Reflections of life, loss and the mercy that remains

Eid has come and gone gain. But this time for us, it is less noisy, softer, almost as if life is reminding us that tragedy and happiness walk together.

We lost an aunt just a few days ago. A woman fondly called Oni by those closest to her. It came without warning, suddenly. One minute she was here chatting, laughing, making plans, and the next, she was gone. Her passing created a silence that words still struggle to fill.

And now, midway through the Eid season, as the food was being shared and the visits were underway between homes and communities, we carried both joy and sorrow. It’s a strange, almost sacred juxtaposition: the happiness of Eid and the sorrow of loss. One doesn’t cancel out the other; they simply sit alongside each other, as life has a way of reminding us.

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Yet in this moment, one truth emerges with quiet certainty: life is unbelievably brief. And perhaps that is why goodness matters.

When someone dies, the outside world doesn’t stop. Traffic continues to hum, people still laugh, kids still play, food is still eaten. But inside, your own universe is transformed. You begin replaying the old conversations. You remember the sound of their voices, their familiar gestures, their quiet generosity. You wonder about what you missed, what you never got to say.

And over time, grief yields to reflection. Not just about who they were, but about who we are. What are we becoming as individuals? What will others say about us when we’re no longer around? What impact will we leave on the lives we touch?

In that space between grief and clarity, I have come to understand that our true legacy is not in the titles we hold or the things that we own. It’s in our character. It’s in the mercy we extend. The love we give. The hearts we soften. The prayers we motivate. The tears shed in our absence not out of sorrow, but out of thanks for the person we were.

For those close to her, the grieving was instantaneous and deep. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they held on to each other, and in the silences that said more than words. You could hear it in the softness of their voices as they spoke about her—in past tense, now. You could feel it in the way they remembered her: the sound of her voice, the warmth of her smile, every story that suddenly seemed more urgent to share.

And yet, something else gently happened.

In our mutual sorrow, we were pulled closer. Family members stayed longer together. CThe conversationwent deeper. We shared not only grief but also presence— authentic, wholehearted presence. Her passing was a thread that sewed us into each other’s presence in a way we hadn’t been in a long time. And in it, new memories were made—tender ones, sacred ones—in the midst of loss.

There was laughter, too, unexpected and therapeutic. Someone would recall something Oni used to say or the way she used to do something that was so characteristically her, and suddenly the room would be warm again, if only for a moment. That’s what love does; it resonates. It outlives the body.

Eid, in its simplest form, is a celebration of mercy. Mercy from our Lord for the fasting, for the prayers, for the hidden efforts. Mercy that we show to others in forgiveness, in charity, and in drawing closer to family and community. It’s a celebratory time, of course, but also a tender time. A time when hearts are open, and giving is not just required but embraced.

Even though the day of Eid itself has passed, the spirit continues. Visiting continues to happen in most houses. Dishes of food still move from house to house. Kids still wear their new outfits with excitement. The festive warmth gets extended over a number of days, holding persons together in ritual and community.

Even in this, though, we knew joy now has a pain. She was missed in the little things: her chair, her smile, and the quiet way she moved through a room. Yet even that missing reminded us of what is most important: people. Time. Presence.

This year, in remembering Oni, it isn’t so much a list of public achievements that stands out, but the quiet, steady beauty of a life lived in good faith. Her kindness. Her presence. Her way of making other people feel seen and included. She never had to make a loud sound to be loved. Her legacy is now stamped in our memories in the way of her remembering and in the way she brought us all together, even in death.

It is a strong reminder that the best people are typically those whose goodness was steady and consistent. Those who, when they’re gone, become deeply missed not because of their earthly possessions, but because of the space they left in people’s hearts.

So, as we move forward with this Eid season, either with joy or sorrow, let us carry something with us. Let us love more. Reach out more. Forgive more easily. Listen more patiently. Come together more often, not just in times of tragedy that demand it. Let us remember that the time we have with our loved ones is what becomes our true legacy. It’s what remains after we are gone.

Life is indeed short. That is both its curse and its blessing. But for however long we are here, we can choose to be kind. To be understanding. To be the kinds of people whose deaths are noted not with regret, but with gratitude. Not with hostility, but with prayer.

To all those still celebrating this Eid season, may your joy be complete, your homes be peaceful, and your hearts remain soft. And to all those in mourning, may your memories be sweet, and your loved ones be blessed with Jannah.

Eid Mubarak.

And may we all live lives worth remembering.

In memory of Hajiya Rakiya Inuwa Wada (Oni). May Allah have vast mercy upon her, grant her a spacious resting place in Jannah, and make her grave a garden from the gardens of Paradise. Ameen