Sitting in the children’s bedroom—Arshad and Amina share a room, Amina still unwilling to sleep alone—Ismail can feel the dread weighing him down. If only he could do something—go for a drive, go to the mosque, talk to Imam Zia, pray. But he’s stuck here. Of course Tahera must go to her mother’s side, like any caring daughter, but did it have to include this weekend, knowing that anything could happen at the fundraiser tomorrow?

Across the room, Arshad isn’t yet asleep. He’s lying rigid in his bed, knees up, staring at the ceiling as though it holds mysteries. Which in a way it does, for glowing faintly green—faint because the light from the bedside lamp is overwhelming—are glow-in-the-dark stickers of constellations and galaxies that Arshad had Ismail fix to the ceiling above his bed years ago. Glimmering amid the ghostly universe are Arshad’s favorite verses from the Quran, a more recent addition, projected onto the ceiling. There’s the ayat Al-Kursi from the surah Al-Baqarah, and the last three surahs from the Quran—Al-Ikhlas, Al-Falaq, and An-Nas. His son’s lips move, as though he’s reciting.

“Recite a little louder,” Ismail tells Arshad, although it could wake Amina up.

Arshad starts out softly, with the surah he’s memorized for the Quran recitation competition in the fundraiser, his voice thin and high. As he grows more confident, he grows louder. Arshad has been learning Quran recitation in his Sunday school and plans to memorize the entire Quran. The class is run by Imam Zia, who’s complimented Arshad on his progress. Arshad’s tajwid has improved remarkably since he started practicing pronunciation accompanying the computer program his mother found for him, which displayed renderings of the correct shape of the mouth and placement of the tongue alongside the corresponding syllables. Arshad’s control of pitch and tune, though, is still diffident and unsteady. It will take years, of course, to master that, but even so, Ismail can already hear Imam Zia’s characteristic vocalizations in Arshad’s fledgling style.

Arshad stumbles a few times in recalling some ayats. But there’s an earnestness to his efforts, a natural piety to his recitation, that fills Ismail with pride. Subhan’Allah, this son of his is truly a blessing, an example of how to practice faith in this day and age. How much time Arshad is willing to expend on his desire to master the Quran, time that his friends squander on video games and the internet. That too of his own volition, with no compulsion from his parents.

Isn’t this the reason why the community center is important? Would Ismail have wasted his youth if he’d had access to such a community? All those years straying away from the true path of Islam, not knowing what he was missing, not even realizing how he was harming himself. Yes, there are challenges—and is not what’s happening in America now just such a challenge?—but challenges are meant to be faced, not run away from, and surely Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala, would steer His believers to safety, as He had steered the Prophet, peace be upon him, through those dark initial days at Medina. There’s no reason to be beset by doubts—his son’s faith puts his to shame. He listens to Arshad, marveling at the quiet poetry, wishing the moment never to end.