We Had To Lift The Glass true stories unique choice

             We Had To Lift The Glass

We have done Istikhara twice in our entire lives and it is strange that both times we did it for the same problem. Life was at a crossroads. I didn't know what to do or not to do. Should I commit suicide? But Allah gave guidance and we offered Istikharah prayer. That was about twenty-three years ago, at night I dreamed that we were sitting on a bench in a park, etc., and in front of us, on the grass below, there was a pile of many black and white small and large canvas shoes. 

As we sat down, we bent down and grabbed them with the two fingers of our right hand and began to arrange them according to their color and size. And a cluttered pile of shoes turned into a neat line. When a scholar mentioned this dream of his, he interpreted it in such a way that whatever the problem is, the solution is in your hands. Do what your heart tells you. Then we did what our heart told us to do. Don't listen to Anna's cry. Then, nine years ago, we once again faced the same mental crisis. We were in a state of great sadness and despair, wanting to end ourselves. 

Didn't understand something, listen to the heart or the mind? And all of a sudden, as if a ray of light shone in the darkness, and fourteen years later, we performed Istikharah for the second time in our lives. After the prayer, we had to fall asleep while repeating the prayer in our hearts, but we did not fall asleep, but a state of drowsiness ensued. We were largely aware that whether it was a dream or something else. But we saw that our mother, who had died some time ago, was saying to us, "Son, be patient, Allah is with those who are patient." In the background was written in white ink, "Inna a ma'ab al-sabrin" and with that our eyes were opened. From now on, we were patient according to my mother's words and indeed Allah was with us. 

In spite of our madness of poverty and hardship, our strong and well-mannered mother clothed us one by one, fed us and gave us a good education with the opposition of the whole family. In a remote backward area of ​​Sindh, our interest in writing was not hindered. Job was also allowed. Life was so flowing that autumn came. In this new season we have so many sorrows and so many tears. Coal was left in the chest instead of the heart. Looking back today, it seems that someone had a nightmare, perhaps because he did not perform Istikharah then. When it was time for paper and pen, we used to blacken the pages.

Now this mess is almost over. There is a magical board on which the fingers dance, and on the silver board in front of them, the flames start to burn out like a star. It's all a game of strings, but when the strings of the heart rust, they forget to ring. Then writing something is not so easy. No one knows if we have too many fingers