She focused her undivided attention to the sound of the raindrops splashing against her window in a random fashion. Some times the wind would assist them, and they would splatter here and there at a rapid speed. And, sometimes they would find their own way down to the glass, and trickle slowly down the vent that lay between the glass and the hood of the car. Too soon, the slight pitter patter of the rain turned into a chaos of loud thumps. Every raindrop hit the window like tiny rocks. Asma turned the switch inside her car, and the wipers began to push away the drops rhythmically. Her eyes surveyed the movement of the wipers from left to right to left, until she felt a shadow sneak in through the corner of her vision. She turned her head only to find a smiling face drenched in rain peaking inside her car. She saw the tiny droplets of rain trickling down his forehead, down the tiny buttons on his soaked shirt, to – she stopped. Saved by her modesty, she didn’t follow the raindrops down to where ever they were headed, and immediately looked back up into his eyes. She pressed the button with her finger, to open the window just a smidge, so she converse with the drenched man. “Salam alikum, I’m looking for directions to the Al-sahara mosque. Could you assist me?”
Nine years and counting, ‘I would not want my life to change at all’, he thought as he rested his head against his chair watching two hands wash those dishes. He moved his gaze to the ring on the finger, and two gold bangles striking against each other as the hands moved under the running water. He smiled. Nope. not one bit. He loved where he was. He loved the room he was in. He loved what he saw. He loved and was always thankful of all that he had gained since that day in the pouring rain. What he loved most was not knowing that trying to find his way to the house of Allah (swt), in the pouring rain Allah united him with his half deen. His zawjati.