Bismillah First

Baby Mo was the fastest child in the whole world. Fast to wake, fast to run, fast to do absolutely everything. If Baby Mo had a motto, it would surely be: "Fast! Fast! Faaast!"

That morning the sun had only just peeked shyly through the curtains. Baby Mo had already leapt out of bed — hop! — sprinted to the table, and snatched his favourite chocolate-jam bread. Hop again! Nearly into his mouth.

"Wait just a moment, champ," said Umi gently, holding back a laugh. "Have you said it yet?"

Baby Mo froze. His cheeks were already puffed out like a squirrel storing nuts. He shook his head slowly. "Mmm?"

Umi sat down level with his eyes. "Bismillah first," she said. "It means 'with the name of Allah'. So whatever we begin, we begin together with Allah. Like holding Allah's hand before we take a step."

Baby Mo swallowed his bread — gulp — and tried the word slowly. "Bis… mil… lah." It felt round and warm in his mouth, like a sip of cocoa on a cold morning. He liked it. He said it again, louder, "Bismillah!" — until sleepy Baby Ais startled awake and said, "Lah!"

From that morning on, Baby Mo grew curious. Could such a little word really have power?

So he tried it everywhere, like a tiny scientist.

Before putting on his shoes — "Bismillah!" — and somehow his right foot slid in more smoothly. (Usually he got them mixed up.)

Before watering the flowers on the porch — "Bismillah!" — and the droplets glittered in the sun like a little rain of jewels. Baby Mo's jaw dropped.

Before stacking his blocks into a tower — "Bismillah!" — and he built more slowly, more carefully, one by one. The tower rose taller than his own head! Baby Mo jumped for joy. It turned out "Bismillah" didn't make him faster — it made him calmer. And calm, it turned out, was stronger.

That afternoon came a little test. Baby Ais slipped on the floor and cried over a small scrape on her knee. Her tears were big and round. Normally Baby Mo would panic too. But this time he ran over, held his twin sister's hand, and whispered softly, just as Umi had taught him, "Bismillah, Ais. It's okay."

How strange. Slowly, Baby Ais's sobbing settled. Maybe not because her knee suddenly healed — but because there was a calm voice beside her. A voice that began everything with Allah.

Night came. The bedroom light went out, and the room turned dark and cosy. Baby Mo pulled the blanket up to his chin. He remembered everything from the day: the shoes, the flowers, the tower, Baby Ais's hand. Then he closed his eyes and smiled a tiny smile in the dark.

"Bismillah," he whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Behind the door, Umi quietly listened. She held her breath, then smiled. Because Baby Mo, the fastest child in the whole world, had finally found one big secret inside one little word: whatever begins with the name of Allah always feels like enough.

Every good matter that does not begin with Bismillah is lacking in blessing.

And so, one little word changed Baby Mo's whole day — not into something faster, but into something more blessed.

Now, before we close this book, let's try it together with your little one: take a breath… then say it slowly, "Bismillah." Feel it — warm, like cocoa. 🤎