Islamic Thinking

It had been some time since Abdullah had seen the old man. College, career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Abdullah moved clear across the country in pursuit of his dreams. There, in the rush of his busy life, Abdullah had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.

Over the phone, his mother told him, “Mr. Bashir died last night. The funeral is Wednesday.”

Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

“Abdullah, did you hear me?”

“Oh sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It’s been so long since I thought of him. I’m sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago,” Abdullah said.

“Well, he didn’t forget you. Every time I saw him he’d ask how you were doing. He’d reminisce about the many days you spent over ‘his side of the fence’ as he put it,” Mom told him.

“I loved that old house he lived in,” Abdullah said.

“You know, Abdullah, after your father died, Mr. Bashir stepped in to make sure you had a man’s influence in your life,” she said.

“He’s the one who taught me carpentry,” he said. “I wouldn’t be in this business if it weren’t for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things… Mom, I’ll be there for the funeral,” Abdullah said.

As busy as he was, he kept his word. Abdullah caught the next flight to his hometown. Mr. Bashir’s funeral was small. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Abdullah and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.

Standing in the doorway, Abdullah paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time.

The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture… Abdullah stopped suddenly.

“What’s wrong, Abdullah?” his Mom asked.

“The box is gone,” he said.

“What box?” Mom asked.

“There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he’d ever tell me was ‘one of the things I value most,’” Abdullah said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Abdullah remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Bashir family had taken it.

“Now I’ll never know what was so valuable to him,” Abdullah said. “I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom.”

It had been about two weeks since Mr. Bashir died. Returning home from work one day Abdullah discovered a note in his mailbox. “Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days,” the note read.

Early the next day Abdullah retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.

“Mr. Haroon Bashir” it read.

Abdullah took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope. Abdullah’s hands shook as he read the note inside.

“Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Abdullah Ahmed. It’s one of the things I valued most in my life.” A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Abdullah carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.

Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover. Inside he found these words engraved:

“Abdullah, Thanks for your time! -Haroon Bashir.”

“One of the things he valued most…was…my time.”

Abdullah held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days. “Why?” Janet, his assistant asked.

“I need some time to spend with my son,” he said. “Oh, by the way, Janet… thanks for your time!”