The Lonely Potato and the Kitchen Chair

by Leila Alam, May 2025

There are days when the soul doesn’t break, it just slips a little. Quietly. Like a lone potato on the kitchen floor. Bruised, slightly dusty, perfectly whole… and unnoticed. I found it ca. 3 weeks before Dhul-Hijjah where I really went into fasting and praying. It wasn’t glowing, or gold, or poetic, it was just there, absurdly out of place. And I was on my way to a birthday weekend (my cousin's mother-in-law invited me). And yet, when I looked back at it, something cracked open. Because I felt like that potato. Sometimes just not giving a darn. Sometimes lonely. Sometimes unseen. But still, here. Waiting to be picked up by someone who’d know: This has worth. This can still nourish. In that moment, I didn’t need a sermon or a miracle. I just needed to know that Allah sees the potato too. A few weeks later, my brothers came to visit. I, as always, was overthinking the furniture situation. Does everyone have a place to sit? Will it feel welcoming? Will I ever get this flat together in time to become the woman I’m supposed to be? And just as the anxiety rose into its usual crescendo, I looked out the window… And there it was. A free chair. Left outside. Elegant, sturdy, and - unbelievably - the exact tone that matches my kitchen. I carried it in like a rescued jewel. It was clean. Beautiful. Meant. My brothers sat. We laughed. The chair did its job. And suddenly, I remembered the potato. These moments -  they’re not glamorous. They won’t trend on Instagram. But they are the hidden fabric of divine intimacy. The potato on the floor. The chair by the street. The way heaven whispers, I’m here, through furniture and vegetables and the timing of things. This is what I’ve come to know: God is not always in the thunder. Sometimes, He is in a single misplaced potato. Sometimes, He is in a chair given freely, just when you needed to make space for joy. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real miracle. Not that we receive provision, but that we still have hearts soft enough to recognize it when it arrives. So, I’m keeping them both. The memory of the potato. The gift of the chair. Because they remind me: I am not forgotten. I am not too slow. I am not unloved. I am already held. Even when I’m on the floor. Even when I’m late. Even when I think I need to become more He reminds me: I already am.