The Greetings I No Longer Hear – Remembering Death in Islam
Bismillah…
I love mornings.
Not only because they bring cooler air, quieter roads,
and a gentler beginning to the day.
But because every morning feels like a new chance Allah gives us.
A chance to live.
A chance to remember.
A chance to be grateful.
A chance to begin again.
That is one reason I choose to walk every morning.
Research tells us that walking improves both physical and emotional health.
It strengthens the body.
It calms the mind.
It reduces stress.
It reminds us that movement itself is a blessing.
But over the years, my morning walks have given me something else.
Stories.
People.
Moments I would never have encountered had I chosen to stay inside.
And sometimes, they leave me with lessons I never expected to learn.
Looking back, I never realized these ordinary encounters would become one of the most meaningful lessons in remembering death in Islam.
Remembering Death in Islam Through Ordinary Mornings
There were two women I often met during my walks.
The first was a cake maker.
The second worked as a civil servant.
One was older.
One was younger.
One spent her mornings preparing cakes.
The other prepared herself for work and public service.
Yet every morning, our paths crossed.
Sometimes we exchanged greetings.
Sometimes a smile.
Sometimes only a brief acknowledgement that another day had arrived.
For years, they became part of the landscape of my mornings.
Part of a rhythm I unconsciously expected to find.
A familiar face.
A familiar greeting.
A familiar presence.
At the time, I never imagined those simple encounters would one day become memories.
Because when we see people often enough,
we begin assuming they will always be there.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
Next month.
Next year.
We assume the roads will remain the same.
The houses will remain the same.
The people will remain the same.
Until one day, they do not.
Remembering Death in Islam Through Two Ordinary Women
Today, both women are gone.
The first passed away after an illness.
Her departure was difficult, but not entirely unexpected.
People knew she was unwell.
People prayed for her.
People hoped she would recover.
Eventually, her journey in this world came to an end.
The second woman was different.
She was not sick.
She was not bedridden.
She was not preparing anyone for goodbye.
One morning, after sweeping her yard, she felt dizzy.
Moments later, she collapsed.
And she returned to Allah.
No warning.
No long illness.
No time to prepare.
Just an ordinary morning.
A morning that began like countless others.
A morning that ended differently.
Allah reminds us in Quran (Luqman 31:34)
“…nor does any soul know in what land it will die.”
That no soul knows what it will earn tomorrow or in what land it will die.
That ordinary morning quietly reflected this truth.
None of us knows which ordinary day Allah has written as our last.
And that is what stayed with me the most.
Not only that they passed away.
But how ordinary their final mornings appeared.
One spent years making cakes.
One dedicated her days to serving her country.
One left this world after illness.
One returned to Allah without warning.
Their paths in life were very different.
Yet both returned to their Rabb exactly when their appointed time arrived.
Now, every time I pass their homes, I remember their greetings.
I remember their smiles.
I remember their presence.
And I remember how fragile life truly is.
The houses are still there.
The road is still there.
The village is still there.
But something has changed.
Two familiar greetings are gone.
One belonged to a woman who made cakes.
The other belonged to a woman who served her country.
Their lives unfolded in different ways.
Yet both returned to Allah.
Exactly when they were meant to.
Looking back, I understand why I still remember them.
Not because of their professions.
Not because of their achievements.
Not because they became famous.
But because their lives quietly reminded me of something important.
Remembering Death in Islam and Allah’s Decree
How much control do we really have?
Over our future?
Our health?
Our spouse?
Our children?
Over tomorrow?
Far less than we imagine.
Some people believe they can control the future because some of their plans eventually work out.
Others believe discipline alone can secure good health forever.
And while taking care of our bodies is part of our responsibility,
life still reminds us that health itself remains a trust from Allah.
I have seen people who exercised consistently, ate healthy food,
and lived disciplined lives, yet were tested with serious illnesses.
I have also seen people who appeared strong and healthy one day,
and were gone the next.
Some people believe they can control the people they love.
Their spouse.
Their children.
Their family.
Yet every soul has its own journey.
Its own tests.
Its own tendencies.
Its own decree.
The older I become, the more I realize how little we truly control.
One of the greatest lessons in life is learning the difference between what belongs to our responsibility and what belongs to Allah’s decree.
Our responsibility is effort.
To seek knowledge.
To nurture our families.
To care for our health.
To perform good deeds.
To improve ourselves.
To make sincere attempts with what Allah has entrusted to us.
But the outcome has never belonged entirely to us.
That belongs to Allah.
Remembering death in Islam quietly reshapes how we see control,
replacing the ilussion of certainty with trust in Allah’s decree.
The two women I used to meet every morning reminded me of that.
One spent her days making cakes.
The other served her country.
One experienced illness.
The other left this world without warning.
Yet both returned to their Rabb when their appointed time arrived.
Death does not always announce its arrival.
Remembering Death in Islam Changes How We Live
It does not always knock loudly.
Sometimes it arrives quietly.
In the middle of an ordinary day.
After a conversation.
After sweeping a yard.
After preparing cakes.
After a greeting.
After a morning walk.
That is why these women remain in my memory.
Because they remind me that life is not measured only by how long we live.
But also by how ready we are to return.
The question is not whether death will come.
We already know it will.
Every soul shall taste death.
Allah also reminds us in Quran (Ali ‘Imran 3:185)
“Every soul will taste death,” before reminding us that our true reward belongs to the Hereafter. Remembering this changes how we see every ordinary morning, every greeting, and every opportunity to prepare for our return to Him.
The question is:
Are we preparing ourselves for that return?
Are we filling our hearts with faith?
Are we filling our minds with good thoughts?
Are we filling our days with actions that bring us closer to Allah?
Because none of us knows which greeting will be our last.
None of us knows which morning will become our final morning.
None of us knows which goodbye will be the last goodbye.
Remembering Death in Islam Every Morning
Every morning, I still walk the same road.
The houses remain.
The village remains.
The sky still changes colors.
The birds still sing.
People still leave for work.
Students still go to university.
Life continues.
Yet every now and then, I notice the absence of two familiar voices.
Two greetings I no longer hear.
And in that silence, I am reminded to live with greater awareness.
To love more sincerely.
To be more grateful.
To hold this life with open hands.
For me, remembering death in Islam has become a daily invitation to value every meeting, every greeting, and every moment Allah still allows me to live.
And to remember that every soul is only traveling through this world for a while.
So while we still have time,
let us live in a way that we are ready to return to Allah.
Not with fear.
But with hope.
With faith.
With tawakkul.
And with hearts that have learned to find peace in the decree of their Rabb.
Because none of us knows which greeting will be our last.
Alhamdulillah for every meeting, every greeting,
and every reminder Allah places along our path.
Even those we only understand after they are gone.
