A fictional account of the brevity of Hajj blessings.
Not even two days. How can it be? Less than 48 hours from finishing my first Hajj, the pinnacle of my faith, and I’ve lost the sense of forgiveness I’d gained. Three reckless words and it’s gone.
It was good while it lasted; that feeling of pleasing Allah, being cleaned of my sins. Blessed forgiveness. We chatted, the other Hajjis and me, about the goodness of Allah, the wisdom of our prophet, the fellowship of the ummah. Together we mourned the blessed dead who’d perished during the pilgrimage, 1100 souls now in paradise.
We left the holy city to our respective places, eyes on Allah, hearts filled with peace and hope.
I pulled into the driveway and my family poured out the front door of our home. We hugged and cried. They could tell I was different. We had no idea how brief the difference would last.
In the living room, I opened my bag to pass out the gifts I’d brought: Hand of Fatima necklaces for the teenaged girls, a football jersey for the 10 year old boy. As I pulled the shirt out, a bottle sparkled in the suitcase and he snatched it, the perfume I’d bought for my wife, the expensive one she only gets when someone passes through a duty free shop in Dubai.
You suspect what happened, no? The bottle sprang from his hand, arced through the air and glanced against the granite end table as if fell, breaking into dozens of pieces, the precious perfume soaking into the carpet.
“Damn you, Jamal!” The words sprang from my mouth as cleanness fled my soul.
It would be nice to blame it on jet lag, but sin is sin. I’m reminded my white soul is black every time I walk through the fragrant living room. And what am I to do? I apologized to Jamal, of course, and began today to save money to return on the Hajj again someday.