I Am On The Highway

Again….

I Am on the Highway…

For some, it’s just a highway—a way to get from point A to point B.

But for others, it holds twenty years of tears, anguish, pain, and grief.

It carries the weight of broken hearts and homes, radical shifts in the direction of some youth, and for many, a constant cry to the Creator, a wail over a wound that never quite heals.

But it is not that for me.

I believe, with all my heart, that we each return to our original home, some early, some later.

It’s only when we become overly attached to the emotions and connections of this world that parting becomes so painful.

But what if there was a promise—

A rendezvous to meet again in a field of daisies, music gently playing the melody of the evening, luscious hot and cold drinks being served, and a chance to enjoy one another’s company free from the distractions of social media?

Years ago, three college freshman lost their lives on the highway to Atlanta.

Their classmates, grieving and determined, petitioned the state to install steel barriers along the narrow median strip, to prevent cars from slipping across the grass median and into oncoming traffic.

That median had claimed the songs, dreams, and potential of their peers.

The accident was blamed on the weather.

Hurricane showers had glazed the highway like glass.

The green BMW, traveling at a moderate speed, driven carefully, with all three boys strapped in, one of the safest cars in the world—skidded across the wet median like it was on water skis and was struck by a sixteen-wheeler coming from the opposite direction.

“All three boys died instantly,” said the police officer returning their belongings to the grieving parents.

“There were no barriers to stop the car from crossing over,” argued the teens who organized the petition.

Today, those barriers stand.

Several cars have since slammed into them—and their drivers have walked away, alive.

Could those barriers have saved the three boys that day?

As Muslims, we believe what Allah (Subḥānahu wa Taʿālā) tells us in clear terms, further explained by our Prophet (ﷺ).

To paraphrase:

“When a baby reaches sixteen weeks in the womb, an angel is sent to write three things on its forehead: the date of death, the provision (rizq) it will receive, and its destiny (Qadr).”

As the baby grows, that sacred inscription is hidden, covered by bone, skin, and flesh and no one can see it.

We accept this intellectually and theologically.

But at a heart level, the gouge left by the forcible removal of one’s child by the Angel of Death is indescribable.

It defies logic. It defies reason.

Life becomes a haze of grief—one through which everything and everyone is viewed indefinitely.

For mothers who have lost a child, there is a place on this earth where they still live, but joy has been squeezed from their very cells.

They carry a rock in their chest and a lump in their throat.

Some days, that pain lies dormant.

Other days, it rises with a beast’s strength, taking on a life of its own.

There is nothing to do but raise one’s hands to the Creator and pray—for solace, for peace, for comfort.

For all peace and comfort comes from Him, Subḥānahu wa Taʿālā.