Friendship reveals itself most clearly in difficult moments. Not in grand gestures, but in consistent presence. In showing up. In the simple act of sitting side by side, turning page after page.
The hospital lounge is an in-between space — not quite medical, not quite comfortable. Bulky chairs arranged in imperfect circles. In the one where I sit, there is no coffee or TV but there is a vending machine with sandwiches that nobody seems to ever want. There are also large windows that let in a lot of sun. It is here, amid the quiet conversations of strangers, that we open our copies of Dalā‘il al-Khayrāt, a Muslim prayer book, and create a small sanctuary of friendship.
My friends Aisha and Amina were the ones who brought purpose to these waiting hours as my husband was treated for cancer. “What if we read it together?” Aisha suggested one afternoon. “The blessings could help him right now.”
Amina agreed immediately. “We could make this a regular practice. Here, at the hospital, in proximity to him.”
When the other Amina heard about our plan, her buy-in was simple: “Count me in.” No platitudes or promises, just presence.
And so began our reading circle — three friends and myself, gathering wherever necessity demanded: the hospital lounge where other visitors would sometimes listen from a respectful distance, my living room between hospital stays, and sometimes through laptop screens when the hectic schedule of commuting between home and hospital made meeting in person challenging.
The Arabic words of Dalā‘il al-Khayrāt — a collection of prayers and blessings upon Prophet Muhammad composed in the 15th century — felt strange at first in the hospital lounge. An elderly man looked up from his newspaper. A young woman paused her phone conversation. We weren’t used to making our prayers so public, but necessity pushed us past discomfort. By our third session, we no longer noticed the glances.
“O Allah, bestow Your favor and peace upon our master Muhammad ...” Our voices found each other, sometimes stumbling over pronunciation, sometimes strong and clear. No performance, just practice.
One day, as we reached passages listing prophets’ names, Aisha tapped the page with her finger. “These names are like jewels scattered throughout the text,” she said. “Each one carrying its own blessing.”
I had the same reaction. Our own children have many of the names listed in the book, the names of prophets, angels and holy men. And here were these sacred names, appearing in our prayers like signposts. The coincidence felt like confirmation that we were where we needed to be, doing what we needed to do — connecting our present lives to an ancient tradition, finding solidarity in these timeless invocations that have sustained believers for centuries.
Dalā‘il al-Khayrāt follows a pattern that became increasingly meaningful to me. It is centered on the Prophet Muhammad, but the prayers also expand outward — to his family, his companions, other prophets, angels and finally all believers. I started to understand this structure as a map for how love should move in the world: not contained or hoarded but constantly expanding.
There is something powerful about placing someone else at the center of your attention when your own heart is breaking. The prophet first, then my husband, then outward. Each salawat — the offering of prayer — pushed my fear a little further away, not because it promised outcomes, but because it reminded me that we were part of something larger than this moment of crisis.
The Prophet Muhammad taught us: “When a Muslim supplicates for their brother or sister in their absence, an angel says: ‘And the same for you.‘” Each blessing creates ripples that eventually find their way back to shore. We receive by giving.
Our readings took on their own rhythm. Sometimes other friends or family members would sit closer, listening. These moments weren’t dramatic conversions or profound exchanges — just small human connections forming in a space usually defined by anxiety and uncertainty.
As weeks passed, I realized our ritual was serving purposes beyond its original intent. Yes, we were directing blessings toward my husband, but something else was happening too. A friendship was deepening through shared practice, through whispered Arabic phrases, through the vulnerability of praying together in public. Between readings, we would share stories of how the prophet had guided us through our own difficult moments — times when his example had offered clarity or comfort. In reciting these ancient words, we were also weaving a new story of connection between us.
“Look at how communities have inscribed portions of the Dalā‘il Khayrat in beautiful art,” Aisha told us one day, showing images on her phone of illuminated manuscripts. “This text has been bringing people together for centuries.”
The text itself became a companion — familiar yet always revealing something new. Imam al-Jazuli wrote it after experiencing his own crisis: unable to find water for ablution in a distant town. A young girl showed him a well, and when he expressed amazement at finding water in such a dry place, she told him it appeared because of her devotion to sending blessings upon the prophet. This origin story took on new meaning for me. Blessings flowing where they’re needed most.
In Islamic tradition, there’s a concept called baraka — a type of spiritual power or blessing that can reside in objects, moments or practices. It can be transmitted, accumulated or shared. I’ve come to believe that our readings of Dalā‘il al-Khayrāt were generating baraka — not just for my husband, but for all of us. Not because the words themselves were magical, but because the intention behind them was pure.
Prophet Muhammad once said, “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” Our sessions embodied this teaching. In the sunlight through hospital windows, in the comfort of my living room and through the blue light of our screens, we turned pages together. Ancient words made new by our immediate need. Sacred names echoing our children’s names. In this practice, I found a truth about love: It flourishes not in grand gestures but in the spaces between breaths, in the pauses between verses, in the silent agreement to show up again tomorrow.