The Miracle of the Thirty-Six Cups (of Ice Cream)

The Ramadan of 2014 didn't just feel like a fast; it felt like a shift in the atmosphere. For years, the lines between the various Muslim groups within the walls were drawn in permanent marker. But that year, as the Imam down in Crolwey Colorado Correctional Facility, I had been pushing a simple message: One Ummah. When the brothers from the Moorish Science Temple of America approached me, asking to join our community for the month, it felt like a tectonic plate had finally moved. It was a testament to the outreach, the late-night discussions, and the shared hunger for something higher than our surroundings. For the first time in that facility’s history, we weren't just "sects" in a yard—we were a single body.

The Feast of the End

By the time Eid al-Adha arrived, the spirit of unity was at an all-time high. The facility had actually come through, allowing the kitchen cooks to go all out. The air in the housing unit transformed, smelling of grilled hamburgers, hot dogs, and seasoned fries. It was a rare, greasy slice of freedom.

Then, they rolled it out: the special refrigerator.

Inside were the small plastic cups of ice cream—Chocolate, Vanilla, and Strawberry. In prison, ice cream is more than a dessert; it’s a currency, a luxury, and a memory of the outside world all rolled into one. Because of the size of our celebration, we had a dozen boxes.

The Lactose Gamble

I am severely lactose intolerant. Under normal circumstances, two of those cups would be a death sentence for my digestive system. But looking at those boxes, I felt a strange sense of reckless joy. I didn't just want a taste; I wanted to celebrate the brotherhood we had built.

I sat down with three full boxes—one of each flavor. Thirty-six cups in total.

I looked at the brothers, guys I had led in prayer every morning for thirty days, and gave them a wry smile.

"Brothers," I joked, "this is likely the last time you’ll see me on my feet. If I don’t make it through the night, please... make sure you perform the Janazah (funeral prayer) for me."

They laughed, but I was halfway serious. I knew the biological "price" I was about to pay, and in that moment of Eid joy, I willingly signed the check. I gorged myself, scraping every last bit of strawberry and chocolate from those plastic lids until the three boxes were empty.

The Divine Verdict

I went to my cell and waited. I braced for the cramps, the bloating, and the inevitable agony that usually follows even a drop of dairy. I waited for the biological tax to be collected.

But nothing happened.

No pain. No "side effects." No rush to the bathroom. I woke up the next morning feeling lighter than I had during the fast. In the world of science, 36 cups of ice cream for a lactose-intolerant man is a medical emergency. But in the world of the spirit, it was a clear sign.

I knew exactly what had happened. After a month of unity, of bridge-building, and of sincere worship, Allah had decided that his Imam wasn't going to suffer on the day of celebration. It was a small, cold, sweet miracle—a reminder that when you look out for the Deen, sometimes, the Creator looks out for you in the most unexpected ways, even with miracles in small plastic cups

Prayer and the Big Toe

It was the quiet pre-dawn of Fajr prayer, and as was his habit, my brother Ahshee had slipped into my cell in the early AM to pray with me. This time, I was leading. We had just begun, I'd uttered the first Takbir, "Allahu Akbar." As my gaze lowered momentarily, there it was: Ahshee's big toe, gloriously, hilariously, defiantly poking through a hole in his sock. And then, the absolute audacity – he wiggled it. It was like a tiny, rebellious flag of foot freedom doing a little dance in the otherwise somber atmosphere of that early morning prayer.

A snort escaped me. I tried to stifle it, focusing on the sacred words of Fajr, but the image of that rogue toe, performing its silent jig, was too much. A giggle bubbled up. Ahshee, sensing my silent tremors, glanced at me, and his eyes followed mine to the offending digit.

That was it. The dam broke. Silent snickers turned into full-blown, shoulder-shaking laughter in the still morning air. Tears streamed down our faces. We’d manage a few choked words of prayer, only to be derailed by another wiggle of that audacious toe. The guards probably thought the early hour had finally gotten to us.

A five-minute Fajr prayer stretched into an epic half-hour ordeal. Every time we’d regain some semblance of composure in the quiet of the cell, a slight shift in Ahshee’s stance would give that toe a new, even more comical angle for its wiggling performance, sending us spiraling back into fits of laughter. By the time we finally sputtered out the final "Assalamu alaykum" of our extended Fajr, we were both weak with laughter, eyes watering, and feeling only slightly less pious but significantly more bonded by the absurdity of a rogue toe's wiggle during our early morning prayer in a prison cell. That toe, I swear, had a mischievous soul all its own, especially in the quiet dawn.