How did it get to 20 days already?
Technically, as I write this it is the 21st Ramadan; the next day starts when the sun sets, so the day follows the night. Tonight marks the start of the last 10 days of Ramadan, and the precious handful of nights which are rich in worship, charitable giving, and human nature.
Human nature as in regret: why didn’t I make more of Ramadan? As in motivation: it’s not quite over, I’ve still got time, I can still give something to God in this month and get a lot back. As in relief: it’s almost over and I’m still here, making it! As in frustrated desire: I want to be present with God but I don’t know how. I think I’ve lost my way a bit.
Apparently it’s common in the final stretch of Ramadan to lose steam. To get a little tired of the routine which filled you with so much purpose, focus and light in the early days of the month. To miss those everyday blessings you’ve got a renewed appreciation for during this month of abstaining from them. To be fatigued from long days without eating and drinking. To hit a plateau and feel like you’re not trying enough and have lost that precious connection with God. To feel like you’ve wasted time and the month will end leaving you unfulfilled and deflated.
Right now I’m not present. I’m stuck in haunting memories from two years ago. I’m fending off worries about the future. I’m a little giddy at the sound of the world humming so close by, waiting for me. I’ve lost sight of God, and when that happens I feel like I don’t deserve to ask for His help. Like an unworthy servant who needs to fix herself before I can present myself before Him.
I got a boost from reading about how a secular Muslim – an adult woman – fasted for the first time in her life this year and discovered a new relationship with her faith. One that had been denied to her by the negative impact of others who had used it as a means of judgment, punishment and exclusion. I was inspired that this month has touched somebody so significantly when they least expected it.
I am also thinking about the many times I’ve spoken to God in a state of embarrassment, knowing I’ve fallen far short of what I’d like to be for Him and what He’s made me capable of, and He’s answered.
I think about how common it is to feel like this when the end of this month is in sight. The desperation to scrape together enough so you can ask God for His Help to be present. To be in a state of khushu. To make up for lost time, to show up and not be closed to the wonders of this month. Whatever you have done doesn’t seem like enough.
I think about how the nothingness and shame I feel is all in my head, and I cannot know what God is thinking or how He sees me. I think about how when I imagine God being angry with me or ignoring me, it’s actually my anger towards myself. It’s my inability to help myself, which is the perfect time to talk to God.
I read somewhere recently that Ramadan arrives when it’s ready at its allotted time, not when you’re ready for it. It comes to you as you are, and that is exactly how it is meant to be. It meets you in your life, in your authentic and real state, not after you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up and hide the dirty clothes of your messy life under the bed. It is meant to find you in your most vulnerable state, because that’s how it can help you the most.
The final 10 days of Ramadan are starting and my head is stuck in the past and in the world. I am scared. I am feeling unworthy and weak. I am not feeling galvanised by my spiritual efforts but underwhelmed by them. I wish I had done more. I wish I had wanted to do more.
This is how Ramadan is meant to find me. This is exactly the time for me to talk to God, when all I can see is the darkness of my own mind, an empty hall with no answers and plenty of blame. This is coming from nothing and talking without hubris because I have nothing to credentialise myself.
God always listens, and responds.
The Quotidian Theologian 