Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim
I figured one of my first actual posts should be the story of my conversion. As you can probably tell, this is where the title for my blog came from. I mentioned in my introduction that this blog would focus on a few topics — not just my conversion. But, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that experience, so it’s certainly important.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I felt like screaming but all I could manage was a sob. Tears flooded my eyes and poured down my cheeks. Never before had I felt this low. Never before had I hurt this much. As I angrily wiped the tears from my eyes, bright orange plastic caught my eye. I reached for the familiar box cutters, my constant companion at work. The silver blade was exposed as I pushed the black switch. For a moment I contemplated that blade. Then I pushed it into my wrist, leaving a trail of red beads behind.
The story of my conversion begins long before I even came across Islam, before I was even born. Both of my parents were raised as Christians: father was raised Catholic, my mother Lutheran. And thus I was raised Christian. I can remember as a young child attending church services every Sunday morning. I never questioned anything. At my age parents were equal to God himself. Church was simply a very boring irritant that I suffered without choice every weekend.
Then in the fifth grade my parents divorced. It was an afternoon in early September. My mother returned home from work and informed my brother and me that we were leaving – for good. We moved in with the man that would later become our step-dad. Neither he nor my mother was at all religious, and so church became nonexistent to me. I lived without religion.
I wish I could say these years were fun and enjoyable. But they were far from that. My mother and step-dad spent every Friday at the bar, and when they weren’t sitting at the bar, they were seated in front of the TV. My brother’s care became my responsibility. It was up to me to watch him, discipline him, feed him. Chores were always my duty; mopping, sweeping, dusting, vacuuming, laundry…I did it all. I had no life beyond the suffocating walls of the house.
Then another event changed my world drastically yet again. My parents were both fired from their jobs. We had no choice but to move 500 miles away to my grandparent’s house in Northern Minnesota, a world greatly different from South Dakota. I had only a weekend to tell my friends I was leaving, never to see them again.
At first it appeared as though life couldn’t be more perfect in my new surroundings. I was free from the never-ending cycle of chores, and my brother was under my care no more. What could be better? But it my joy was short-lived. My grandma was highly religious. She drug my brother and I to church services every morning, and forced me to attend confirmation class every Wednesday evening.
The years without religion had hardened my heart against anything to do with religion. I still believed in God and all that, but I had absolutely no desire to practice anything or even any interest in religion. And at that age, I was very resentful towards anyone who forced me to do anything – especially when it’s something I’m not interested in. Plus, neither my mom nor my step-dad was attending church. I felt they were letting my grandma rule my religious life when I didn’t want anything to do with religion and they themselves – my parents – weren’t even religious.
I allowed this for a few years: the Sunday mornings, the confirmation classes. But I never really believed what I heard, what I was taught. I still believed in God, in a higher power, but I began to question Him. How could somebody as caring and merciful as God let me suffer what I had? If He truly loved me, why was my life miserable? As the months slipped by, these questions and more filled my head, forming an inner turmoil that plagued me night and day.
Then relief came. After being confirmed I was allowed to stop attending church. But my grandmother was not happy with my choice; every Sunday she would appear in my doorway and ask whether I was joining her that morning. Wincing, I would always say no. This of course greatly disappointed my grandmother, who would clearly show her displeasure before walking away. I dreaded these mornings. I felt guilty saying no, but I didn’t want to spend the morning shut up in a drafty church listening to the pastor drone on about something or other.
Needless to say I was happy when my parents finally decided to move. Granted the new house was only a quarter mile from my grandmother’s, but it was far enough. I could sleep-in Sunday mornings and not worry about how my grandmother viewed me. Again, I was living without religion. But then the questions began again. Before I had been okay with religion, and then I become untrusting of it. And now, I was beginning to find myself confused. What did I really believe, in my heart? The question, combined with the others, carried so much stress; I didn’t know where to turn.
But a series of events changed everything. It was a warm summer evening when I watched a medical documentary. One particular surgeon really amazed me with his skill and dedication; so much so that I decided to contact him. After a couple months of exchanging emails, I suddenly realized he was the first Muslim I had ever interacted with. At the same time, my step-dad was always going on about how terrible the ‘ragheads’ were. As if I didn’t have enough questions, another surfaced: what was so bad about Islam that my step-dad – and many other Americans – was always criticizing the religion?
To be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment