Death is not a stranger to the believer, yet it never arrives without pain. No matter how strong our īmān, grief still shakes the heart. Islam does not ask us to deny that pain; it teaches us how to carry it—with patience, dignity, and trust in Allah’s mercy.
Allah Most High reminds us, “Every soul shall taste death” (Qur’an 3:185).
This verse is not meant to frighten us, but to ground us in truth. Death is a certainty written for all. What differs is how we prepare for it and where we anchor our hearts when it arrives.
Accepting Allah’s decree does not begin at the moment of loss. True acceptance of Qadr is cultivated while life still feels full—while loved ones are present, while laughter fills our homes, and while our hearts have not yet been broken. It begins with understanding a foundational truth of iman: nothing in this world is eternal except Allah.
Allah Most High tells us, “Everything will perish except His Face” (Qur’an 28:88).
When this reality settles into the heart, loss no longer feels like something stolen from us, but something returned to its true Owner. Every soul we love, every relationship we cherish, was always temporary, moving steadily toward its appointed end.
This is why the words “Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we shall return” (Qur’an 2:156) are not meant to be spoken only in moments of tragedy. They are meant to shape how we live.
We belong to Allah in life just as we return to Him in death. Our loved ones were never truly ours to keep forever; they were trusts given to us for a time, and their return to Allah was always written.
Islam does not teach us to avoid thinking about death. Rather, it teaches us to remember it often so that our hearts are prepared when it comes.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “Increase in the remembrance of the destroyer of pleasures (death)” (Tirmidhi).
This remembrance is not meant to fill us with fear, but with clarity. When we live with awareness of death, we love more intentionally, forgive more readily, and hold the people in our lives with open hands instead of clenched ones.
Part of this preparation is visiting those who have passed before us. The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “I had forbidden you from visiting graves, but now visit them, for they remind you of the Hereafter” (Muslim).
Standing at the graves of our loved ones grounds us in the reality that this world is only temporary. Making duʿa’ for them softens our hearts and strengthens our certainty that death is not the end. Our prayers continue to reach them, and our hearts continue to grow through remembrance.
One of the most healing realities in Islam is that grief itself is not a sign of weak faith. Even the Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him), grieved deeply. When his son Ibrahim (May Allah be pleased with him) passed away, the Prophet (peace be upon him) held him as he breathed his last, tears flowing from his eyes. When questioned about his tears, he (peace be upon him) said,
“The eyes shed tears and the heart grieves, but we do not say except what pleases our Lord. Indeed, we are saddened by your departure, O Ibrahim” (Bukhari & Muslim).
In this moment, the Prophet (peace be upon him) showed us that grief and contentment with Allah’s decree can exist together. Tears do not negate faith; they humanize it.
Accepting Qadr becomes especially difficult when death strikes close to home, when loss feels sudden, unjust, or unbearable. Allah tells us,
“No calamity befalls on the earth or in yourselves except that it is written in a Book before We bring it into existence—indeed that, for Allah, is easy” (Qur’an 57:22).
This verse does not minimize pain; it reframes it. What breaks us was not random. It was known to Allah before we ever loved, before we ever held, before we ever lost.
I learned the language of grief early in life. As a child, I lost my brother to illness. Later, my father was murdered in a way that left questions with no earthly answers. That loss carved a permanent space in my heart, one filled with longing and unanswered “why’s.” Over time, grief became something I learned to sit with, not fight. I came to understand loss as part of surrender—that no one truly belongs to us. So when my son returned to Our Lord, the pain was still devastating, but it was not unfamiliar. Losing a child rewrites you, yet even in that shattering, I knew he was never mine to keep. My understanding of time and duʿā’ was shaken, but not broken. I returned to verses I had recited many times, reciting them not to ask why, but simply to breathe.
Allah Most High says, “And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give glad tidings to the patient—those who, when calamity strikes them, say: ‘Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we shall return’” (Qur’an 2:155–156).
Saying Innā lillāh did not erase my pain, but it reminded me that my son, may Allah have Mercy on him, was a trust from Allah, returned to the One who loves him more than I ever could.
The Prophet (peace be upon him) gave special hope to parents who lose children, teaching that such children can be a means of immense reward and mercy. In a hadith, Allah Most High asks the angels when a child dies whether they have taken the fruit of His servant’s heart. When the servant responds with patience and praise, Allah Most High says, “Build for My servant a house in Paradise and call it the House of Praise” (Tirmidhi). This does not make the loss small, but it gives it meaning beyond the grave.
One of the greatest comforts in grief is knowing that this life is not the final chapter. The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “Be in this world as though you were a stranger or a traveler” (Bukhari). A traveler does not expect permanence. A traveler knows that hardship on the road does not define the destination. Understanding this reshapes loss. It tells the grieving parent that separation from a child is not eternal, the orphan that their father is not gone forever, and the one who buried a sibling that death is not erasure, but transition.
Grieving in Islam does not mean forgetting those we lost. It means learning to live while carrying them with us—through duʿa’, through charity in their name, through hope in reunion. When we accept Allah’s decree before it breaks us, grief—when it comes—still hurts, but it does not destroy us. We visit graves not to reopen wounds, but to realign our hearts. We make duʿa’ not because the dead need our tears, but because we need the reminder. We remind ourselves that Allah alone is eternal so that we are not shattered by what was never meant to last.
Death is certain. This life is temporary. And Allah’s mercy is far greater than both. One day, by His grace, every separation will make sense, every tear will be accounted for, and every goodbye will be followed by a reunion that will never end.
Miriam Mohamed is a mother to seven children and a granny to two cats! She loves trying new things and learning cool facts. She has taught in an Islamic school setting, has experience assisting children with special needs, and enjoys volunteering and being a part of the community. Miriam lives in Chicago with her beautiful flowering cherry tree and big family.
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