Rabe’a had been praying in her room late one night until she was finally overcome by weariness and fell asleep. So deep was her slumber that she stirred not a bit when a thief broke the window and climbed right in. He ransacked her belongings, taking hold of the little there was of any value, but when he went to leave, he found that the way was barred to him. There was nothing material blocking the way, mind you. Instead, somehow his conscience was playing tricks on him. He dropped the loot and departed, finding the way now open. Having made it only just around the corner, he changed his mind again and doubled back. What would his companions think if he returned empty handed? He climbed back into Rabe’a’s room where she still was sleeping soundly, having utterly exhausted herself from her devotions. The moment he took hold of her possessions, however, he found himself again unable to move. Frozen to the spot, as it were. He stood motionless, wrestling with his own conscious. Surely Allah would regard such an act to be abominable. ‘If one friend has fallen asleep, one Friend is awake and keeping watch,’ he realised, and immediately fled into the deep cover of night.

Postscript:
Curiously enough, however, when the thief returned home to his wife and explained (rather poetically) why it was that he had returned home empty handed, she expressed a joy far exceeding anything that she’d displayed for the past gifts he had brought her. ‘Surely, we shall be blessed!’ she cried, and in time indeed they were. The thief, from this night on, continuously found excuses to leave behind some of what, by virtue of his trade, was rightfully his. He never failed to relate every detail of his conscience to his wife, who ever more felt that she had married the right man, a good man.

One Friday night, Rabe’a was busy readying herself for a gala ball. A letter had arrived in the mail some weeks before, inviting her and a partner to attend, but as yet she hadn’t found anyone to accompany her. Her housemate had suggested that she invite their dashing, friendly and single next-door-neighbour. But Rabe’a, true to her ‘don’t look for love, let it find you’ philosophy, said that she was happy to simply go on her own. Just then the phone rang. It was her old school friend, Hassan, looking for a partner to join him at the very same ball. Rabe’a politely declined and, hanging up the phone, said to her housemate, ‘You never know, it might have been a trick. Do you want to get a video instead?’

Jeremy sat, crouched alone at the mouth of the cave that he had lived in for … was it a moon, a season, a year, or always? With a stick he reopened the stigmata-like wounds on his hands and feet. The distant sensation that doing this brought had long become a welcome distraction from the almost suffocatingly empty pain and weariness that his fasting was causing him. In the distance, smoke rose high into the sky from below where the villagers were presumably preparing their dinner. Jeremy’s thoughts once again returned to days long since past: He and his brethren would have just enjoyed the deep satisfaction of breakfasting on warm onion soup after yet another long day working in the hot sun to establish their new dwellings. The dormitories were built. The kitchen and hall that they were now sitting in, served well to produce sufficient sustenance and a venue in which to socialise. All that was still wanting in their new home was the garden. Granted, it was adequate for their present, modest needs, but in order to fulfil the common dream of providing food, shelter and, most importantly, guidance to the surrounding villages’ elderly, poor, prosecuted and unfit, the commune’s garden would require at least another four moons’ worth of labour.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ interjected Matthew over the relaxed chatter from around the table. ‘Again, it has pleased God to permit us another day working freely for His greater glory.’
‘Amen,’ muttered the congregation agreeably.
‘But, let us not therefore become lax in our devotion to Him. I remind you again that Lord Cunningham persists with his angered demands that we pay tax to his estate and I have heard today from one of our many sympathisers that the very same church in which the majority of us were born and raised has recently joined Lord Campbell in the campaign against us by denouncing our cause as heretical to the congregation of yesterday’s sermon. Let us not forget the fate of our not so distant neighbours and martyrs. In solidarity with them and as a show of devotion to our Lord and Saviour, let us once again open the wounds that bind us together. Imitatio Christi. ’
With this Jeremy, Matthew and their companions again scratched and picked at the wounds on the back of their hands and the tops of their feet until the blood flowed freely.
‘Jeremy, would you be so kind as to recite to us the life and death of Saint Gearoid?’ Matthew requested, whereupon Jeremy recounted the trials of Saint Gearoid’s forty years spent alone in the desert, his down coming into Basheba to preach the word of God, his rapidly growing disciples, and his subsequent imprisonment, torture and final martyrdom. When Jeremy had finished, Matthew once again took the floor.
‘It is in contemplating the commendable lives of Saints like Gearoid that we begin to appreciate just how ill prepared we are for the many trials of faith that the Lord may ask of us. Let us not be guilty of the arrogance of Peter or we will unwittingly undermined our cause, for although we all may well be slaughtered before or after our garden is ready to feed those in need, even in death our steadfastness and resolve to the devotion of the Lord will feed the hearts of thousands like us to finally overthrow the greed of false idols like Campbell.’
‘Amen,’ resounded the common word of commitment once again, and Jeremy’s hand unconsciously moved to touch the wound on the other; the sharp pain drawing him back from his reverie.
Saint Jeremy silently stood and retreated into his isolated cave to sleep the best his vacuous belly would allow. He would remain ready for them.

Once, when returning from a pilgrimage, a man bought a solid gold statue of Buddha from a merchant in a Bazaar. Even as he was handing over the money for it, the man suspected – against the vendor’s most passionate assurances to the contrary – that the Buddha was completely hollow. By the time he had returned home from his long journey, the pilgrim was so convinced that he had been swindled that he dared not show any of friends or relatives what he had spent his money on. Instead, one evening, he secretly took a fine-tooth saw to the Buddha and cut it into two halves. Much to his horror, the Buddha was solid gold.

Postscript
The shock and guilt felt by the pilgrim upon discovering what he mistakenly thought that he had hoped for soon manifested itself in sickness. The guilt-ridden man became so ill that all who knew him feared for his life. Even the local doctor recommended that the family finalise the man’s affairs. To this end, they sent for the local priest, Iam. The saint prayed over the man before whispering in his ear the following: ‘Density is a relation of weight and volume. Next time, place the object in a bucket of water and calculate the volume by the amount of water that is displaced. Then weigh the object and, in comparing it to an object that you know is gold, you can more easily quiet your suspicions.’
With these words, Saint Iam made her leave, and soon thereafter the man recovered.

Once, a pilgrim travelling towards Mecca was fortunate enough to obtain an audience with the Saint Sun Lao. Taking his place before the great sage, the pilgrim prostrated himself.
‘How can I help you?’ asked Sun Lao.
‘Before I set out on the pilgrimage I’m on, I was briefly under the instruction of the great Saint Al-Fozail. In inquiring of him whether I would succeed in my undertaking, the master suggested that he first consult you, Sun Lao, the renowned traveller,’ explained the pilgrim.
‘Yes?’ asked Sun Lao. ‘And what advice did I give at the time?’
‘Well, being an ignorant peasant, as far as I could tell, you were nowhere to be seen.’
‘A long time has elapsed since I last left this my home, it is true.’
‘And yet, after falling into a trance, the master began chanting in a language unfamiliar to me.’
‘This is not surprising; a great sage must be well versed in all of the ancient languages.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘And what happened afterwards?’
‘After a time he ceased his recital and informed me that you had the following advice to give: “One cannot expect to undertake a pilgrimage / To find atonement, if one is not committed-”’
‘To firstly abandon all their worldly belongings, / Including hope and certainty,’ Sun Lao concluded.
‘Then it is true!’ cried the pilgrim.
‘Yes, it was I that spoke those words to your master, pilgrim.’
‘What miracles are the saints not capable of?’ thought the pilgrim.

Nowadays he’d probably be diagnosed along with the majority of the other children as having an Attention Deficiency Disorder and subsequently prescribed unceremoniously with an amphetamine of one sort or another. Depending on how you look at it, however, it was either very unfortunate or simply Divine Providence that no such medication was known in Suso’s day.
When, as a youth, Suso couldn’t sit quietly in school, he was beaten mercilessly … as, of course, were all of the other pupils. However, for them, the beating would serve as an adequate remedy. For Suso, in contrast, the violent rush of punishment would simply cause him to become even more restless, eventually leading to his expulsion from school after school after school. Having subsequently tried every trade his small frame might allow for, Suso and his family soon began to despair that there was to be little future for him. Indeed, even when it came to girls, he would approach them so excitedly, so bluntly and irreverently that they would often run away screaming in fear.
It was not until the local preacher and ascetic, hearing of Suso’s difficulties, suggested that perhaps Suso might have a touch of the Devil in him and would probably benefit from wearing a hair shirt as a means of penance, that Suso showed any potential for self-control. The constant itching of the shirt seemed to do the trick. As a source of unrelenting irritation, Suso said that it enabled him to keep his thoughts focused on God. It was if God himself were forever tapping him on the shoulder to remind him to behave appropriately, and soon he was able to return to his studies.
The nights, however, remained a problem. It was as though the daily hours of self-disciple had simply stored up all of his irascibility, only to run free once the sun had fallen. Of course, Suso had never slept well. Even as an infant he had kept his parents and neighbours awake during the nights with uncanny shrieks as though he were possessed. But now, as an adolescent, Suso was again plagued by severe insomnia. He began wearing his shirt to bed, but as soon as he began to drift off to sleep, his self-restraint failed him and he would thrash about wildly, trying to scratch himself, and immediately bringing him back to full, restless consciousness. Finally, his mother and he determined to tie his arms and legs tightly to the frame of the bed so that he would be unable to toss and turn during the night.
For the first few nights nothing changed; Suso slept not a wink. He lay there from dusk ‘til dawn contemplating why God might be testing him in this way. What had he done to deserve this miserable existence? On the four or fifth night, however, something happened that would forever change Suso’s life and the life of religion itself.
Late in the night, Suso remained restless. His desire to scream was only outshone by the intense agony he felt all over. It was as if he were lying atop a giant ant-hill, with a galaxy of insects feeding on his body. Deciding that he would rather expire than continue in this fashion, he prayed yet again, asking that God would alleviate his suffering one way or another. Still nothing happened, and he finally gave in. ‘I know not what I have done to offend Thee,’ he prayed. ‘But if it be your wish that I should live like this, then so be it.’ At that very moment, the heavens opened before Suso and he was lifted, unrestrained out from his bed by an unseen hand. Obviously, he believed himself to be dreaming; that he had finally lost his mind from the torture he was suffering due to the Devil in him. But shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to wake himself, he found nothing changed. All his bindings were gone and a divine pleasure of comfort washed over his entire body in waves. He was in ecstasy. He could see in through the gates of Paradise. God was calling to him.
This heavenly blessing was bestowed upon Suso night after night, and before long he had found that he could freely navigate his way around the ethereal Paradise with ease. Each night he experienced a new and more marvellous pleasure, but nonetheless he awoke each morning feeling empty and exhausted. For all the favours the good Lord was offering him each night, the absence of His presence made Suso’s heart feel ever more pained with longing. But he knew what was to be done.
Waiting for just the right time, Suso skipped school and secretly visited the old saint in his cabin outside of town. There he told the preacher of his visions and his plan to win the greater favour of God. The old ascetic nodded knowingly and without much ado, retrieved from a cupboard the garment Suso had requested.
That night, before retiring, Suso donned the glass-shard embedded vest the saint had given him and covered it with the hair shirt everyone knew about. His mother tied him to the bed extra tightly upon Suso’s request and said goodnight. At first the sensation was almost unbearable and Suso almost conceded that he had made a terrible mistake and called out to his mother to untie him. He wept as quietly as he could; each sob cutting deeper and deeper into his already immolated skin. Aeons seemed to have passed before the now familiar sensation of rising out from the bed, the restraints and the garments came.  This time, however, God was waiting for him beyond the gates.

Such is the story of the great mystic Suso. As the years rolled on, he invented more and more devout methods of Atonement. He eventually had his head fastened still, nails added to the glass vest, long pins strewn across his hard, wooden mattress, and leather gloves made with tacks to reopen the any wounds that might heal. For more than thirty years he lived like this, in severe poverty … For the Love of God.

Cupid loved his wife dearly. He constantly showered upon her more than he could comfortably afford in gifts of flowers, chocolates, jewellery, clothes, dinners and the like. He ravished attention on her, writing her sonnets, calling her on the telephone whenever he was able, just to make sure everything was all right. He was constantly photographing her, and had a placard made above his desk at work, which he plastered with images of his beloved. In fact, Cupid spent so much time and energy in idolising his wife that he had let himself go a little. All the money he made, he spent on her. So he wasn’t able to buy himself new clothes; not that it bothered him in the slightest. All the time he had, he spent it making her life easier: opening doors for her, making breakfast, lunch and dinner for her, doing all the housework, driving her everywhere, working to make money for her gifts, et cetera, et cetera.
Not that he minded or even noticed, but Cupid had become somewhat undernourished. His teeth, from lack of brushing, had turned a cheesy yellow. His personal hygiene was severely wanting, to say the least, and he had heavy, almost purple bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. But, as I said, he didn’t mind in the slightest, just so long as his precious wife was happy.
Which is why he didn’t seem to mind either when she eventually took on several lovers in order to ‘continue being happy’ because Cupid’s smelly atavism was beginning to repulse her. Of course, he had offered to change his ways, to clean himself up, as it were, in order to appease the apple of his eye, but she had thought it best that he continue to on in the devotional work that made him so happy.

‘You are happy, aren’t you, Cupid?’ she asked him.
‘So long as you are, my dear,’ came his ready reply.
‘Then I think it’s better for you not to tempt any possibility of self-love,’ she concluded. ‘Look how much effort is required to keep me happy, the vain creature I am. Whereas, for you, you don’t even need a shower to feel better about yourself.’
‘Only to shower you with my love, My Love,’ agreed Cupid.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said flatly.