Faith

Hope has been in short supply lately — the murder of a diplomat in Libya, the ongoing savagery in Syria, Iran's apparent march toward nuclear weaponry, Midwest drought, climate change, the pain of the unemployed — the list is long. In the midst of my melancholy over these and other troubles, I had decided — with very mixed feelings — to remove my yellow "Support a cure" bracelet. Lance Armstrong's decision not to contest doping allegations had been a downer for a cancer survivor like me, and I'm sure for others.

Do you know the feeling when you have a parent or relative that you keep at a distance for one reason or another, but then they become severely ill, and you can't help but forget all your differences and stand beside them? And through it all, you rediscover their true nature and you laugh at, even regret, what kept you apart? I do. That parent I kept at a far distance was my religion, Islam. And then 9/11 happened. I had only been in the United States for three years that month, and although I still identified as a Muslim, it's fair to say that it was my most distant - and troubled - time with my religion.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about a couple of sorry fellows who were in bad marriages and wished they were single, as I have been since June 4. I spoke directly to those two guys in that column, but I also spoke on a higher level to everyone else. That column generated several online comments, but it also prompted many more people to write privately to me to tell me that I had struck a nerve, that they are now or have been in a relationship that just died for lack of attention. Savvy readers will have realized that while the message that day was to appreciate the relationship you have and to nurture it instead of longing for something or someone else, it was really a message about how to live a life.

One of the reasons I enjoy a happy and fulfilling life is because of the people in it. They are a people who fear God, lead by example and strive, in their own way, for a better world. And last week, I was reminded once more how lucky I am when a few of them gathered for a Ramadan iftar/dinner at my home. My mom, Shadia, who is an excellent cook (I say this with total objectivity), prepared our food, and among her creations was one of Egypt's most popular dishes: kushary.

On Aug. 4, the nation rejoiced at news that engineers at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory had landed Curiosity, its scientific vehicle, on Mars. But we awoke the next morning to learn that a racist bigot had murdered six Sikh worshippers within their own sanctuary, or gurdwara, in Oak Creek, Wis. Then on Aug. 6, a mosque in Joplin, Mo., burned to the ground, probably at the hands of an arsonist. We, as a species, are capable of great scientific and humanistic achievements — and immense evil.

Do you know how Christmas is supposed to be about faith? That's what Ramadan is supposed to be about too - God. But like Christmastime, Ramadan, for some, becomes a time for lavish dinner parties and uncontrollable spending. For producers and television stations, it's time to make money from special soap operas (which come right out of Egypt, the Hollywood of the Middle East). Ramadan is supposed to be the month of feeding - feeding those in need, feeding your soul. But for some people and cultures, it's the month of gorging after sunset and seeking entertainment.

Fasting might seem a grim topic in the midst of the Orange County Fair, beach picnics and the start of the Olympic Games. But highly observant Jews took part last weekend in Tisha B'Av, a 25-hour fast from food and drink to mark the destruction of the first and second Jewish temples (in 586 B.C. and A.D. 70) and, secondarily, the many other misfortunes that have befallen the Jewish people, especially the Holocaust. The other 25-hour fast for Jews is the more familiar Day of Atonement or Yom Kippur on Sept.

The what ifs and if onlys in the Aurora, Colo., shooting make it terrifying and haunting even for those of us who were not involved. What if the ammo canister had not jammed? What if the shooter's neighbor had opened his apartment door before the bomb squad arrived? If only the shooter's plans had been discovered earlier. If only I had not let my child go to the midnight showing. These questions can be paralyzing, sometimes even demonic. And for people of faith, in the horrible aftermath of every tragedy, we must ask: Where was God?

"Practice dying," Plato said. Such practice is extremely important, because no one escapes death. Of perhaps equal importance is practicing how to live after a loved one dies. Among the shocks that befall humanity, few are more devastating than such a loss. The July 23 cover story in Time Magazine deals with the suicides of military personnel — one per day on average, and most of them young. Every 14 seconds, someone in the U.S. dies. That's about 6,200 deaths per day. So, somewhere in this country, every day, children, parents, spouses and friends are facing life without a person who made an immense difference in their own lives.

Ramadan starts Thursday night (insert multiple happy faces here). You would think that because I will be refraining from eating and drinking for about 15 hours a day for the next month, I would be dreading the arrival of Islam's holiest month. You would think that because I'll be cutting down on my nights out with my friends, and, instead, devoting more of my time to praying and reexamining my priorities, I would be a little bummed out. But when it comes to Ramadan, frankly, I can forget the food, the drinks, even the parties.