The Light of Direction In a calm neighborhood on the edge of the city, lived a youthful man named Zayd. At twenty-three, Zayd had everything that individuals more often than not chase—money from his tech work, a pleasant loft, and companions who respected his victory. But in spite of all of that, Zayd felt something was lost. A unusual vacancy was taken after him, particularly amid the calm hours of the night. He was born into a Muslim family but had floated far from the confidence. He accepted in God, but religion felt like a removed culture, not something that lived in his heart.
One Friday evening, Zayd was looking over on his phone at a coffee shop when he taken note a gather of youthful men passing by in conventional dress. They were grinning, welcoming each other with “Assalamu Alaikum,” and entering a adjacent mosque. He didn't know why, but something in their peace mixed him. A memory flashed—his granddad, a long time back, setting his hand on Zayd's head and saying, “Never disregard your salah, my child. It's your light.”
Zayd brushed it off and tasted his coffee.
As fate would have it, afterward that evening, he bumped into Omar, a childhood companion he hadn't seen in a long time. Omar looked distinctive now—calm, certain, and grounded.
"Zayd? Subhan Allah, is that you?" just Omar shouted.
Zayd chuckled and gave him a embrace. "Man, it's been until the end of time! You see... diverse."
Omar grinned. "Alhamdulillah. I've changed a part since tall school. Got closer to Allah. You still around here?"
They sat and talked for over an hour. Omar didn't thrust religion. He fair shared how misplaced he utilized to feel and how returning to Islam brought him peace.
Some time recently they separated, Omar said tenderly, “If you ever need to come to the masjid with me, fair once, I'd cherish to have you. No pressure.”
Zayd gestured, uncertain, but his interest had been stirred.
A week later, Zayd found himself sitting clumsily within the back of the mosque. He had no thought what was going on amid the supplication, but something almost the calm lines, the solidarity of individuals bowing to One Maker, touched him.
After the supplication, Omar came over, radiating. “I'm so happy you came, bro. How'd it feel?”
Zayd shrugged, attempting to act casually. “I do not know… peaceful, I guess.”
Which , he realized, was sufficient.
Omar laughed. "That's how it starts."
In the coming weeks, Zayd began to join Masjid more often. He asked questions, read the Quran in English and started praying occasionally. The emptiness slowly shrunk.
One night, as he was awake, tears rose in his eyes. "Yah Allah," he whispered, "If you are true, lead me. I don't want to live in this mess anymore."
He began praying five times a day. He made you regularly. He even began fasting on Monday. His friends were confused, and some laughed at him, but Zaed felt stronger than ever. Then something unexpected happened.
Jason, one of his close friends, called him one night. "Hey, can I tell you something...personal?"
"Natural," Zade replied.
"I saw you," Jason Rays said. "You're not. Longer. More...relaxed. What's changed?"
Zayd took a break. "Honesty? It is Islam. I once again connected to my faith, and everything changed. "
Jason was quiet. It didn't make any sense to me.
Zayd's eyes rose. "Of course, brother."He was lost a year ago. Now he has led others.
He recalled the poem that Omar once shared with him:
"And in his speech, who is better than someone who invites Allah and says justice: "Am I a Muslim?"
(Quur`an
1:33)
Zayd did not feel like a scholar or a preacher. He was a man who lost himself and found his way home. But now he knew: even the smallest step to Allah could become a bridge for someone else.
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