Faithbook: Jumma Rain - On Faith at washingtonpost.com

Jumma Rain

I could tell that the 4-year old boy dressed in traditional Bangladeshi garb seated next to his father felt my pain. We were each struggling to make it through another Friday khutbah (sermon). Like me, he yearned for a reason to get excited, to break the monotony of a sermon that never ventured into the interesting. Like me, he was happy when the azaan (call to prayer) was being called. Unlike me, he had the courage to yell out the words as the muezzin beautifully called us to prayer. Others around me were scolding the father to quiet his son. The cynic in me wondered if they wanted to hear the azaan unadulterated or if they simply wanted to reprimand the father for his inability to reprimand his own son, a cute little boy who found so much beauty in the azaan that all he wanted to do so was sing along.

I made eye contact with the boy and smiled, no doubt encouraging him to rebel against the others. Something told me that the father wanted to flip off those around him for silencing his son. Had we not been inside the mosque I hope he would have. The Prophet once said that children are the flowers of paradise. I felt sorry that those who wanted to quiet the boy had forgotten this simple message.

When the azaan was complete, the boy settled down. Like most other jummas (congregational Friday prayer) I attend, I was forced into my mind for entertainment that would get me through the khutbah. I've been attending this mosque since I was a kid and listened to the same Imam tell the same stories to the same people. The only reason I suffer the predictability is because I love attending prayer with my dad, who helped build the mosque from scratch and has always been an integral part of the community. I thought about the opening ceremony of the Olympics that had taken place that morning. The fact that I hadn't gone to the beach in over a month. My students from summer school. This girl made a brief appearance. Again. One of the many reasons I hate boring khutbahs is because it gives me too much time with my own thoughts, which can be a dangerous thing.

Then as the khutbah began to close and the prayer was about to begin, there was a loud commotion at the front entrance of the mosque. It was raining heavily outside and a large group of brothers were forcing their way inside. Safe inside my mind and mosque, I had been oblivious to the downpour.

I wondered if I'll ever have the chance to pray jumma in the pouring rain again.

As a hundred or so men were pushing their way inside, I made my way outdoors and joined the line of brothers who had given up trying to avoid the rain. I laughed as I realized that those who saw me leave my spot at the front probably thought I had to redo my wudu (the ritual ablution done before prayer, which is lost if, among other reasons, one passes gas or goes to the bathroom). Once outside, others looked back at us, assuming that we had all come late to prayer and had no choice but to pray outside. I didn't care.

I was soaked. It was great. My friends and family know that I have never owned an umbrella. Rain is a blessing; on this Friday I wanted every bit of it.

The rain seamlessly complemented the Imam's recitation of Qur'an. The puddles grew larger and larger, until I was at least an inch deep in it. The rain only got stronger during the seven or so minutes of prayer. The steady cadence of Qur'an and rain was interrupted only by thunder.

I realized then how foolish I was to think that only the little boy understood my need for some excitement.

Talk about seven minutes in heaven.

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