Going Through a Rough Patch: Life Can Be This Miraculous

My wife and I arrived home around 8:30 in the evening. I had just finished teaching at a tutoring center, and she had just returned from teaching Quran lessons at a nearby TPQ. On days like this—when I had a class after Maghreb—I usually dropped her off before heading to my own teaching session, then picked her up a few hours later. She would wait for me at a small roadside café, typing away on her laptop while sipping sweet iced tea.

That night was no different. We exchanged a few words, each of us half-absorbed in our phones, our minds heavy with worry. My proofreading payment, due almost two weeks earlier, still hadn’t been transferred. For freelancers like us, payment delays are no small matter. They decide whether the kitchen keeps running, whether the children can have their snacks at school, whether tomorrow feels secure or uncertain.

Just like coffee, life sometimes reveals a mystery

What to expect

When we finally reached the porch, fatigue weighed on both of us. My wife had ordered nothing more than a glass of iced tea while waiting, and I didn’t order anything either. I simply sat beside her, scrolling through my phone, hoping to see a sudden deposit notification. There was none. Our savings were not just tight—they were painfully thin.

The electricity meter at home had been blinking red for days, a small, incessant reminder of how close we were to running out. We could hear the faint buzzing from its corner, a sound both urgent and embarrassing. Still, we kept it that way. As long as the lights stayed on, we chose to prioritize our two boys at the Islamic boarding school in Jombang.

Whenever any money came in—no matter how small—we immediately sent part of it to their accounts so they could buy food or toiletries. They only ate twice a day at the dorms, and we couldn’t bear the thought of them going hungry.

Bills piled up like fallen leaves. The water bill from September hadn’t been paid. The BPJS health insurance fee was next in line—essential, since my wife often needed to check her blood pressure and refill her medication. Even the mortgage payments had been postponed, an act of quiet defiance against the pressure of necessity.

Then, on the evening of October 21, our eldest son sent a message. It was short, polite, but it pierced straight through. He asked for a small amount of pocket money—just 100,000 rupiah—to spend after the Hari Santri ceremony: half for himself, half to lend a friend who hadn’t received any allowance yet.

We stared at the message in silence. My heart ached. The dissertation proofreading fee still hadn’t come through, even after I’d asked twice. The truth was, we had almost nothing left. Maybe twenty thousand in cash, no savings, no backup. In the end, with heavy hearts, we borrowed 500,000 from the owner of the TPQ where my wife taught.

She transferred it that same night, reminding us gently that it couldn’t be for long. We promised to return it once my 800,000 proofreading payment arrived. At least our son would have something for Hari Santri, and the rest could go toward visiting the younger boys that coming Friday.

That borrowed money carried us for a while—just enough to patch one hole without uncovering another. But the road ahead remained steep and uncertain.

Detours and dead ends

The proofreading payment we were waiting for was supposed to cover our son’s school fees for October. But that plan fell apart when part of the money was used for a small celebration—the eldest had just completed Taqrib and advanced to Fathul Qorib, a milestone in his Islamic studies. 

I couldn’t bring myself to say no when he asked for a modest meal to share with his friends. It wasn’t the right time financially, but how could I deny him something that marked such a meaningful step in his learning?

Of course, new books were also needed for the next level, and those were non-negotiable. By then, the mortgage had been postponed yet again. I tried not to think about the possibility of another visit from the debt collector, as had happened the year before when we fell behind for nearly three months.

Then, one evening, as I was parking the motorbike, everything suddenly went dark—snap!—the power went out. “Alhamdulillah!” I said reflexively, almost laughing at the absurd timing. We still had the borrowed money, so we topped up the electricity meter right away. The lights flickered back on, and I whispered another quiet alhamdulillah. Maybe, I thought, tomorrow the proofreading payment would finally arrive.

A missed opportunity

While juggling a small blog-writing job one afternoon, I saw a message in one of my groups about a free Mandarin language training program at Airlangga University in Surabaya. I had studied Mandarin briefly years ago in Bogor, and I’d always wanted to continue. 

The idea of joining a proper course—especially one that was free—was tempting. Even better, participants would receive a small allowance at the end of the program, though they’d have to commit to working abroad afterward.

It sounded like an opportunity for a fresh start. But reality quickly dimmed the glow. The training ran for forty days, Monday through Friday, from morning till evening. That meant daily travel from Lamongan to Surabaya—an impossible commute. Even if I managed it, the expenses would exceed my current monthly income from teaching.

Taking leave from work wasn’t an option either. My employers might have agreed, but the consequence was clear: no pay for forty days. Without any stable income, that would have been financial suicide. I wanted to be optimistic—to believe in divine providence—but I also had to be realistic. Bills didn’t wait for miracles.

So, with a quiet sigh, I let the chance go. Along with it vanished a small hope of improving my economic footing through language skills. Still, I prayed that turning away from that opportunity was the right decision, one that God would bless in ways I couldn’t yet see.

The ID card and ATM saga

By then, the balance in our bank account was down to 300,000 rupiah. We used 200,000 of it—50,000 for our youngest, 100,000 for the eldest, and another 50,000 to recharge the electricity meter. When Friday arrived, my wife headed to Jombang to visit the boys, especially the younger one who was battling scabies. I stayed behind to teach evening classes. We had managed to save another fifty thousand—barely a cushion, but something to hold onto.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any more complicated, my phone suddenly died. It had been acting up for months—lagging, refusing to charge, draining its battery within minutes. But this time it gave up completely. That phone was more than a device; it was my lifeline. Without it, I couldn’t access the BCA Mobile app, which I usually used for cashless withdrawals. My ATM card had gone missing weeks earlier, so the app was my only way to withdraw cash.

Determined, I went to the bank to get a new card. But when I handed over my e-KTP, the machine couldn’t read it. The ID had just been returned from Bogor after being used for vehicle transfer paperwork. It was in good shape—but the system refused to recognize it. I went home empty-handed, my patience wearing thin.

The next morning, my wife left early for Jombang, while I headed to the Public Service Mall to fix the ID issue. I took a queue number—90—and decided to pass the time by visiting the nearby BCA branch to try another cash withdrawal. I brought both my ID and my passbook, thinking that would be enough.

It wasn’t. The teller, polite but firm, explained that withdrawals required either an ATM card or the mobile banking app. “But my phone’s dead,” I said, holding it up as proof. “And I lost my card—that’s why I came yesterday to make a new one.”

He could only shrug apologetically. Rules were rules. I walked home again, defeated, the last of our funds trapped in the account.

By some grace, a friend kindly lent us a little money to get by until my new ID and ATM card were ready. A few days later, both were finally issued. I was able to withdraw the remaining funds and repay part of the loan. The mobile banking app still refused to activate, but at least I had a card again—a small symbol of normalcy returning, one plastic rectangle at a time.

Cracks in the roof, light in the heart

Tuesday afternoon, I came home beaming — a new ID card in one hand and a freshly printed ATM card in the other. Finally, something had gone right. I knocked on the door, called out my greeting, and my wife met me with a tired smile. “Come,” she said, “I want to show you something.”

In the kitchen, I froze. The ceiling above the stove had collapsed, its thin panels shattered across the counter. Dust and pieces of plywood covered everything—bottles of spices, the stove, even the pan of oil that had toppled and spilled. The stove was now useless, its ignition broken. No amount of cleaning could bring it back to life.

It felt like a cruel joke. Just the previous week, we had spent what little we had to replace the roof fiber, hoping to stop leaks from the rain. And now this—the ceiling giving way, right over our heads. We couldn’t even make coffee, let alone cook dinner.

Rumi, our youngest, had been sent home temporarily to recover from a painful foot infection that required a small procedure at the local clinic. Having him home brought joy, but also more expenses. Each new day seemed to come with another small test, another leak to patch, another bill to stretch.

The following Saturday, November 1, my phone buzzed with a video call. It was our youngest again. His voice was weak but cheerful, though he confessed that the scabies had spread even further, now causing unbearable itching. He needed more treatment — and a visit from us soon. I mentally calculated what was left in the account. About 150,000 rupiah, barely enough for travel. The proofreading honorarium had finally been paid, but almost all of it was already spoken for.

Outside, the evening sky darkened. Rain began to fall, first gently, then in torrents that rattled the patched roof. My wife and I looked at each other in silence. We both knew what the worry in our eyes meant. If another sheet gave way, water would pour straight into the kitchen. I whispered a prayer — Please, not tonight.

That night, I wrote in my notebook, partly to keep myself calm: We have no power without Your mercy, O Lord. Let this storm pass quietly.

Faith and small miracles

Earlier that week, I had chatted with my dear friend Izzah, who lives in Jepara. She’s been our quiet pillar through all of this — a listener, a lender, a soul who understands what it means to struggle and still smile. From her, I learned something that surprised me: the actual salary of teachers at MAN, the Islamic high school. 

I found out by accident, flipping through a school magazine that had been left in the teachers’ room. Tucked inside were two payslips. One teacher earned five million rupiah, another 3.4 million — take-home pay.

It struck me deeply. At my age, what job could I possibly take that would bring in that kind of income, aside from starting a business of my own? Teaching freelance lessons, proofreading, writing competitions — they were all patchwork efforts, each one barely covering a bill, never enough to plan beyond the next week.

That same afternoon, just before heading out to teach, I messaged a publisher who had offered me a ghostwriting project a month earlier. I wanted to know when it would start — if I could receive a small advance payment to cover our mortgage and other overdue bills. The reply came hours later: the government official who was supposed to be the subject of the book was still too busy. The project was postponed indefinitely.

I stared at the screen, letting out a quiet sigh. I had pinned such hope on that project — not for luxury, but simply to catch up. The fee was around seven million rupiah, decent even if below market rate. Enough to pay the youngest child’s school installment due in December, and to settle small debts here and there.

But once again, that door closed.

The rough patch

That night, while chatting with Izzah again, I remembered an English idiom I had come across: going through a rough patch. I mentioned it to her with a half-smile. She knew what I meant — the words needed no translation. The Cambridge Dictionary lists variations: going through a sticky patch, a bad patch — all referring to the same thing: a period of hardship that tests your endurance, your faith, your patience.

I looked around the dimly lit kitchen, at the patched ceiling and the damp corners, at my wife quietly sorting through the bills on the table. And then I whispered a prayer, one that came from the deepest part of my chest:

“O Allah, we’re going through a rough patch right now. But we know You’re always there for us. Please, kindly help us, rescue us, heal us. Aamiin.”

Grace in the ordinary

When I look back on these past weeks, it feels like watching a slow tide — sometimes calm, sometimes crashing, but always moving. Each day brought its own mix of exhaustion and grace. 

There were moments when everything seemed to fall apart: bills piling up, the roof collapsing, the kitchen going dark. Yet somehow, each time, something small — a friend’s kindness, a paid invoice, a borrowed hand — helped us stay afloat.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t always reward speed or cleverness. Often, it honors persistence — the quiet, daily effort of getting up again, even when the path feels steep and endless. Maybe that’s why people say patience is a form of faith. It’s not just about waiting; it’s about believing that the waiting itself has meaning.

Every small gesture began to feel sacred. A message from Izzah checking in. A kind TPQ owner who lent us money without hesitation. A student’s laughter during class that reminded me why I teach. Even the flicker of light returning when we topped up the electricity felt like mercy descending through the wires.

Sometimes I think God hides His help in ordinary things — in the courage to ask for help, in the humility to accept it, in the strength to keep teaching when your own heart feels drained. Maybe our “rough patch” is not a punishment, but a quiet training ground — to soften what’s hardened, to remind us how much we still depend on love, on grace, on one another.

The future still feels uncertain. The debts haven’t vanished; the roof still needs repair; the next paycheck hasn’t yet arrived. But somehow, the heaviness feels lighter. I no longer count the things we lack as signs of failure. They’re reminders of the small miracles that continue to visit us — quietly, like dawn after a long rain.

And so, before sleep each night, I whisper a simple prayer:

Thank You, God, for keeping us safe within our small, imperfect home. Thank You for the borrowed light that still shines through the cracks. May tomorrow bring what today could not — not necessarily more money or ease, but a little more strength, a little more grace.