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The Patience of Influence

The Patience of Influence

 

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

Finally, one day, I asked him, “If I have done everything I reasonably can, what do I do when nothing seems to change?”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “How do you know they haven’t?”

I smiled. “I think I would know.”

“Would you?”

His question caught me by surprise.

He continued: “When you speak to someone today, when do you expect the change to happen?”

I thought about it. “Now,” I admitted.

He smiled and said, “Most of us do.” Then he leaned back in his chair. “But human beings rarely change that way.”

I asked him what he meant.

“Think about your own life,” he said. “How many of your deepest convictions were formed the very first time you heard them?”

I searched my memory. Very few. Most of the ideas that had shaped my life had returned again and again over the years. Sometimes they appeared in conversations. Sometimes in books. Sometimes through painful experiences. Often I didn’t appreciate their significance until much later.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “Influence usually works quietly,” he said. “It settles before it grows.”

That explained something I had never understood. I had been treating every important conversation as though it were a final examination. If nothing changed immediately, I assumed the conversation had failed. Perhaps that was never a fair expectation.

He smiled as though remembering something. “Many years ago,” he said, “someone gave me advice that I completely ignored.”

“What happened?”

“I repeated the same mistake for years.”

“And then?”

“One day I found myself remembering his words almost exactly.”

“What had changed?”

“I had.”

The simplicity of the answer stayed with me.

The words had been waiting long before I was ready to receive them. Perhaps that is true more often than we realize. Sometimes we are planting thoughts in ground that has not yet been prepared. That does not mean the seed is wasted. It simply means it has not yet found its season.

He must have noticed the image forming in my mind. “Think of a farmer,” he said. “He prepares the soil. He plants the seed. He waters it. He protects it from weeds.” He looked at me. “Does he then stand over the field demanding that the seed grow before sunset?”

I laughed and said, “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because growth doesn’t happen that way.”

He nodded. “Then why do we expect people to?”

I had never connected the two. A farmer works faithfully because he understands that growth follows its own rhythm. He cannot manufacture life. He can only create the conditions in which life may flourish.

Perhaps influence works the same way. We prepare the soil with kindness. We plant truth with sincerity. We water it with patience. We protect the relationship with respect. But the growth itself comes from a place beyond our control.

That realization transformed the way I looked at time. Every sincere conversation no longer had to produce an immediate result. Every act of kindness no longer had to receive an immediate response. No longer did every piece of advice have to be accepted before I could consider it worthwhile. Some seeds germinate quickly. Others remain hidden for years. Yet both are still seeds.

Before we left, he said something I doubt I will ever forget. “You are not called to manufacture change.” He paused, and then added, “You are called to remain faithful in your influence.”

As I walked home, I realized that hope looks different now. It is no longer the anxious hope that insists on immediate results. It is the quieter hope that trusts sincere effort is never wasted, even when its fruit remains invisible.

Now, whenever I find myself becoming impatient with someone I care about, I picture the farmer. He is not idle. He works diligently. But he also knows when to stop striving and simply wait. Perhaps that is what patient influence looks like. We prepare. We plant. We nurture. And then we entrust the growth to the One who alone can bring it forth.

There is great peace in becoming a faithful farmer of souls instead of trying to become their maker.

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The Boundary of Responsibility

The Boundary of Responsibility

 

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

The conversation stayed with me long after we had parted. I understood, at least in principle, that my role was to influence rather than to control. There was relief in that realization. Yet another question kept returning to my mind. If I am not responsible for changing another person, then what am I responsible for? The next time we met, I asked him exactly that. “If their decisions are ultimately theirs,” I said, “then where does my responsibility end?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he asked, “When you speak to someone you care about, what do you believe your duty is?”

I began listing the obvious things. “To be honest.”

He nodded.

“To be kind.”

Another nod.

“To explain clearly.”

“Good.”

“To remain patient.”

Again he nodded. As I continued thinking, I realized something. Everything I had mentioned described my own actions. None of them described the other person’s response.

He seemed pleased that I had noticed. “Your responsibility,” he said quietly, “always lies within your own conduct.”

The simplicity of the statement concealed how easily I had forgotten it. “So whether they listen…”

“…is not yours.”

“Whether they agree…”

“…is not yours.”

“Whether they change…”

He smiled and said, “…is certainly not yours.”

I sat quietly, allowing the thought to settle. For years I had allowed my sense of responsibility to expand far beyond my own actions. Every time someone ignored good advice, I instinctively felt I had not explained it well enough. Every time they repeated the same mistake, I assumed I needed to become more persuasive. It never occurred to me that I had crossed a boundary.

He drew an imaginary line on the table with his finger. “On this side,” he said, “is everything entrusted to you.”

I waited.

“Your intention. Your sincerity. Your wisdom. Your words. Your patience. Your character.”

Then he moved his finger to the other side. “And here…,” He paused for a moment, and then added, “…begins another person’s freedom.”

The image stayed with me. It was such a simple boundary, yet I had crossed it countless times without realizing it.

He then shared something personal. “There was a time,” he said, “when I lost my temper with a close friend.”

That surprised me.

“I had spoken to him several times about a decision that was harming him. I explained my concerns carefully. I listened to his perspective. I prayed for him. Yet nothing changed.”

“What happened?”

“One day he repeated the same mistake, and I became angry.” He looked down for a moment before continuing. “I wasn’t angry because he had made another mistake.” He paused, and then said, “I was angry because I had quietly begun expecting that my words should produce change.”

I recognized the feeling immediately. Not the situation. The expectation. How many times had I done the same thing? I had mistaken sincere effort for guaranteed results. He looked at me and said something I have remembered ever since: “Your responsibility does not grow simply because another person’s resistance grows.”

That sentence exposed a habit I had never questioned. Whenever someone failed to respond, I assumed I had to do more. Explain again. Persuade again. Push a little harder. As though another person’s reluctance automatically increased my obligation.

But it doesn’t. My responsibility remains what it always was: to act with sincerity, wisdom and respect. Nothing less. But also nothing more.

“But isn’t that difficult?” I asked. “How do you care deeply without feeling responsible for the outcome?”

He smiled. “You keep caring.” I waited. I knew something more was coming. Then, he said, “You simply stop carrying what was never yours.”

There was an extraordinary freedom in that distinction. He wasn’t asking me to become detached. He wasn’t telling me to stop advising, encouraging, or supporting. He was asking me to stop measuring my faithfulness by another person’s response.

As I reflected on countless conversations from my own life, I realized how often I had evaluated myself by outcomes I could never control. If they listened, I felt successful. If they ignored me, I felt defeated. Both judgments rested on the same mistake. I had allowed someone else’s choices to become the measure of my own responsibility. Now the boundary seemed much clearer. My task is to speak truthfully. To listen carefully. To choose my words wisely. To remain respectful. To be patient. To pray. Beyond that, another person’s journey belongs to them.

As we finished our conversation, he left me with one final thought: “The clearer this boundary becomes,” he said, “the more peacefully you will be able to love people.”

I didn’t fully understand the sentence then. But I knew another question had begun to form. If my responsibility ends with sincere effort…

What happens when that effort seems to accomplish nothing?

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Your Role Is Influence, Not Control

Your Role Is Influence, Not Control

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

I said it with a mixture of frustration and disappointment. “I’ve explained this so many times,” I told him. “I’ve tried different approaches. I’ve been patient. I’ve been firm. I’ve reasoned with them. I’ve reminded them. But nothing changes.”

He listened without interrupting.

“I honestly don’t know what else I’m supposed to do,” I said, after waiting for almost a minute.

He remained silent for a moment. It was as though he wanted the question to settle before responding. Then he asked quietly, “What is it that you’re trying to achieve?”

The question seemed too obvious. “I want them to change,” I replied.

He nodded, but instead of responding, he asked another question. “And do you think that is your responsibility?”

I looked at him, slightly puzzled. “What do you mean? If I care about someone, of course I want them to change.”

“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” he said gently. “I asked whether it is your responsibility.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. Until that moment, I had never separated the two. Caring for someone and wanting them to change had always seemed inseparable. If someone I loved was making poor decisions, wasn’t it natural to feel responsible for helping them become different?

Perhaps he sensed my confusion. “Tell me,” he said, “have you ever changed simply because someone else wanted you to?”

I smiled sheepishly and said, “No.”

“What made you change?” He asked.

I thought for a while. “Usually…” I said slowly, “I changed when I became convinced that I needed to.”

He nodded again. “So the real decision was yours.”

“Yes.”

“And yet,” he continued, “you expect other people to change merely because you have explained something well.”

I laughed quietly. When he put it that way, it sounded surprisingly unreasonable.

He wasn’t suggesting that explanations don’t matter. Of course they do. Advice can illuminate something we have failed to notice. A sincere conversation can open a door that had remained closed. Sometimes another person’s words become the beginning of a profound change. But none of those things actually cause the change. At best, they invite it. That distinction had never been clear to me before.

He seemed to notice the thought forming in my mind. “You can present an idea,” he said. “You can explain it patiently. You can answer questions. You can even become an example of what you are trying to teach. But you cannot decide on another person’s behalf.”

For a while neither of us spoke. As I reflected on his words, something uncomfortable began to surface. The truth was that I wasn’t merely trying to help. I was trying to make sure they changed. Until that moment, I had never admitted that to myself. I had described my efforts as concern, sincerity, or care. And all of those were genuine. But hidden beneath them was another expectation, one I had never questioned. If I explained things clearly enough… If I found the right words… If I remained patient long enough… Surely they would change.

Looking back, I realized that most of my frustration had not come from their behavior. It had come from the gap between my expectation and reality.

He offered an example. “Imagine a father whose son is making poor choices. The father stays awake at night thinking, ‘Perhaps I haven’t explained it well enough. Maybe I need to speak more firmly. Maybe I need one more conversation.'” He paused for a while and then said, “Do you think the father’s desire is wrong?”

“No,” I replied immediately.

“Neither do I,” he said. “His love is real. His concern is real. But if he begins to believe that his son’s transformation depends entirely upon him, love quietly turns into something else.”

“Control?” I offered.

He smiled and said, “Yes.”

The word lingered in my mind. Control rarely announces itself. It often disguises itself as concern. We convince ourselves that we are simply trying to help, while quietly expecting another person to become who we think they should be. When they don’t, disappointment slowly becomes frustration, frustration becomes pressure, and pressure begins to damage the very relationship we were trying to protect.

I sat there thinking about conversations I had repeated over and over again. Each time, I believed I was offering guidance. But each unsuccessful attempt felt strangely personal, as though their decision reflected my own failure. Now I was beginning to understand why.

I had unconsciously taken responsibility for something that had never belonged to me.

He broke the silence. “You can influence people,” he said. “Sometimes deeply. Sometimes for a lifetime. But influence and control are not the same thing.”

I repeated the sentence quietly to myself. Influence… Not control. For the first time, I realized that I had spent years confusing the two. Perhaps that is why I had become so exhausted. Trying to influence someone requires sincerity, wisdom, and patience. Trying to control them requires carrying a burden no human being was ever meant to carry.

As we stood to leave, he said one final thing. “The moment you believe that another person’s change is your responsibility, you begin carrying a weight that does not belong to you.”

I walked away thinking about that. Maybe the deepest form of care is not found in trying to control another person’s journey, but in faithfully offering what we can, while respecting that the journey itself is still theirs.

Until that day, I had believed that caring meant making sure people changed. Now I was beginning to see that caring and controlling are not the same thing.

And perhaps wisdom begins when we finally learn the difference.

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The Courage to Be a Learner

The Courage to Be a Learner

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

 

I was complaining again—about mistakes, about how hard it was to guide others when I myself felt unsure so often. He listened quietly, the way he always did, without interrupting.

After a pause, he said something that shifted the entire conversation.

“The most important place where we need to become role models,” he said, “is right here—where we are observing, improving, trying to understand, and learning from our mistakes.”

I looked at him, slightly confused. “You mean role models in success?” I asked.

“No,” he replied gently. “Role models in learning.”

That word settled into me slowly.

“Especially for teachers and parents,” he continued, “this is the most critical responsibility. Not to present themselves as flawless—but to show how a human being grows.”

I felt a strange discomfort rise inside me. I had always believed that authority came from certainty, from knowing, from being one step ahead. Admitting mistakes felt like losing ground.

“But won’t that weaken respect?” I asked.

He smiled faintly. “It does the opposite. It strengthens trust.”

He told me about a classroom he once observed. The teacher made a small mistake on the board while solving a problem. A student hesitantly raised a hand and pointed it out. The class held its breath, expecting embarrassment or anger. Instead, the teacher paused, looked at the board, and said calmly, “You’re right. I missed that. Thank you for helping me.”

The room changed in that moment. The students relaxed. Questions increased. Fear dropped. Learning became shared.

“That one sentence,” he said, “taught the class more than the lesson itself.”

I thought of how many times I had pretended to know, just to protect my image.

“The deepest character development in children,” he went on, “does not come from watching perfect adults. It comes from watching adults who are willing and striving to improve.”

That sentence echoed inside me.

“Children don’t just absorb our words,” he said. “They absorb our relationship with truth, with effort, with failure. When they see us correcting ourselves, they learn accountability. When they see us reflect, they learn humility. When they see us struggle honestly, they learn resilience.”

I remembered a father I once knew who never admitted a mistake. His children obeyed him—but they also feared him. Years later, one of those children confessed, “I never learned how to say sorry, because I never saw my father say it.”

Silence took over for a few moments.

“You know what takes real courage?” he asked quietly.

“What?” I said.

“To say comfortably, without shame: I don’t know this yet. Let me learn, and I’ll get back to you.”

That struck me deeply.

“So many adults,” he continued, “feel that not knowing is a weakness. But in reality, pretending to know is far more damaging. It kills curiosity. It trains children to hide confusion instead of exploring it.”

I thought of a young student who once asked a sincere question in class and was mocked for it. The child never raised a hand again. Not because curiosity died—but because safety did.

“When a child sees a parent or teacher say ‘I don’t know,’” he said, “the child learns that not knowing is not shameful. It is the doorway to growth.”

I felt something tighten in my chest.

“So being a role model,” I said slowly, “is not about standing on a pedestal.”

He nodded. “It’s about walking on the path.”

He leaned forward slightly and said, “If life gives you the privilege to consciously decide what kind of role model you want to be, then choose to be a role model of a learner. Say with confidence: I am still learning.”

We both fell silent again.

I remembered a time when my child had asked me a difficult question. I had rushed to give an answer—not because I was sure, but because I didn’t want to appear unsure. Later that night, I realized my answer was wrong. I corrected it the next day. The relief on my child’s face wasn’t just about the correct answer—it was about seeing honesty in action.

“That correction,” he said when I shared this, “built character more than the original answer ever could.”

Slowly, unmistakably, I began to understand.

Character is not built by watching someone who never stumbles. Character is built by watching someone who stumbles—and rises with integrity.

“So the real legacy,” I said, “is not how much we know…”

“…but how we learn,” he completed the thought.

As I walked away from that conversation, I carried something new with me—not certainty, not expertise, not authority—but a quiet resolve:

To remain a learner. To be honest about what I do not yet know. To improve where I fall short. And to let those who come after me see that growth is not a destination—it is a way of living.

Because the greatest role model is not the one who never errs. It is the one who never stops learning.

/by

Forcing a Seed to become a Tree

Forcing a Seed to become a Tree

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

 

“I worry all the time that I’m doing too little,” I said as we watched a toddler wobbling near the park bench. “What if I don’t push enough? What if I fall behind in shaping my child?”

He watched the child quietly for a few moments before speaking. “Do you remember how that journey began?” he asked. “Sitting, crawling, standing, walking—did anyone succeed in forcing it to happen earlier than its time?”

I smiled faintly. “No matter how much we tried, the child always moved according to their own rhythm.”

“Exactly,” he said. “You could sit beside the child all day, hold their hands, encourage them, even beg them—but walking could not be installed by pressure. Nature allowed it only when the body was ready.”

I nodded. I had seen this firsthand. As a new parent, I had once worried because my child was late in taking the first steps. Others’ children seemed to run ahead while mine only crawled. I had felt panic, as if time itself was slipping away. And yet, one quiet evening without warning, those first steps had come—naturally, effortlessly, as if waiting had always been the plan.

“That same principle,” he continued, “applies to moral development.”

I turned toward him. “You mean character and values?”

“Yes,” he replied. “A child’s inner desire to do good—to choose honesty, kindness, responsibility—emerges through a gradual developmental process. It is not something that can be injected by force.”

I felt a slight unease rise inside me. “But we correct, we discipline, we instruct… aren’t we supposed to?”

“Guidance is essential,” he said gently. “But replacing time with pressure is where things turn dangerous. When you try to accelerate a process that is meant to unfold slowly, it often backfires.”

I thought of a boy I once knew—strictly trained, heavily monitored. His parents enforced rules with military precision. The boy behaved perfectly at home. But outside, away from their eyes, his behavior collapsed completely. The goodness had never become his own.

“That’s what happens,” he said. “When values are only enforced, not internalized, they collapse the moment authority disappears.”

“So what is our role, then?” I asked quietly.

“To create the right environment,” he answered. “Just as you make a child feel safe enough to attempt walking, you make them feel trusted enough to attempt goodness. You demonstrate it. You talk about it. You live it. But you allow it the time it needs to grow roots.”

I watched the toddler stumble and fall softly onto the grass. The child looked up, startled for a second, then tried again. No one scolded. No one rushed. The child wasn’t afraid to fail.

“That,” he said, pointing gently, “is how moral courage is born too—when failure is not punished with humiliation, but treated as a part of learning.”

I felt a slow clarity spread within me.

“You know,” I said after a pause, “I’ve often reacted in fear—fear that if I don’t force goodness early, it may never come.”

He nodded. “That fear is common. But forcing speed into development does not create strength—it creates cracks.”

I remembered another parent who proudly claimed that their child had memorized moral rules at a very young age. Years later, the same child struggled deeply with dishonesty and rebellion. The rules had entered the mind—but never the heart.

“Values must become a desire,” he said quietly. “Not just a requirement.”

“And desire,” I added slowly, “cannot be manufactured under pressure.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “Just as language appears when the mind is ready, and walking when the body is ready, conscience awakens when the emotional and moral world is ready. You can nurture readiness—but you cannot command awakening.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“So, if I rush this process,” I said, “trying to speed it up with control, fear, or constant pressure…”

“You risk turning natural growth into resistance,” he completed the thought.

The toddler finally managed a few confident steps and burst into laughter, unaware of the lesson unfolding silently around us.

I exhaled slowly.

“So maybe true parenting,” I said, “is not about pushing development—but about protecting it from being damaged by our impatience.”

He smiled. “Now you’re understanding it.”

As we stood to leave, I felt lighter than I had in months. The urgency to rush, to force, to control had softened into something steadier: trust.

Trust in time. Trust in the process. Trust in quiet growth.

Because a seed does not need to be shouted at to become a tree.

It only needs soil, water, light—and patience.

/by

Beyond Obedience

Beyond Obedience

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

“I just want them to listen,” I said in frustration. “If they follow instructions, if they comply, that should be enough. At least they’ll turn out fine.”

He didn’t respond immediately. We were sitting on a bench outside a school, watching children spill out at the end of the day—some running toward their parents, some dragging their feet, some laughing loudly without a care.

“Do you want obedience,” he finally asked, “or do you want character?”

I turned to look, slightly unsettled by the question. “Aren’t they the same?” I asked.

He shook his head gently. “Not at all. Obedience is what a person shows when someone is watching. Character is what remains when no one is there.”

That line stayed with me.

“If you truly want to guide someone—your child, your student, your junior—you don’t just need their compliance,” he continued. “You need their inner willingness. And inner willingness is never born out of force.”

I thought of how often I had relied on pressure—raised voice, authority, emotional leverage. In the moment, it always worked. The task would get done. Silence would return. But something inside the relationship quietly eroded each time.

“Think about it,” he said. “When something is imposed on you, do you desire it from the heart—or do you merely tolerate it until the pressure lifts?”

I smiled bitterly. “I usually wait for the pressure to go away.”

“Exactly,” came the calm reply. “That’s what forced training produces: waiting, not transformation.”

He shared a small story.

“There was once a teacher who ruled the classroom with fear. Students stood when he entered. Every notebook was perfect. Not a voice dared to whisper. On the surface, it looked like discipline. Years later, one of his students met him and said, ‘Sir, the day we left your class, we left your rules behind too.’”

He paused before adding, “In the same school, there was another teacher—quiet, firm, respectful. Students followed his rules not out of fear, but because they didn’t want to disappoint him. Even years later, those students were still shaped by his influence.”

I swallowed. The difference between fear-driven behavior and heart-driven change suddenly felt stark.

“So, if I want someone to truly grow,” I said slowly, “I can’t just demand results.”

“No,” he replied. “You have to awaken desire.”

“Desire for what?”

“For the good itself,” came the answer. “For honesty because it feels right. For discipline because it brings clarity. For respect because it nurtures dignity. These things can’t be injected through commands.”

I remembered a child I once scolded harshly for lying. The lie stopped—but only in front of me. Later, I discovered that the child had simply learned to hide more effectively.

“That’s the danger of enforced goodness,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “It teaches people how to perform right, not how to love right.”

We watched a child hesitate before helping another pick up fallen books, then do it anyway. No adult was watching. No rule was being enforced.

“That,” he pointed gently, “is what you are aiming for. Action without surveillance. Integrity without fear.”

I felt a quiet heaviness in my chest.

“But how do you build that inner desire?” I asked.

“By example,” he answered without hesitation. “By relationship. By explaining the meaning, not just issuing orders. By patience. By letting the other person feel respected even while being guided.” After a long silence, he softly added, “And by accepting that real change takes longer than forced change—but it lasts far longer too.”

I recalled how I had learned some of my deepest values—not from lectures, but from watching small, consistent acts: a parent returning extra change to a shopkeeper, a mentor admitting a mistake publicly, a teacher apologizing to a student. Those moments had stayed with me far more powerfully than any instruction.

“So, when we say we want to train someone,” I said, “we often mean we want them to behave the way we want—quickly.”

He nodded. “But true training is about helping someone want what is right. And wanting is a matter of the heart, not the whip.”

We sat quietly for a moment. “Force may create followers,” he said at last. “But only love and understanding create leaders.”

As we stood up to leave, I realized something uncomfortable and freeing at the same time:

It is easier to control behavior than to cultivate character. Easier to demand silence than to inspire understanding. Easier to enforce rules than to awaken conscience.

But if I truly wanted someone to become better—not just quieter, not just obedient—then I would have to change my own way of guiding first.

Because hearts are not shaped by pressure. They are shaped by meaning, trust, and example.

/by

Process Over Results

Process Over Results

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

In nearly every area of life—whether it’s education, parenting, relationships, or even religious practice—we often fall into a results-focused mindset. We concentrate on outcomes: Did my child do well? Did the student understand the lesson? Did I receive a reward from God? However, life continually reminds us that although results matter, they are never entirely within our control. What we can control is the process.

This shift in perspective—from results to process—is both a practical and a deeply spiritual principle.

The Farmer’s Lesson

Imagine a farmer who plants his crops. He tills the soil, waters the field, and makes sure every step is done properly. But when hailstorms hit and destroy the crop, the farmer doesn’t curse the heavens or give up farming. He goes back to the same process—plowing, sowing, watering—because he knows this is the part he can control. The harvest, whether plentiful or ruined, is never completely in his hands.

Human beings are no different. Like the farmer, we can only work faithfully through the process, never guaranteeing the outcome.

The Child Learning to Speak

Parents often worry when their child is slow to talk. However, language development is a natural process. If the child is placed in the right environment where language is spoken, they will eventually start talking—unless there is a medical issue. Pressuring, comparing, or punishing will not speed up this process; it might even cause harm.

This illustrates the broader principle: development happens through exposure, modeling, and environment, not through force or obsession with results.

Process Orientation in Parenting and Teaching

Imagine a parent trying to teach a child generosity at the dinner table. A results-driven approach might scold the child: “You should share right now!” But a process-driven parent will demonstrate generosity, share stories of role models, and foster a culture of sharing over time. In the end, the child’s heart will lean toward sacrifice—not because of fear of correction, but because of the natural internalization of values.

Similarly, when teaching fasting (roza), parents may fall into the trap of using reward and punishment: “If you fast, you’ll get this gift; if you don’t, you’ll lose this privilege.” This approach might work temporarily, but once the external motivation fades, so will the practice. The real process is in cultivating faith, conviction, and a relationship with God, so that fasting naturally becomes an act of devotion rather than merely an obligation.

Why Result-Orientation Fails

  • It creates pressure and judgment. Parents, teachers, or religious guides often resort to scolding, labeling, or forcing because they seek immediate results.
  • It fosters hypocrisy. People act for appearances or rewards, not out of conviction.
  • It collapses when external control is taken away. When pressure or authority is removed, the behavior disappears.

This is evident across society: we impose bans, punishments, and external restrictions, but seldom focus on developing inner will, faith, and self-control.

The Civic Sense Example

One notable observation from Hajj is the lack of civic sense among pilgrims. Many perform rituals outwardly but fail to demonstrate patience, order, or consideration for others. Why? Because their religious practice is viewed through a results-oriented lens—praying for rewards or fearing punishment—rather than through a process-oriented lens of gratitude, discipline, and service to God.

Process Orientation in Self-Development

This principle applies not only to parenting or society but also to ourselves.

  • If I wake up early, stay disciplined, and put effort into my business, I may or may not become wealthy—but I will definitely develop resilience and good habits.
  • If I study sincerely, I might or might not top the exam, but I will definitely become more knowledgeable.
  • If I practice patience in small daily tests, I may or may not change others—but I will transform my own character.

As the saying goes: “Don’t control what you cannot control. Control what you can—and that is your process.”

A Personal Anecdote

A student once told his mentor, “I study hard but still don’t get the top marks.” The mentor responded, “Your responsibility is not the top marks. Your responsibility is to learn with sincerity, honesty, and consistency. Marks belong to the system, effort belongs to you. Don’t confuse the two.”

That advice stayed with him for a lifetime—not just for school but for every challenge.

Reflections for Our Lives

  1. Am I obsessed with results? Do I judge myself or others solely based on visible outcomes?
  2. Am I faithful to the process? Do I stay committed to what is in my control, even when results are delayed or unseen?
  3. Am I fostering conviction or simply enforcing compliance?

Conclusion

Process orientation doesn’t mean ignoring results. It means letting go of the illusion of control over outcomes while putting our best effort into the actions, attitudes, and environments we can influence. It means trusting that in time, results will appear—some sooner, some later, and some possibly never in the way we expect.

In religion, parenting, relationships, and personal growth, this principle protects us from despair, arrogance, and judgment. It keeps us grounded in humility, patience, and trust in God.

As the farmer teaches us, hail may ruin the crop today, but tomorrow the soil still encourages us to plant again.

Reflection Prompt

Think of an area in your life where you’re frustrated by not seeing results. How would it change if you focused on the process instead of the outcome? What steps in the process are within your control today?

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