My nature resents small talk and repetitive, almost ritualistic greetings, such as formulaic birthday messages, predictably mechanical Jumma’a greetings on WhatsApp, and the like. I prefer meaningful, context-rich, and reason-driven communication.
Yet, I recognize that most people are not like me, so I’ve learned not to be irritated by the predictability and hollowness of formulaic greetings. Birthday greetings are the exception. Their sheer volume overwhelms me. That’s why I’ve disabled social media notifications that alert friends to my birthday.
However, today something happened that profoundly shifted my perspective on the significance of routine Friday greetings. There was a gentleman I had never met who nonetheless unfailingly sent me Jumma greetings every week.
As with other such messages I received, I always acknowledged his greetings with an emoji. When three consecutive Fridays passed without receiving his message, I found myself unexpectedly thinking about him, even though I had no idea who he was.
Today, curiosity compelled me to call his number. His wife answered and informed me that he had died three weeks earlier. I cried. I was genuinely broken; broken for someone I had never met, never spoken to, and knew almost nothing about.
This painful realization made me see that those didactic, preachy Jumma’a messages on WhatsApp from friends, family, and even complete strangers are more than bland religious exhortations (though some indeed carry profound, introspective wisdom).
They are also unintentional relational glues. They connect us in ways we don’t realize. They subtly communicate: “I am alive, and I am thinking of you. You crossed my mind today.”
The cessation of the messages can silently signal that they are no longer here on earth. Or that they are sick. Or busy. Or maybe even angry with you. They are multi-purpose.
After today, I promised myself: I will never again take Friday messages for granted. Jumma’a Mubarak!
