Mosque (n.) - a Muslim temple or place of public worship.

Jasmine and frankincense waft invitingly in the still air. It’s quiet; save the faint whispers of prayers recited breathily and the soft murmurs of hyperactive children. Rows upon rows of men and women sit with their heads bowed, immobile as fans circle above, buffeting their soft silks and cotton like gentle caresses. If one didn’t know better, the scene before them could be mistaken for an art exhibit. Still-life captured in the peaceful sanctuary of a mosque.

A high and clear voice rings throughout the space, and suddenly the exhibit sheds its stillness and comes alive.

The mosque has always been a steady presence in my life – the open courtyard beckoned mischief in my younger years and forged friendships on sunlit afternoons later on. There was the ever-present ice cream truck which came every week at 12 o’clock sharp and had kids patting themselves down for pocket change and the chance to feast on a red, white and blue icicle. It hosted spring fundraising picnics with bounce houses, cotton candy machines, discount hijab booths and a faux farmer’s market. On sleepy yet festive mornings after Eid prayers, there was always a comforting guarantee of boxes upon boxes of Dunkin’ Donuts and coffee.

It was a place where I spent my Sundays being schooled in the faith and then teaching it to younger kids. I grew up wandering its halls, and in turn, it grew up with me. I was lucky to see it through its numerous renovations and refurbishments, slowly becoming the place that we could truly claim as our own. A place that our sheikh, Ibrahim Habash, could speak his Friday sermon with a blend of gravitas, revelation and dad humor.

Its walls bore the weight of Janazah (funeral) prayers, as we gathered in swathes of white and let our grief slowly pool and then trickle out of our raised hands. It has heard collective mourning for those taken by hate fueled terror both abroad and at home. The weathered pulpit has remained as steadfast as the sermons of unification that to sought to ease minds plagued by fear and indecision. Strength surging from our sheikh’s voice and seeping into even the green and white carpet. We would be fine. We would forge on.

The mosque that I have been attending since I was merely eight years old holds more than a decade of memories. Some were sad, some were happy, and some were embarrassing. Though, all are treasured – laughter filling the empty space of the mosque when services had finished, many Lailatul Qadr prayers lasting well into the early morning hours and were followed by biscuits from McDonalds for breakfast, and watching people bring non-Muslim friends or family to Ramadan dinners and reveling in the shared coexistence of faith as they take a little piece of our world back with them.

The mosque was objectively, a place to practice Islam. It was more than that, though.

It was a home.