I spend hours thinking about Jannah.
What it will look like. What reunions will feel like. The peace. The perfection. The eternal rest after this difficult dunya.
But yesterday, my neighbor knocked on my door asking for help moving furniture. I said I was busy.
I wasn’t busy. I was reading about Paradise.
My wife noticed this pattern.
“You talk about akhirah constantly. But you barely see what’s happening around you right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The beggar at the mosque. You walked past him while talking about how we’ll be judged on charity. Your mother called three times this week. You didn’t answer because you were listening to a lecture about honoring parents. You’re so focused on the next life that you’re missing this one.”
It started with good intentions.
Death is real. The grave is real. The Day of Judgment is real. We should prepare. The Prophet ď·ş told us to remember death often.
So I studied. Read books about akhirah. Listened to lectures about the grave, the questioning, the scales, the bridge. Imagined standing before Allah. Prepared for eternity.
But somehow, in preparing for the next world, I stopped living properly in this one.
My father asked me something last week.
“Beta, what are you doing to prepare for akhirah?”
“Reading, learning, thinking about it constantly.”
“And what are you doing in this life?”
“What do you mean? This life is temporary. The next one is eternal.”
He looked at me carefully. “The next life is built in this one. You can’t skip the building and expect to live in the house.”
I started noticing how I used akhirah as an excuse.
My friend needed someone to talk to. Struggling with depression, isolated, alone. I told myself: “I need to focus on my own ibadah. My own preparation.”
A colleague asked for help with a project. I declined: “I need to spend more time on spiritual development.”
My son wanted me to play with him. “Not now. Abba has to read Quran.”
Every time, I chose “spiritual” over practical. Future over present. Preparation for Jannah over actually doing the deeds that get you there.
My imam said something in the khutbah last Friday that hit hard.
“The sahabah lived as if they would die tomorrow. But they also lived as if they would live forever. They prepared for akhirah. But they built civilization. They prayed through the night. But they served people during the day. They remembered death constantly. But they lived fully.”
I only did half of that. I remembered death. But I wasn’t really living.
I found an old hadith I’d somehow never paid attention to before:
“The best of you are those who do not abandon the dunya for the akhirah, nor the akhirah for the dunya.”
Balance. Integration. Not choosing one over the other but holding both.
I’d been doing it wrong.
My wife’s sister was sick. Cancer. Needed visits, support, help with her children.
“Can we go see her today?” my wife asked.
“I have a class about akhirah tonight.”
She stared at me. “Your aunt is dying. And you’re going to miss being with her so you can learn about death?”
The absurdity hit me then. Avoiding the actual presence of death to study the theory of it.
We went to see her. I missed the class.
It was the most spiritual thing I’d done in months.
My son asked me yesterday: “Abba, what’s Jannah like?”
I started describing it. The rivers, the gardens, the peace, the reunion with loved ones.
“Will you be there?”
“InshaAllah. If Allah wills.”
“How do you get there?”
“By doing good deeds. Being kind. Helping people. Praying. Being a good person.”
He thought about this. “But you didn’t help that man who needed help yesterday.”
“Which man?”
“The one at the store. He dropped everything and you just walked past.”
I’d been thinking about Jannah. Literally imagining Paradise while walking past someone who needed simple, earthly help.
I talked to my father again.
“Abba, how do you balance it? Preparing for akhirah while living in dunya?”
“By remembering that this life is the farm and that life is the harvest. You can’t harvest what you didn’t plant. Every moment here is an opportunity to plant something that grows there.”
“So when I help my neighbor…”
“You’re preparing for akhirah. When you spend time with your son, you’re preparing for akhirah. When you smile at a stranger, visit the sick, feed the hungry—all of it is both. For now and forever.”
I started changing small things.
My neighbor needed help again. This time I said yes. Spent three hours helping him move. Manual labor, nothing “spiritual” about it.
But the whole time I remembered: “Whoever helps ease the hardship of a believer in this world, Allah will ease his hardship on the Day of Judgment.”
Both. Now and then. This life and the next.
The beggar at the mosque—the one I’d walked past for months while thinking about Paradise—I finally stopped.
“Assalamu alaikum.”
“Walaikum assalam.”
We talked. Really talked. Not just charity transaction. Conversation. He told me about his life, his struggles, his family.
When I gave him money, it felt different than all my “spiritual” activities. More real. More connected to what Allah actually wants from us.
My wife noticed.
“You’re different lately.”
“How?”
“Present. Like you’re actually here instead of living in your head about the future.”
“I’m trying to remember that the future is built in the present. That you can’t prepare for Jannah by ignoring the opportunities Allah puts in front of you today.”
“What changed?”
“I realized I was using akhirah as an excuse to avoid living. Reading about death instead of helping the dying. Learning about charity instead of being charitable. Planning for eternity while missing today.”
Here’s what I’m understanding now: akhirah consciousness doesn’t mean abandoning dunya. It means living fully here while remembering everything matters eternally.
The Prophet ď·ş prepared for akhirah by serving people, building community, being present with companions, helping neighbors, caring for orphans, comforting the grieving.
He didn’t withdraw from life to prepare for death. He lived fully to prepare for eternity.
My son wanted to play yesterday. Build something with blocks.
Old me would have said: “Not now. Abba has to do dhikr.”
New me said: “Yes. Let’s build together.”
And while we built, I remembered: being present with your child is ibadah. Teaching them through your presence is preparing for akhirah. This moment, right now, counts.
Both. Always both.
My wife’s sister died last week.
I was there. Held my wife while she cried. Helped make arrangements. Sat with family. Present for the difficulty.
Not thinking about akhirah in some abstract way. But living it. Being the person you’d hope to be if you really believed in meeting Allah.
At the janazah, I finally understood: preparing for death means living fully. Remembering akhirah means not wasting this life.
Tonight after Isha, my neighbor’s light was on late. The old man who lives alone.
I could go home. Continue my routine. Read my books about Paradise.
Or I could knock on his door. Check if he’s okay. Be present for someone who might need presence.
I knocked.
He was fine. Just couldn’t sleep. We drank chai. Talked about nothing important. Just presence. Just being there.
As I walked home, I thought: maybe this is what preparing for akhirah actually looks like.
Not avoiding this life to focus on the next.
But living this life in a way that builds the next.
Every kindness. Every presence. Every moment of actually being here for people.
All of it matters. Now and forever.
I still think about Jannah. Still remember death. Still prepare.
But differently now.
Not as escape from this life but as reason to live it fully.
Not as excuse to avoid people but as motivation to serve them.
Not as future fantasy but as present calling.
Because the afterlife isn’t just what comes later.
It’s what we’re building with every choice we make today.
Every opportunity for grace we take or miss.
Every person we help or walk past.
Every moment we’re truly present or lost in future thoughts.
This is the farm. That is the harvest.
And you can’t harvest what you didn’t plant.
So I’m planting. Today. Now. In this moment.
For eternity that begins right here.