A few years after I embraced Islam, a woman I worked for said to me, "You seem so intelligent. Why are you a Muslim?" I responded, "Because Islam appealed to my head as well as to my heart."

If anyone had told me a year before I became a Muslim that my head and heart would be open to Islam, my response would have been, "You're out of your mind!" So how did I come to this point in my life?

On the outside, I had a good life. As a beneficiary of the civil rights movement, I became the first black editor at Redbook Magazine in the mid-1960s. Then I freelanced for magazines and did research for television.

I had a rich social and professional network. I believed, along with my friends and colleagues, that we could help make a positive change in America. It was the time of "Say it loud: I'm black and I'm proud." My Afro hairstyle and my support for the black arts movement expressed my black pride. The knowledge of Africa's great past awakened my African identity.

My family was proud and supportive of my accomplishments. I'd made it.

On the inside, though, a creeping emptiness had begun to spread. I'd joined freedom rides, picket lines, and boycotts with the Congress of Racial Equality. I had volunteered with the National Urban League. But the bullets that killed John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King Jr. each killed a bit of my spirit and hope. Cynicism began to take root.

Meanwhile, I had drifted away from organized religion and settled on the middle ground of agnosticism. The death of a 24-year-old relative left me angry and confused that God would take such a nice guy when so many bad people were creating mayhem. Neither my childhood beliefs nor my adult agnosticism could comfort or satisfy me.

The deep questions of life that periodically rise in us all began to surface: If I'd "made it," why did I feel so empty? Material goods, careers, family and friends alone did not fill my inner space. Is life just a free fall from birth to death? Is this all there is? Why am I here? I became hungry for meaning.

Then I met the man who would become my husband and the father of my child. He was a Muslim. He talked of our ancestors' African Islamic identity, along with his dream of a new future for people of African descent. He emphasized how our African past was linked to Islam in empires like Songhai and Mali, and in renowned centers of learning like Timbuktu.

I read literature about the basic tenets of Islam. Several were similar to Christianity, although there were fundamental differences. The concept of unity (tawhid--the interconnectedness of all things--touched a deep chord in me. I saw how all parts of me--mind, body, spirit--connected to my total environment. This, for me, was profound.

At Friday services in the mosque, the imam, an African-American who had studied Islam at Al-Azhar University in Egypt, described Islam as a scientific way of life bound by God's spiritual, physical, and social laws. He believed it was just the medicine needed to uplift humanity, but especially for African- Americans suffering the after-effects of slavery.

I was impressed by the focus on family and by the bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood. Given the popular perception of the absentee African-American father, I was particularly impressed by the Muslim men talking to and laughing with young children, even holding infants. The sisters drew me into their circle and freely answered my questions.

I had met Betty Shabazz, the late widow of Al-Hajj Malik El Shabazz (Malcolm X), when I was helping to edit a book about her husband. When she learned of my engagement, she extolled for me the benefits of being married to a Muslim man. In addition to their focus on family and responsibility, those men were sincere in practicing the faith and believed it was their duty to protect and support their wives, and treat them with love and respect. She also pointed out that the ideal of Islam was free of racism and classism.

An 'Idul-fitr prayer service at the Islamic Center revealed the international character of Islam. In contrast to the racial separation of the United States on Sunday morning, the colorful tapestry of humanity worshiping together impressed me as just what Allah intended. With the diversity was the unity--black, brown, yellow, and white prostrating themselves before their Creator, reciting the same prayers in the same tongue and intoning in unison, "Allahu Akbar" (Allah is the greatest).

On the evening that I sat in hijab (head scarf) on the carpet in front of the imam, ready to make my shahada (witness), I was convinced that I needed Islam for me and not just to please my future husband. Before witnesses, I professed that there is no God but God (Allah), and that Muhammad ibn Abdullah is His prophet and messenger. Also, I professed belief in Allah's angels, in the Books of Allah, in Allah's prophets, and in life after death.

Then the imam said, "You've taken the first step toward becoming a Muslim. Now the work begins."