But you’re absolutely right—the pain varies. And the intensity of pain varies.
While this is all true, also true is that the intensity levels we feel from our pain vary too.
This is where the teaching comes in that we are not given a burden we cannot bear. It’s a reminder that we all have differing capabilities to rise, to be resilient, to refuse to let hardships define us.
There’s a term in Japanese called gaman, which loosely translates to “bearing what appears to be unbearable with the dignity of beautiful patience.” Humanity in its diversity has had to make sense of painful realities, and there are beautiful teachings all around us on how to not only cope, but to thrive.
Believing that whatever we’ve faced and survived we can turn into growth for ourselves and the world is a way forward. We may not believe this in our time of despair and darkness, but we remind ourselves of it in order to climb out, to climb that hidden step placed for us by the All Merciful, to reach a second phase of our life.
Our faith is one built on hope. All good is possible.
Remember: And it is within His power to bring about a second life (53:47).
It’s so beautiful that I decide to send it to Layth. He needs to read it.
And now, to collect the flower boys.
Haytham. He would know their whereabouts.
I text to find out.
All 3 are here
Where
In the guesthouse
Is my dad there
Yeah
What’s he doing
He’s handing suits out for us to try on because not everyone came ready
Oh boy. He’s helping Layth out.
Because, for sure, he never came ready—with his three CHEAP THRILLS T-shirts.
Of course Dad would be so distressed that someone would be wearing clothes like that to a wedding.
Can you please send the kids over to the other side of the house. I need to help them get prepared for their wedding tasks.
I wait, watching Hope organize flowers by their sizes into plastic jugs. She’s got boxes full of tall mason jars that I’m assuming are the vases for our tables.
I click a few pics of the flower prep for Instagram, making sure to focus on the pops of blue here and there.
They’re not coming. Dawud’s working on his flowers here and Logan and Luke think they’re helping him.
Okay, moving on to another clipboard task: set up the guestbook-signing table. Sarah showed me the guestbook and tablecloth and other things she’d gotten for the guests’ welcome table—and they are all in the basement.
Which means I’d have to go back into the house.
My dad’s still there right? In the barn?
No he just left. To go get ties.
I’m coming to talk to the kids.
I take my clipboard and run around the front of the house to the other side. I have to take this route so as to not cross paths with Dad.
I’m glad I’m in my track pants and Nikes.
Knocking on the door to the barn, I open it slightly and announce, “I’m coming in. Hope everyone’s hijabbed.”
I open it fully to Haytham sprawled on the couch snickering at my comment.
Wow, the barn is a cool place.
I have no idea why I never ventured in here before—maybe it’s because I truly thought it was a garage. Maybe because Linda told me Dad’s speedboat was housed in it.
And it sort of is a garage. Because one end of the wide-open space, the end facing the barn doors that open to the lake, has the speedboat on a trailer.
But the rest is comfy and cozy.
The space in front of me has a long wraparound white leather couch from Dad’s old house with a Persian rug in front of it and a TV set on a low table edging the carpet.
Beyond this setup are two sets of wooden stairs facing away from each other, leading to loft spaces. I can’t see into the loft bedrooms as they’re closed off by screens.
Behind the couch is an open area that’s bordered by big wooden boxes, which, judging from the trail of toys around them, belong to the laddoos.
It’s in this space that Dawud is working on his ceiling, a pair of scissors and a spool of green fuzzy wire beside him. Logan is holding flowers out for Dawud one by one, and Luke is running a truck repeatedly into a stack of blocks that he reconstructs after each destruction.
I go over to watch the flower assembly, and Haytham comes to stand beside me. “I found him old plastic netting that your dad didn’t need anymore, so he’s attaching them to that. I told him I’d help him put it up once he’s finished.” Haytham lowers his voice to add the next bit. “But I don’t think he’s got enough flowers.”
I nod sadly.
Because the floral ceiling Dawud’s making is super sad.
It’s woefully empty.
And he’s only got a few jugs of flowers left, mostly short, small bits with their petals missing, as well as lots of foliage, mainly ferns that are kind of brownish on the edges.
Even if he were to add these, he’s got maybe a quarter of what could cover the center of the gazebo’s ceiling.
Dawud stands up to survey his work, his hands unconsciously going to his hips.
Then he drops those hands and looks at Haytham. “It doesn’t look real.”
I’m about to lie and say it does look real when I spot paint cans on a steel shelf on the far wall behind the laddoos. They’re regular house paints, but they give me an idea. “It’ll look better than real if we add more flowers.”
“But I don’t have any more flowers except these small ones.” Dawud’s got a sullen, angry look on his face. At any other time, that bratty look would make me leave the entire thing alone. Walk away from his problem.
But the fact that Dawud is eight years old, like Layth’s little brother, Muhsin, gnaws at me and makes me want to overlook his sulkiness and share my idea with him.
“You don’t have enough flowers, so that’s why we’re going to get more flowers!” I say excitedly, squashing feelings of impatience rising inside as Dawud’s frown deepens and he looks at me almost defiantly, like I don’t know what I’m talking about.
He shakes his head. “No, we’re not going to because there aren’t any more. You don’t know anything about flowers! And you said you weren’t going to help me. You’re mean. You said I’m so not doing it. I remember.”
“Hey!” Haytham says sternly. “Apologize, dude. That’s rude.”
“But she said she wasn’t going to help me!” Dawud narrows his eyes at me.
“She’s not mean. She drove you into town, she took you places, and now she’s offering to help.”
The steady glare Haytham shoots at Dawud makes him drop the stink-eyes he’s giving me. Now he resorts to jutting his chin out. “Where are we going to get flowers? Huh?”
“Don’t answer that.” Haytham puts a hand up to me before crossing his arms. He’s wearing a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, so his arm muscles make themselves known immediately upon crossing. “Little bro, you’re not going to do anything more on this ceiling, and I’m not even going to help you put it up, unless that apology comes out of your mouth.”
I want to say it’s okay, but then Haytham’s so serious, I feel like if I intrude, he’ll tell me to apologize to him. Maybe it’s part of his expertise as an uncle to so many kids.