I sit across from her, my younger self, in a small coffee shop near the train tracks downtown. Outside, leaves flutter, crunching under the boots of passerbys. It’s our favorite season–fall.
She’s crouched over, arms drawn in, already uncomfortable in her own skin. She wears tight jeans and an oversized sweater, her brown hair falling over her shoulders. I sit straight in hijab, wrapped in a loose, flowing dress—the confident version of herself we never imagined.
She is full of dreams, searching for adventure, unaware of Islam. A pastor’s daughter, artistic, always on the lookout for her prince. I know what’s coming—the rebellion, the longing, the ache for something more.
The table rattles with a passing train and I wonder if telling her about the Quran will change her, or if she will turn away in her young age. Will her journey still lead her to my husband? Or will the hardships ahead shape her path as they once shaped mine?
She watches me with curious eyes.
“Wait for him,” I say. “Don’t be fooled by others. Trust Allah’s timing.”
She asks more about my husband. Of course, it’s all she thinks about–finding him. If she only knew how perfect he was…
“He’s my truth-teller,” I say, smiling. “Righteous, protective, and real. He’s everything–my soul.”
I tell her about Palestine, about our struggles, about the weight of truth while the world is asleep. She needs to know now, so she can see through the lies she is being taught–the ones that will lead to regret, to rage.
Islam is the only way to find peace in a world of illusions. It holds the answers she is desperate for.
I hand her the Quran.
“Everything you’re searching for is already written. So read,” I say. “You’ll love this life more than anything you have every known. Nothing and no one is worth losing it over.”
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