"Indeed We Belong to Allah, and to Him We Return"
When a father is gone.
There exists a particular kind of loneliness that arrives with the loss of a parent, especially a father. The person who existed before his children did, who shaped so much of who they become, who they called when they didn’t know what to do, suddenly isn’t there anymore. The pillar falls, and only then does it become clear how much weight it was holding.
The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, once passed by a woman weeping at a grave. He told her to fear God and be patient. She didn’t recognize him and said, “Leave me alone, for indeed you have not been afflicted with a calamity like mine.” When she learned it was the Prophet himself, she went to find him to apologize. He said something that has echoed through the centuries: “Patience is at the first shock.”
That first shock. The moment when the news is fresh, when hands shake, when belief itself becomes difficult. When the impulse arises to reach for the phone to call him before remembering. This first moment is when patience matters most. Not because the pain lessens later, though it does shift and change, but because holding oneself together when everything inside wants to break apart, that’s when the truest strength shows itself.
But what does patience actually mean? It certainly doesn’t mean not crying. It doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine or forcing a smile when a heart is shattered. The Prophet himself wept when his son Ibrahim died. Tears fell from his eyes, and when asked about it, he said these weren’t forbidden. What he wouldn’t do was wail, tear his clothes, or speak words that showed resentment toward God’s decree. Patience means holding on when the waves crash. It means saying “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un” even when the voice breaks. It means accepting that this happened while still feeling the full weight of what has been lost. Grief is real. Tears are real. And they don’t disqualify anyone from being patient.
“We have certainly created man into hardship”
One of the hardest lessons life teaches is that this world was never meant to be permanent. Every joy comes with its shadow. Every hello carries a goodbye. The Quran reminds us in Surah Al-Balad that this is not punishment, but reality. This life was designed as a place of testing, of mixing bitter with sweet, of teaching what really matters. When someone expects life to be smooth and it throws this at them, the shock is devastating. But when the understanding comes that loss is woven into the fabric of existence, that everyone who walks this earth will face their measure of pain, somehow it becomes more bearable. Not easier, but more real.
“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient. Who, when disaster strikes them, say, ‘Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.’ Those are the ones upon whom are blessings from their Lord and mercy. And it is those who are the rightly guided.” Surah Al-Baqarah
Here exists a truth that both stings and soothes: nothing anyone has truly belongs to them. A father was a gift. His time with his family was a loan. And loans, by their very nature, are returned to their owner. This might sound cold at first, but there’s something important here. God is the one who created every father, who gave him to his family, who wrote every day of his life before he was born. He didn’t take something that belonged to his children. He called back what was always His.
This doesn’t make the empty chair at dinner easier to see. It doesn’t make absence less painful. But it shifts something. It turns the anger of “why was this taken?” into the acceptance of “there is gratitude for the time that was given.”
When Umm Sulaym’s young son died while her husband Abu Talha was away, she prepared the body quietly, then waited for her husband to come home. She fed him, comforted him, and they shared an intimate moment. Only after did she say, “If people lend us something, then ask for it back, should we refuse?” When he understood she meant their son, he was devastated but also at peace. The Prophet heard this story and praised her patience, her wisdom in helping her husband understand what she had already grasped: we are stewards, not owners.
Ibn al-Qayyim, may God have mercy on him, wrote in his book ‘Zad al-Ma’ad’ about remedies for affliction. He said to know that panic does not return what was lost, but rather doubles it, and in reality adds to the illness. To know that missing the reward of patience and submission, which is the prayer and mercy and guidance that God promised to the patient ones, is greater than the calamity itself in truth. To know that panic brings joy to enemies, saddens friends, angers the Lord, pleases the devil, nullifies reward, and weakens the soul. But if someone is patient and seeks reward, they exhaust their devil and return him defeated, please their Lord, gladden their friend, sadden their enemy, and carry the burden for their brothers, consoling them before they console him. This is true steadfastness.
“Indeed, the patient will be given their reward without account”
This promise of this verse from Surah Az-Zumar offers no limits, no ceiling, just endless compensation for what was endured. Ibn al-Qayyim wrote that God doesn’t test His servants to destroy them but to elevate them, to burn away their sins, to prepare them for something greater. A father’s death can wash away mistakes and lift someone to heights they’d never reach otherwise. Not because the pain is good, but because the response to it matters immensely.
What helps when nothing seems to help? Some days the grief ambushes. Everything is fine and then suddenly it’s not. Seeking refuge in prayer helps, not just the ritual prayers, though those anchor, but the raw conversations with God when sleep won’t come.
“Seek help through Allah and be patient” Surah Al-A’raf, said Moses, peace be upon him, to his people when they faced Pharaoh’s threats. The scholars say that seeking help from God is among the most important aids to patience. The connection between seeking God’s help and patience appears throughout the Quran, showing how deeply linked they are. The Quran is filled with reminders that this life is temporary, mixed, never pure in its joys.
“If a wound should touch you, there has already touched the similar people a wound like it, and these days We alternate among the people.”
This verse from Surah Ali ‘Imran tells us that this world was created with a nature where pleasures mix with pains, where what is loved mingles with what is hated. It’s rare to find a pleasure unmixed with pain, or health untainted by sickness, or joy unaccompanied by sorrow, or rest without fatigue, or gathering without separation, or security without fear following it.
Ibn al-Qayyim wrote that among the remedies to this pain is to extinguish the fire of one’s calamity with the coolness of sympathy with other people of calamities. Look right and see only tribulation. Look left and see only sorrow. If someone searched the whole world, they would find only those afflicted, either by the loss of something beloved or the arrival of something hated. The joys of this world are like dreams in sleep or a passing shadow. If it makes someone laugh a little, it makes them cry much. If it pleases for a day, it troubles for a long time.
Remembering the death of the Prophet himself helps too. There is a hadith where the Prophet, peace be upon him, said, “O people, if anyone among the people or among the believers is struck by a calamity, let him find consolation in his calamity by remembering me, for no one from my nation will be struck by a calamity after me more severe than my calamity.” The greatest loss the Muslim community ever faced was losing their Prophet. If that can be borne, then other losses, while devastating, exist within a framework of what humans can endure.
“And whatever you have of blessing, it is from Allah”
Surah An-Nahl reminds us that if someone has health and strength, it’s from God. If they have wealth, it’s from God. If they have children, it’s from God. When something is taken, the Owner of all things has simply reclaimed what He loaned.
Ibn al-Qayyim explained that the phrase “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return” contains two tremendous principles:
The first: the servant, their family, and their wealth are all possessions of God, placed with the servant as a loan. When God takes it back, He is like a lender taking back his property. What is owned is surrounded by two states of non-existence: non-existence before it came, and non-existence after it goes. The servant’s ownership of it is temporary enjoyment for a brief time.
The second principle: the servant’s destination and return is to God, their true Master. They must leave this world behind and come to their Lord alone, as they were created the first time, without family, wealth, or tribe, but only with good deeds and bad deeds. If this is their beginning and their end, how can they rejoice at something present or grieve over something lost?
The reward matters. Not in a transactional way, but because it reframes everything.
“Excellent is the reward of the workers who have been patient and upon their Lord rely”
This verse from Surah Al-Ankabut is echoed in Surah An-Nahl: “What is with you will end, but what is with Allah remains. And We will surely give those who were patient their reward according to the best of what they used to do.”
The Quran speaks of the patient in exalted terms.
Some commentators said this means it will be poured for them in abundance, showered upon them. While God specified measured rewards for other righteous deeds, He left the reward of the patient unlimited, uncounted, without measure.
Ali ibn Abi Talib, may God be pleased with him, said, “God’s decree will run its course whether one is pleased or displeased with it. But if one is pleased, one will be rewarded, and if one is displeased, one’s deeds will be nullified.” The decree of God is like a sword. It will strike regardless. But the servant is the one who either profits or loses based on their acceptance or rejection.
For those walking through this valley of patience, practical matters also help. Letting people help matters. The bereaved don’t have to be strong for everyone. Letting friends sit with them, letting family check in, these connections matter. Isolation makes everything worse.
Keeping the deceased alive through actions helps too. Praying for them, giving charity in their name, every good thing done sends blessings back to them. The hadith says, “When a person dies, all their deeds come to an end except three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for them.”
Being gentle with oneself matters. Some days the bereaved will handle things well. Some days they won’t. Both are acceptable. Grief isn’t linear. It doesn’t follow a schedule.
The woman at the grave told the Prophet he couldn’t understand because he hadn’t been struck by her calamity. But he had. By the time he said those words, he’d lost his mother, his father, his grandfather who raised him, his beloved wife Khadijah, his uncle Abu Talib, several of his children. He understood completely. And still he counseled patience, not because it’s easy, but because it’s the only way through.
For those supporting someone who has lost a parent, presence matters more than words. Don’t tell the bereaved it’s God’s will as if that makes it hurt less. They likely already know this. Don’t say “at least” anything. Just being there helps. Showing up. Bringing food. Sending a message. Saying his name. Expressing sorrow. Letting them cry. Letting them be angry. Letting them be quiet. And if they seem fine one day and broken the next, understanding that this is normal helps them feel less alone.
“Gardens of perpetual residence, which they will enter with whoever was righteous among their fathers, their spouses and their descendants”
This promise from Surah Ar-Ra’d speaks to reunion. One day, sooner than feels possible right now, there will be meeting again. Not with someone frail or sick or limited by any of the constraints that bound them here. Whole and radiant and waiting. This separation is temporary. Painful beyond words, but temporary.
Until then, there is this harder path. Learning patience not as a concept but as a daily practice. Discovering what humans are made of when everything comfortable is stripped away. A father’s legacy lives in his children. In their choices, their character, the way they treat others, the values they hold. Every good thing they do honors him. Every moment they choose patience over despair, they make his life mean something beyond its span of years.
This is the work of the living: to carry forward what has been given, to transform pain into something that serves others, to trust that even when the wisdom can’t be seen, it’s there. The pillar fell. But those left standing remain upright. And that counts for more than can be measured. The Quran promises that those who are patient through trials receive blessings from their Lord, mercy, and guidance. Not one of these, but all three.
To all the fathers who shaped their children and then left them to walk alone: they are carried forward. There is stumbling, there is weeping, but they are carried forward into every act of kindness, every moment of strength, every prayer whispered in the dark.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un”. Indeed We belong to Allah, and to Him we return.