The name in your phone you mean to call

There is a name in our phone we have been meaning to call.

Someone had surgery a while ago. Or a friend's father has been unwell since the spring. We heard, we said "ya Allah, make it easy," and we fully meant to visit. Then the week filled up, and a second week, and now enough time has passed that showing up feels awkward.

If we are honest, the delay is rarely about time. We are unsure what to say. We are a little afraid of illness, of hospitals, of seeing someone we love looking frail. So we send a short message and tell ourselves it is the same.

The Prophet ﷺ described the visitor in a way that changes the whole errand. For as long as the visit lasts, until we are back home, we are among the fruit of Paradise. Allah has placed the reward in the going itself, before we have fixed or solved a single thing.

That lifts a weight. The sick person is asking very little of us. A face at the door, a short du'a, and proof that they are still remembered. Illness is lonely, and a visit tells someone that their place among us is still held.

Scholars advise good manners here: ask before coming, keep it brief, and let the tired rest. If distance makes a visit impossible, a call in your own voice carries real warmth.

We still have that name in our phone. What would it take to go in the next few days?

May Allah grant shifa to everyone we are thinking of right now.

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Idris and the Empty Chair: an original fictional story for families

The chair next to Idris had been empty for nine days. Musa was home in bed with a bad chest.

On the first day Idris drew him a card with a rocket on it. "Maybe tomorrow," he said, and the card stayed in his bag until its corner bent.

"I do not know what to say to him," he told Mama. "And now it has been so long."

"When I was small I was sick for a month," said Mama. "I do not remember what anybody said. I remember who came."

They phoned first, and went at four o'clock for a short while.

Musa was pale, and his hair stuck up on one side. Idris forgot every word he had practised, so he just held out the card.

Musa smiled slowly. "You came. I thought everybody forgot my chair."

"Nobody is allowed to sit in it," said Idris. "I put my bag on it."

Musa laughed for the first time all week. Then Idris cupped his hands and asked Allah to make his friend better.

He never did find the right words. He brought himself, and that was the gift.

For families: Who do we know that would smile to see us at the door?