house would be quiet as we hear the radio perform the Adhan (the call to prayer) …
Allah-hu-akbar…(God is great)
We would stand next to her, our shoulders closer to her elbows rather than side-by-side given our youth.
She would start to recite…
Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem…(In the name of God, the infinitely Compassionate and Merciful, Praise be to God, Lord of all worlds))
Al hamdu lillahhi rabbil alameen…
We would stand and listen. When there is someone reciting it is not necessary for you to recite as well, not unless you are praying individually. But we would pray Jamat (with a congregation) so we remained quiet, still, my hands crossed in front of my chest, my brothers just below his navel. I would sway as I heard the recital; closing my eyes tight trying so hard to clear my head of all thoughts but the words. But of course that was impossible. Inevitably I would think of school or my friend or 100 other things that 10 year olds found important. Then I would gasp and try to focus again.
Allah-hu-akbar…
We would bow before Allah (swt), hands on our knees… Subhana Rabil Azeem…(Holy is my Lord, the Magnificent)
Allah-hu-akbar…
Again, standing…
Allah-hu-akbar…
Down to the floor in Sajdah (supplication to Allah)
Subhana Rabil Alaa…(Glory is my Lord, the Most High)
We sit back up, following her lead listening to her sweet voice murmuring, allowing her to lead happily.
At the end I look to my right shoulder and say, As Salaamu’alikum wa rahmatulah (peace and blessings of God be upon you) to the angel who is recording all my good deeds) and then to the left shoulder, saying the same to the angel who is recording my wrong deeds.

Last, we cup our hands in front of us, palms up as if begging and recite our personal prayers, our requests to Allah (swt) for those things we most yearn for.
Back then the most complicated thing I wished for was that so and so like me, or that my best friend and I could sit together for this or that. My mother however always during this night asked for Allah (swt) on behalf of all of us…for peace and prosperity, granting of eternal heaven for those who had already passed on, the list being impressively short in those days, for good grades, thanks for God’s bounty, love and forgiveness for all our sins.

At the end, she would sit and tell us how all the spirits of those who had passed on had been released, sort of on break, from their daily punishment during the month of Ramadan. These spirits would go visiting from house to house to see who is observing the month appropriately, giving blessings to those who remember them in their prayers. She would tell us that on Eid-ul-Fitr, during the morning Adhan for Eid prayer, the spirits would weep because they would have to return to Allah(swt) to face punishment again until next Ramadan.

My brother and I used to be wide-eyed, darting glances around the room almost expecting to see a ghostly figure standing in the corner watching. But there was no one there and the initial chill that ran up our spines would soon diminish and disappear altogether when my mother would say in her gentle voice, “There is nothing to fear from those who you love and who love you.”

Tonight, 24 years after having prayed with my mother, I still yearn to hear her murmured words in the night, reciting the familiar passages that I know in my sleep. I stand and pray, going through the motions and find that even now, my head clamors and wanders as it used to so many years ago but now the thoughts are bigger, deeper and painful. They are prayers between God and me. They are prayers of forgiveness from Allah (swt) for all those things I know I have done. They are prayers for my loved ones.

Tonight I prayed for my parents, my in-laws, my brothers, aunts and uncles, my cousins, my friend’s and yes of course even my husband and my own health and happiness. My mind brought images of each person as vivid as if they were sitting next to me reminding me to remember them in my prayers. Faces of friends babies that have yet to see what life is all about, faces of loved ones who were indeed now just spirits (though vibrant nonetheless), faces of friends who had I had spent countless amounts of times laughing with, crying with, talking with or simply sitting with. I prayed for them Allah (swt) raking my brains for anyone I could have possibly missed.

And as fulfilling as these prayers are, I feel as if the excitement and anticipation that possibly only childhood carried is now gone. I do what I must because I must do it, because it is born in me and because my spirit feels clean and purged afterwards, yet I only do what is absolutely required. When we were children, my brother and I used to do as many Raka’s (parts) as we could, competing against each other to see who had the most stamina. 100…160…200…on and on we would go almost all night until mom would yell at us to go to bed. We would do so reluctantly but with a sense of accomplishment that was so great, the next morning we would wake up feeling almost…dare I say it…born again!

Now I’m in bed, my husband and I having done our prayers. His foot has been hurting for days, he’s walking with a terrible limp, poor baby. Still he has done his prayers, coming downstairs while I cooked only to hop around for a bit acting silly than disappearing back upstairs. I too stood to pray, feeling alone, missing my mother who is, once again, angry at me (what’s new) but I feel a sense of deep dissatisfaction. Every year I feel as if I should have done more, I should have relived those childhood years when going to sleep would cause pangs of guilt rather than relief during this night. But here I am typing my thoughts instead of physically showing my appreciation to God Almighty.

What sort of hypocrite am I anyhow? Why do I do this to myself? Why do I promise to God even as I doze off to sleep that next year…next year I’ll be better, more focused, more thankful, more humble. I promise that I will have fewer things to ask forgiveness for because I’ll strive to not sin as much and that next year, I’ll be a better human, a better Muslim. So when is next year, that perfect year, actually going to arrive? I’m sure even Allah (swt) is sick of the wait. I’m sick of the wait. I fear that tomorrow, if I am to die than there will be no more excuses that I can make, that times up and I’ve made my way into some level of hell that will be created especially for a sinner like me. I’m in agony.

Forgive me Allah…Forgive me and know what is in my heart…