Easter used to be one of my favourites. I’d come to appreciate the way of the Christians even though I wasn’t totally one. My Dad was a Muslim while my mother was a Christian. In most Islam homes, the women went wherever their husbands went, but my mother was never treated in such way. My father was a gentle man, a kindhearted and loving father who never believed in the whole lady’s’ rules. He never practiced polygamy like the rest, and loved my mother so, likewise doing well to respect her wishes. At least some. I was the only child of my parents, giving me more of an advantage to get everything I’ve ever wanted, even though my father made sure I got them in a way that wasn’t too much. Sometimes he’d let me follow my mother to her Christian church, and I, on the Sam scale, would go with him to the mosque. I learnt the way of the Christians and the ways of my people, not denied. I grew so in love with God’s church that most times I’d prefer going to Sunday service to going for Friday prayers. Father never complained or forbade me from going. Oftentimes I’d stay after service and watch the people go by; also studying the word of God—the holy bible, as it was called—just like my people had the Qur’an. I was loving this life; loving everything that had to do with God and his commands, making me yearn to be in his presence and to be closer to him. I wanted to show my father how impacting studying God’s word could be, but I was scared he wouldn’t listen.
Mom would watch from a distance, and smile seeing me get acquainted with God. She’d explain some things I found hard comprehending, and also teach me to walk in the right path our heavenly father expects us to.
Easter was fast approaching, and I so couldn’t wait to experience it all. I had my doubts—Dad was never going to us celebrate it in a way we wanted. I waited anxiously for that day to come, counting days with trembling crossed fingers. Mom and I had our secret plan already mapped out. It was let for Easter to come and not be taking forever to. If Dad wasn’t going to let us celebrate it this time around, I thought, then my room would be just the perfect place to have a mother-daughter get-together without him having a clue.
Having decided what to do on that day, I felt happy at least, though slightly miserable knowing Dad was going to be left out. Dad’s angry side was one you wouldn’t want to stumble upon, making me wonder how so gentle a man could have such a bad side. I was one who had a phobia of awakening Dad’s angry side, and got even scared when I had a terrible nightmare about the subject shutting all door to us following the Christian path. I woke up panting heavily as beads of sweat got control of my forehead. Realizing it was morning—not just any morn—I looked to where my alarm clock stood on the nightstand, as the sound of the door made me turn.
“Happy Easter, Aisha!” a cheery voice enveloped my bedroom as I drew in my breath.
“Happy Easter, Sweet,” Mom emerged from behind, as she and Dad began heading toward me.
“B-but how did you…?”
“How did I convince your Dad?” she completed, and I nodded.
“Thought we should make this day special,” Dad grinned and wrapped his arms around my mother.
I couldn’t help but feel emotional staring at them. It was a miracle having father celebrate Easter with us this year, and I knew for sure that this day was going to be the best day… ever.