![[Valid Atom 1.0]](http://draft.blogger.com/valid-atom.png "Validate my Atom 1.0 feed")
“Allah..uma sha...lli ala Mu...hammad...Ya..Rabbi...shalli..alaihi...wa..sallim...”
small and husky voice was heard in hardener sound small mosque behind my rent house. Annoying? Yes, it bothers me. Disruptive and disturbing thought. Touched my heart like the verses that came out of the small mosque loudspeakers.
Image via WikipediaThe little voice was not beautiful to be heard, but could shake the entire inner soul. The voice was familiar with either. Danis's voice, adopted son of the owner of my rent house. He was not yet 5 years, but the voice verses of praise from her tiny lips have been able to slap my consciousness.
Hearing that little voice brought me back far backward. I remember once my childhood. When I was first entered elementary school. I was very naughty, a lot of behavior, and very fond of wrestling with a friend. I'm known as a trouble maker in my village. My mother always overwhelmed when facing a reprimand neighbors, because I delinquency. Even the mother also had to replace the cost of hospital care of neighbor's child, because I threw stones at a neighbor child's head.
If I was throwing a tantrum like that, she was not angry. My father prefers silence. And my mom just looked sad and just not invite me to talk for a day. Not offered a meal, not told to learn, not told to read the holy book. (Hehehe. .. Mom, I'm sorry) I know, the mother realized her only child behavior. I am easily upset when people insult about my social status. mother knew it was not my fault.
I was naughty not without reason. I often hit the neighbor's child's head because mocked. "Children of the poor, do not have a glove ... the poor house!", Mockery it makes me angry.
I was a child of the poor, live bamboo-walled house rented, and I do not have a new glove for prayers at the mosque. I still remember, my gloves have a patch because of torn cloth. The color of my glove is green plaid. I do not have many friends because I am poor. My friends actually much familiar in the mosque.
My friends are mostly the same fate. Are both children of the poor. They are the average of the next village and also the immigrant population. Because not many have friends in the village, almost half the time the playmate was in the mosque. Because it's place, I can meet friends.
The mosque is my second home. I almost memorized some verses Juz'ama short book, because that's all I could read every day other than school textbooks. My little voice always decorate mosques funnel.
I miss my childhood. Really. I want to pray and read the Quran again.
And now, the voice of small lips Danis it into my childhood nostalgia. Small and husky voice that I ever had. Since I have a career in journalism, I no longer step on the mosque. Little voice from my lips it gradually no longer audible.
This second, that small voice make me miss my childhood. My feet have rarely stepped on the mosque. My hands are rarely held the holy book. My lips have rarely read a verse and sholawat. Also rarely touched the holy water.
I miss my childhood. Really. I want to pray and read the Quran again.
God, forgive me.
