Dear God: With chests puffed with pride

Dear God,

There is seldom a day that passes that I don’t realize my ignorance. I’m daft, and I don’t mean that jokingly. Everyday that I walk on this creation of yours and meet the humans that you have created, I find myself humbled beyond limit.

How could you have created me when you have already created such beauty, such perfection, some awe inducing splendor?

I didn’t always feel this way, when I was young I felt that I knew all that needed to be understood in this world of yours. I had studied what needed to be studied and my pockets were filled with what wealth that they needed to enjoy the beauty around me. I had no need to humble myself; That is, until you brought me to my knees.

Whenever for a moment I begin to see myself above the people you bring me back down. Sometimes the fall from the mountain hurts as I tumble down into the valley below. It’s then that I ask myself, “Why did I climb so high?”

Just the other week I was surrounded by students at my Shaykh’s intensive. One of them was always so quiet. I remember questioning whether he was truly in his final year at the University. He just didn’t seem like anyone special.

Today as I sat in the shaykh’s apartment with the other students waiting for class to begin I laughed. The shaykh wouldn’t be teaching this week and instead designated one of his senior most students to teach.

Who was he?

None other than this same brother.

You humbled me yet again.

I keep on building my tower of Babel only to watch it shatter into pieces before your greatness.

Subhānak.

It is only through accepting our weakness that we gain strength through you.

La Hawla Wa La Quwatta ila billa.

Humble me always, but do not forsake me.

Are not your servants those who walk upon this Earth with humility? Those whose chests are not puffed out with pride but heads weighed down with comprehension that the person they may be ready to look down upon, is a person with a seat in your throne room.

Ya Allah.

Not even a mustard seed.

Not if it grows into a vine that chokes my soul.

Jumada Al Thani 13th, 1440
February 19th, 2019

Your servant,
Arthur K. Richards

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2018-05-01 11.53.49

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