Laughter, Lunch, and the Last Hour of Jumu’ah

Yesterday was one of those days that left me physically tired but emotionally full.

The gathering began at 3 p.m. on a Friday. To be honest, I wasn’t in the best place emotionally before everyone arrived. There were things weighing on my heart, and for a moment I wondered whether I would have the energy to host at all.

To make matters worse, my Temu order hadn’t arrived in time. The decorations I had planned weren’t there, and some of the games I’d prepared had to be skipped altogether. A few years ago, I probably would have felt disappointed.

Yesterday, I learned that none of it really mattered.

Because the people came.

And they brought life with them.

By the afternoon, my house was filled with women and children. There were at least twelve sisters, mā shā’ Allāh, tabārakAllāh. Some were longtime friends, others were newer faces. We came from different countries, spoke with different accents, and brought different foods from our own kitchens.

One sister brought dumlyama from Kyrgyzstan. There was mie goreng and nasi goreng, chicken stir-fry, pasta with meat and béchamel, fatayer, sausage puffs, chicken puffs, salad, tuna sandwiches, corn and crab soup, meat and rice, brownies, a delicious potato salad, lemon cake, es campur, kheer, Saudi champagne, strawberry lemonade, Saudi coffee, jasmine tea, Torabika coffee… and probably a few dishes I’ve already forgotten.

The table looked like a map of our journeys before we ever arrived in Sharjah.

The children swam, bubble guns filled the room, and conversations grew louder and louder until, at one point, we didn’t even hear the doorbell when another sister arrived.

I think my favourite moment came when I looked into the living room and realised something unexpected.

They didn’t fit anymore.

For a brief second, it was almost scary.

“Where is everyone going to sit?”

And then, almost immediately, it became one of the loveliest feelings I’ve had in a long time.

My living room was too small.

Not because my house had shrunk.

But because it had been filled.

SubḥānAllāh.

I remember thinking, Alhamdulillāh.

This is exactly what I had hoped for.

Not perfect decorations.

Not elaborate games.

Just a house full of women who felt comfortable enough to come, stay, laugh, eat, and bring their children.

The older girls made me smile too. There were so many of them this time, mā shā’ Allāh. They’re no longer just little children following their mothers around. They’re growing into young women. In shā’ Allāh, next time we’ll plan something especially for them.

One moment from the afternoon has stayed with me more than any other. One of the sisters, Sister I, gently reminded us that we were in the last hours of Jumu’ah—a blessed time to remember Allah and make du’ā’.

Only moments earlier, the house had been filled with laughter. Then, naturally and without any awkwardness, our hearts turned towards Allah.

I admired the way she spoke. She has a quiet wisdom about her, mā shā’ Allāh. She has a beautiful way of conveying reminders that gently reach the heart without feeling heavy. In shā’ Allāh, I hope to learn that kind of wisdom one day.

It struck me that this was exactly the kind of gathering I had always hoped for: a place where children could play, women could laugh, food could be shared, and Allah would not be forgotten.

When everyone finally left, I looked around the house expecting the usual mountain of cleaning. Instead, there wasn’t much to do.

As before, the sisters had quietly helped clean up before leaving. Plates had been stacked. Things had been put away. The house was untidy in the ordinary way a happy gathering leaves a home, but not overwhelming.

That simple act touched me more than they probably realise. It told me this wasn’t just my gathering anymore.

It belonged to all of us.

I was tired by the end of the day, but it was the kind of tired that leaves you smiling. The kind that makes you think,

“When can we do this again?”

In shā’ Allāh, perhaps next month, before school starts.

As I sat quietly afterwards, I realised something.

For a long time after moving to Sharjah, I prayed for community. Not a large organisation. Not a formal group. Just a place where Muslim women and their children could gather, share food, remember Allah, and make one another’s hearts a little lighter.

Perhaps Allah has been answering that du’ā’ slowly all along.

Sometimes His answers don’t arrive all at once.

Sometimes they arrive one invitation at a time.

One potluck dish.

One bubble gun.

One Friday afternoon.

One sister reminding us to make du’ā’ in the last hours of Jumu’ah.

And one day, you look around your living room and realise…

It has become too small.

Alhamdulillāh.

May Allah place barakah in every home that opens its doors for His sake.

Āmīn.