Just last Sunday, our family was quietly honored to be among the few invited to an aqiqah—a simple gathering to welcome a newborn into the world. In our tradition, it is marked by prayer, the offering of an animal in gratitude, and the sharing of food with family, neighbors, and those in need. The child’s hair is gently shaved, and in a quiet gesture of blessing, a small taste of something sweet is placed on the lips—an early hope that the child’s life may be marked by gentleness, kindness, and a sweetness of character.

It is both a beginning and a reminder: that life is received with thanks, and shared with others from the very start.

And it brought me back to a day in early April that now carries two meanings for us.

One marked by celebration. The other, by remembrance.

Even as we knew it was only a matter of time, we continued to pray—not in defiance of what was coming, but in the quiet hope that more time might still be granted.

We understood, too, that time was no longer ours to negotiate. And when it came, I found myself yielding to a truth I had long known, but never fully lived: that moments such as these do not rest in human hands.

As the Qur’an reminds us, “No leaf falls but that He knows it.” (Surah Al-An‘am 6:59)

Each moment arrives with measure. Each departure, with reason.

It has been five years now since we lost our father.

Enough time to learn that some things are not meant to be carried lightly—but that we can still learn to move forward.

In our tradition, when someone passes, the body is treated with quiet dignity—washed, wrapped in white cloth, prayed over, and laid to rest as soon as possible, often within the day or before sunset. Not in haste, but in respect: to return the body without delay and to ease the burden on the grieving family.

Among Maranaos, remembrance continues through the tibao—gatherings on the third, fifth, and seventh day after burial, where family and community come together in prayer and quiet presence, carrying one another through loss.

And so, we continued.

Birthdays, too, are kept simply in our tradition, as the faith places greater emphasis on the two Eids—Eid’l Fitr and Eid’l Adha. Still, we find quiet ways to give thanks for another year.

It was my spouse’s birthday. We had prepared a simple lunch, the day unfolding as planned, until around 11:40 in the morning, when our father was called. We brought him to the hospital, and from there, the day changed.

By the time we returned home, it was no longer the celebration we had imagined. The food sat untouched, gone cold in the stillness of what the day had become. That evening, barely ten hours later, everything felt quiet and heavy. We gathered and, with little appetite, shared what had been prepared.

Perhaps this is what I am only beginning to understand—that even as we mourn what has been returned, life still finds ways to begin again, and we are asked, in our own way, to make space for it.

To Ammar Romeo, may the Almighty bless you with all that is kind and good.

To my wife, only the best and the beautiful on your birthday. To our father—we remember, we pray, and we carry you with us.