My grandfather—may God have mercy on him—who had passed the age of one hundred and twenty, used to recite short, weighty words after every prayer: “O Lord, enough.”

In my youth, I thought it was a passing remembrance or a supplication from the established litanies, until my insight matured and I realized that those words were not an ordinary plea, but rather a cry of a soul exhausted by existence, and an acknowledgment of a heart weary of prolonging in a time that no longer contained it.

My grandfather witnessed generations come and go, saw his loved ones leave this world one after another, until he became alone in the hustle of life, a stranger among those around him, carrying in his chest the memory of a bygone century, breathing air unlike theirs, speaking a language from which the youth barely understood the bare words.

That is the alienation of a long life—an indescribable alienation measured not only by the loss of companions but by the loss of shared meaning with the present time. When your entire generation dies, and you become the sole witness to a past history, you feel that your existence in this world has become an anomaly to the natural order of things.

You remember names that have fallen into oblivion, you weep for faces that no one remembers, and you find yourself a human museum, looked upon by people with wonder, not love, as if you are the remnant of a ship that sank in the sea of time, floating alone on the water's surface, not knowing why God kept you here.

Here, one begins to ask bitterly: Why am I remaining while all those I love have departed?

And why does this world detain me when I have exhausted all its sweetness and bitterness, until the taste of life in my mouth has become gray and unlike life itself?

But fate, with its hidden kindness, sometimes makes illness a mercy in the garb of torment, and a gentle preparation before the great departure.

How many a patient has lived years in pain, and those pains were a merciful warning, giving children time to realize that their father's or mother's days are numbered, so visits increase, delayed words are spoken, disputes are buried, and the farewell becomes gentle and calm, not shocking and tragic. Vast is the difference between one who loses a loved one suddenly, so their heart bleeds for years without consolation, and one who departs after a long illness, making the loss painful but expected, surrounded by the preparation of the soul and readiness of the spirit.

My grandfather's illness—may God have mercy on him—was painful on the surface, but in truth it was a mercy that paved the way for a non-traumatic farewell, and gave us all a chance to say what was in our hearts before it was too late, and to appreciate every moment as if it were a final gift.

And here emerges the great human paradox:

Death, which terrifies healthy youth and frightens those embarking on life, turns into a wish for those worn out by age and exhausted by pain. Not as an escape from life nor ingratitude for its blessings, but as a longing for a rest that the world can no longer grant, and a yearning for a reunion that cuts through that painful alienation.

God Almighty says: “Every soul shall taste death,” but the taste of death differs according to the state of the taster; for one in the prime of health sees death as a frightening monster that cuts off all hope, while one worn out by years and diseases sees it as an open door to God's mercy and deliverance from unbearable pain.

If we add to this physical pain that painful hidden feeling that they have become a burden, even if unspoken, then begins the psychological journey towards accepting death, indeed wishing for it, not out of hatred for life, but out of love for those around them, fearing to tire them, and fearing to see in their eyes a look of pity or annoyance that burns the dignity of a lifetime.

In our Eastern culture, we revere the elderly and honor them, but children's preoccupation with their modern lives leaves the old person alone within four walls, missed by no one except on occasions. How many an elderly person does not complain of an organic illness, but moans from loneliness that eats away at their soul before diseases eat away at their body.

When a person feels that his existence has become a burden on others, his deep tragedy begins, and his desire to stay turns into a plea for departure. However, the Islamic faith-based view gives this feeling sublimity and wisdom; it makes death not a defeat or suicide, but a willing surrender, and a conviction that God knows best what is good for His servants, and that a good end is the ultimate goal that only those whom God guides can attain.

Perhaps one of the most subtle and profound merciful secrets of fate is that when God wills good for His servant, He prepares for him the means of departure quietly; He sends illnesses that reduce the shock, and extends life a little so that hearts may be prepared, so that when the appointed time comes, it is not sudden, but a awaited deliverance and an answered prayer.

Indeed, the illnesses that precede death in the elderly are nothing but divine mercy, so that the separation is not like a thunderbolt, but like a gradual sunset, each day its light weakens until it sets in a tranquility befitting a life spent in toil and patience.

When my thoughts returned to my grandfather as he repeated “O Lord, enough,” I realized that he was not praying for death out of despair, but was declaring his sufficiency from this world—not from its goodness, but from its fatigue—a sufficiency from repeated separation, accumulated pain, and that alienation that made him a stranger everywhere except in the niche of his prayer.

And when his time came, it was not that terrifying death that people fear, but an answer to a prayer that had long been on his lips. It was mercy and fulfillment, a beautiful end to a full life, and deliverance for a soul that no longer had room for this world in its heart, yet he remained patient and hopeful until he called to his Lord and He answered him. To Him we all shall return. So if life is long, let it be in obedience and contentment, and if death approaches, let it be in satisfaction and readiness. For death is not always a calamity; sometimes it is rest for one whom life has exhausted, peace for one from whom peace has departed, and an end befitting a new beginning in a home where there is no alienation nor pain.

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