The Weather, the Queue and the Qadr: Notes on Trust From a Very British Convert

I converted a few years ago, and one of the stranger side effects is that I now hear ordinary British conversation differently. A colleague says ‘it is what it is’ and my brain briefly files it under qadr. Someone in the queue sighs ‘mustn’t grumble’ and I think about sabr. None of this means Britain is secretly Islamic, or that every shrug is a theological statement. It means the language we already use for getting through a wet Tuesday sometimes brushes up against the language of faith — and that overlap is worth a look.

So here is a field guide, of sorts. Seven phrases I hear regularly in the UK, what they do well, where they can go wrong, and how I try to hold them alongside tawakkul — trust in God — without turning ‘Insha’Allah’ into a verbal shrug.

1. ‘It is what it is’ — the British qadr

I first noticed this one at a train station in the rain. The 17:42 had been cancelled, the platform screen had that apologetic glow, and a man in a fleece said, ‘Well. It is what it is.’ Then he went to buy a coffee.

There is real wisdom in that. Islam teaches that after you have done what you can — checked the timetable, bought the ticket, asked the staff — you accept what is beyond your control. The Prophet, peace be upon him, famously told his companion to tie his camel and then trust in God. ‘It is what it is’ can be a small, secular cousin of that: I have done the bits I can do; the rest is not mine to wrestle into shape.

The honest problem is that it can also be a full stop. Sometimes we say it to avoid feeling disappointed, or to avoid saying ‘I’m gutted’ out loud. Faith does not ask me to pretend I don’t care. It asks me to care, act, and then hand the outcome over. So now I try to add a quiet second sentence in my head: ‘It is what it is — and God knows.’

2. ‘Mustn’t grumble’ — sabr with a biscuit

My nan used this one. So does the woman at the pharmacy counter when the prescription system is down. ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ she says, while clearly grumbling. It is a very British way of admitting that life is inconvenient without making a scene.

Sabr is often translated as patience, but it is closer to steadfastness. It is not the same as pretending everything is fine. In fact, complaining to God — not about Him — is part of the tradition. The problem is when ‘mustn’t grumble’ becomes ‘mustn’t feel’. British reserve can help here: it stops me turning every minor annoyance into a public drama. But it can also hide the fact that I am struggling and need help.

I have learned to say ‘mustn’t grumble’ at the school gate and then, later, actually tell a friend that I am tired. The phrase keeps me polite. The friendship keeps me honest.

3. ‘See how we go’ — tawakkul in trainers

‘See how we go’ is what I say when I am not sure how a work project will land, or how a family visit will unfold. It sounds vague, but it usually comes after planning. I have made the spreadsheet. I have had the awkward phone call. Now I am going to walk forward and see.

That is not a bad picture of tawakkul. Trust in God is not a replacement for effort; it is what you do with the bit you cannot control. The danger is when ‘see how we go’ becomes an excuse not to decide anything. I have been guilty of that. I once spent three weeks ‘seeing how we go’ about a Ramadan routine that needed one difficult conversation. It wasn’t trust. It was avoidance in a nice jumper.

Now I try to make the decision, do the follow-up, and then genuinely leave the result alone. Tawakkul is not passivity. It is action with open hands.

4. ‘We’ll play it by ear’ — planning without pretending

British people love this phrase around weddings, Eid visits and anything involving a buffet. It means: we have a rough idea, but we are not going to pretend we control every detail.

I use ‘Insha’Allah’ in a similar way, but I have to be careful. In Arabic-speaking contexts, it is a normal part of future speech: I will see you tomorrow, God willing. In UK convert life, it can start to sound like ‘probably not’ if I only use it when I am cancelling something. The phrase is not a get-out clause. It is a recognition that the future belongs to God.

So I try to pair it with specifics. Not ‘I’ll come to the meal, Insha’Allah’ and then disappear. More like: ‘I’m planning to come, Insha’Allah — I’ll text you by Thursday if anything changes.’ That keeps the trust in God and the courtesy with the person.

5. ‘No use crying over spilt milk’ — small losses and real grief

I once knocked an entire mug of tea over a friend’s carpet. ‘No use crying over spilt milk,’ she said, kindly. I laughed, because it was tea, and because the carpet was already a lost cause.

This phrase is good for the small stuff. It stops me spiralling over a cracked phone screen or a burnt batch of biscuits. But it is not a tool for real grief. When someone is bereaved, ‘no use crying’ is not sabr; it is a door closing. Islam makes room for tears. The Prophet, peace be upon him, wept when his son died. Steadfastness is not the absence of sorrow.

So I keep the phrase for tea and use my actual words for the heavier things. ‘I’m sorry. I’m praying for you. I don’t have a fix.’ That is closer to the mark.

6. ‘Worst case scenario’ — anxiety wearing a raincoat

British conversation is often dressed for bad weather. We like a worst-case scenario the way other people like a good podcast. It can be useful: it helps you pack a coat and save for a rainy day. But it can also become a habit of expecting the worst, which is not the same as trusting God.

I am not saying Muslims should be relentlessly cheerful. That would be its own performance. But there is a difference between planning for difficulty and living as if God is not there in it. The Islamic idea of husn al-dhan — thinking well of God — does not mean ignoring risk. It means doing the risk assessment and then refusing to let fear write the whole story.

My compromise is a very British one: I make a plan, I make a backup plan, and then I stop at two. The third plan is usually just anxiety in a high-vis jacket.

7. ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed’ — where language runs out

This is the one I hear most from family who are not Muslim. They say it with real warmth. I am not going to correct them or launch into a theology lecture at the dinner table. But it does remind me that I now have a different vocabulary for hope.

When I say ‘Insha’Allah’ to my mum, I sometimes explain it plainly: ‘It means I hope so, and I’m leaving room for God.’ That keeps it from sounding like a mysterious slogan. It also gives her a way to ask questions without feeling like she is being preached at.

Saying ‘Insha’Allah’ without turning it into a brush-off

Here is what I have learned, mostly by getting it wrong. Say it with a plan attached. Say it in the same breath as a real intention. Don’t use it to avoid saying no. And don’t be afraid to explain it to people who love you but don’t share your faith.

The British phrases in this list are not hidden Islamic teachings. They are just ordinary ways of getting by. But that is exactly why they are useful. They show me that trust, patience and acceptance are not exotic foreign imports. They are already in the air here, mixed with rain and bus timetables and tea.

Mustn’t grumble, Insha’Allah. And then, God willing, get on with the day.