as many classes and functions as I could, but there was still something missing. I had no real direction. No guidance.
I was no longer depressed, lonely or sad, but I had no idea how to really live as God wanted us to. What is sinful and what is not? If our sins have been forgiven, then what is the purpose of life? What makes someone a good person and are we guaranteed heaven? These are questions that the church could not answer for me. I would read Bible scriptures, then see the opposite practiced in church. From Christmas trees on the altars to Easter egg hunts at church, I could not understand why Christians were not following the Bible.
By this time, my beloved grandmother had passed, but the hope that she gave me in trusting in a relationship with God only became more alive. I read about Mecca and Hagar RA and wondered why Christians never went to Hajj. I stopped eating pork after a friend who was a Seventh Day Adventist showed me that it was forbidden in the Bible. I outgrew the pep-rally-like worship service before a sermon and just thought that I needed a more challenging church that could teach me more.
Then one day, around the time of Easter (2010), I was reading the story of the resurrection in the Bible. In the middle of the story there was a symbol and a footnote at the bottom of the page. It said something to the effect of “This portion had been added to the scripture 300 years after the previous.” I was shocked. I had already started to see contradictions in the practice and teachings in the church but I felt the Bible was our guidance. For the first time I started to question its origins.
While I was working in a Christian Mission, a man once came in for help. It was part of our job to assess our clients’ spirituality. “How are you spiritually?” we’d have to ask. “How is your relationship with Jesus?” The man’s response was beautiful. “I love Jesus more than I love myself.” I had never even heard Christians speak that way. “Do you have a church home?” I asked. “I am a Muslim,” was his answer. After we were done, I went and asked my supervisor, “Why do we love the Jew that denies Jesus but hate the Muslim that loves him more than himself?” Again, no answer.
The church had been a healing place for me but now I needed something more. I figured that if I kept my focus on Jesus AS, I would be okay. I looked into Judaism. I celebrated Hanukkah one year, but this would not work because they do not accept Jesus AS.
I then remembered the Muslims that love Jesus AS more than they loved themselves. I never considered becoming a Muslim; I just wanted to see who Jesus AS was in Islam. I asked for help looking for a Mosque and an Imam to talk to on Facebook. I started a dialogue with someone who put me in touch with his father who was the local Imam. The more I learned, the more worried I became. I’d find something I liked, like praying, and then say “no, I’m not Muslim I just pray five times a day”. I started to read the English translation of the Qur’an and immediately recognized the stories and Prophets of the Qur’an. It was as if the conversation I was having with God via the Bible had been picked back up via the Qur’an. And then Ramadan was around the corner.
My friend whose father was an Imam, sent his niece to support and teach me about Islam. My new sister taught me how to make Wudu. She taught me how to pray, with my forehead and nose to the ground, like Jesus did in Matthew 26:39. Islam was the “meat” that I needed. I learned that God was much greater than a father and that even Satan submitted and was not a rival. But what brought hope back into my heart officially was in realizing that Allah never abandoned me. Allah was preparing me for the university that is Islam. I had to first learn that I needed Him. I had to learn how to submit with my heart before I could perform any physical rituals
Ramadan 2010 was in August. It is the hottest, most humid month in the Midwest, and I was determined to fast, even though I was not an official Muslim. After the first day of fasting, by myself, I felt so emotional once maghrib came in. I felt connected to others around the world that were also breaking their fast at the very same time as I was. I realized that this coming to Islam may have been an answered prayer from those before me: my Muslim ancestors brought as slaves from West Africa and brought to the Caribbean, along with my ancestors that were forced into Catholicism in Al-Andalusian Spain.
I finally found the guidance and security I was looking for. They say the safest place to be is in the will of God and here is where hope was waiting for me. I took Shahada that Ramadan. Hope had returned for good. Alhamdulillah.
Ramadan 2010 was in August. It is the hottest, most humid month in the Midwest, and I was determined to fast, even though I was not a Muslim. After the first day of fasting, by myself, I felt so emotional once maghrib came in. I finally found the guidance I was looking for. I took Shahada that Ramadan. Hope had returned for good. Alhamdulillah.
