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I used to barely sleep during Ramadan. In years past, I would wake up before dawn to prepare the sehri or suhoor鈥�the pre-dawn meal. Then my husband and I would pray, read the Quran, and go back to sleep for two hours. At 7, we鈥檇 wake and feed our three kids, drop them off at school, and rush to work. By the time I got home, I鈥檇 be shuffling the kids in the door, preparing iftar鈥攖he meal to break fast鈥攁nd trying to unload from the day.

Each evening during Ramadan, I鈥檇 prepare a large batch of iftar foods鈥攃hicken biryani, chana masala, and neatly stuffed samosas. Once a week throughout the month, we鈥檇 carry plates to share with friends and neighbors. On weekends, my husband鈥檚 family would rotate hosting iftar for 28 people at their homes. At night, the men would go off to the mosque with the boys, while the women would tend to the younger kids.

During Ramadan, which, in 2020, began April 24 and ran through May 23, Muslims around the world fast from dawn until dusk. But the coronavirus pandemic has changed how we鈥檙e observing and celebrating Ramadan this year. Now I let my three kids, ages 4, 7 and 10, sleep in while I do some freelance work, and then transition to home schooling them. I am no longer preparing iftar for others. We haven鈥檛 figured out how to share food and observe the social distancing rules for COVID-19.

In Detroit, all of our mosques are closed, though nationally, some mosques are providing services such as lectures, sermons, and Islamic courses via Zoom, Facebook or Instagram. Parking lots are empty. Streets are deserted, devoid of the hustle and bustle typical of Southeast Michigan, where an estimated 300,000 Muslims live.

In 2019, in Dearborn Heights, the Ramadan Suhoor Festival, a fun and lively event serving halal food, attracted thousands to the streets during the hours between sundown and sunrise, when Muslims were permitted to eat. But it was canceled in 2020. There will be no late-night pancake runs for sehri at the local IHOP, an American Muslim tradition for some.

The past few weeks have been a roller coaster for our family. Right before the COVID-19 outbreak, I lost my full-time job and had to quickly pivot to being a stay-at-home mom, home schooling my three kids. On March 16, when Gov. Gretchen Whitmer announced a stay-at-home order, my husband, an accountant, transitioned to working from home. Coinciding with Ramadan, this makes this all even more complicated.

Many of us are at a loss for how to socialize during Ramadan. We miss breaking bread together at our homes. We鈥檙e unable to hug each other at the mosque, to stand side-by-side in rows to pray behind the imam. We don鈥檛 hear the beautiful recitations of the Quran, soothing our souls in prayer. We miss the inconvenience of searching for parking in packed, moonlit lots. We aren鈥檛 staying up to do 辩颈测补尘蝉鈥�retreats at the mosque to engage in worship.

But it鈥檚 not all about what we have lost. In many ways, this forced pause embodies the spirit of Ramadan鈥攆ocusing on slowing down and making deeper spiritual connections. We can dedicate more time to worship.

We鈥檙e creating mosques in our homes; at our house, for example, we lay out prayer mats in the living room with a backdrop of sparkling lights to create an atmosphere of serenity. The kids join us for some of the prayers when they鈥檙e awake. My 10-year-old son recites aloud the adhan, or call to prayer, while my 7-year-old daughter places prayer mats neatly in three rows, my husband leading prayer, the boys in the middle and women behind. My 4-year-old son either joins us or karate chops the air as we all bow down in worship.

In the evenings, the kids and I prepare the table to break the fast, as my husband wraps up his work. Some days, he鈥檚 working from 9 a.m. until 1 a.m., taking short breaks for prayer. Iftar is the only time he can step away and breathe.

The kids began practicing fasting half days last year. Then 9 and 6, the oldest would fast from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. and the youngest from 8 a.m. until lunch, at noon. Now at home, with less strenuous days, the older children are fasting 8 to 10 hours. Our youngest does not fast.

These days, my daughter鈥檚 favorite part of iftar is setting the table with our gold-trimmed, pink rose china set. Occasionally, she鈥檒l pop a fresh batch of brownies into the oven for a late-night snack. My 10-year-old son is usually exhausted by iftar, and sits eagerly at the table, asking the Google home mini, 鈥淗ey Google, what time is it?鈥� until it鈥檚 sundown. My 4-year-old giggles as he watches all the commotion.

We break our fast with dua, saying grace and supplicating for everyone to stay safe, before we eat. My youngest will tell us a story or ask questions about what we鈥檒l do post-corona. 鈥淢om, after the coronavirus, can our family come over for iftar?鈥� I鈥檒l tell him yes, knowing that Ramadan will soon end. We can dedicate more time for worship in a few weeks, but the virus may remain.

As a family, we鈥檙e having more meals together than ever. We鈥檙e praying and worshipping together. We鈥檝e decorated the walls with lights and handmade crafts. We鈥檝e had more time to go over scripture and teach the kids the aspects of religion that matter鈥攂uilding character, working together, reading about Prophets and righteous people from the past.

The month of fasting will come to an end soon. Gov. Whitmer the stay-at-home order until May 28. Eid Al-Fitr, the celebration marking the end of Ramadan, will most likely be celebrated at home on May 24, much like Passover and Easter were.

Our extended family has been talking about whether or not to purchase new outfits for the occasion and asking whether we鈥檒l be getting together then. One of the local mosques, the Islamic Organization of North America, will host an Eid program via Zoom. Other local mosques are still grappling with what Eid will look like. But for now, we鈥檙e prepared to spend it over Zoom with family鈥攖o stay home and save lives.

This story was written for YES!, and comes to us from , a project that brings the work of immigrant journalists to digital news sites and public radio.