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“This Too Shall Pass”

"This Too Shall Pass"

 

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

I brought the question to him on a day when things felt particularly heavy. Not because anything catastrophic had happened, but because life had become difficult enough that I could not see beyond it, the way a single loud sound can drown out everything else in a room.

He listened quietly, as he always did, letting me finish before he spoke. Then he smiled. “Have you heard the story about Alexander the Great?”

I shook my head.

“According to a famous story, Alexander once asked one of his advisors for a piece of wisdom that would help him in both times of happiness and times of sorrow.”

“What kind of wisdom?”

“Something that would comfort him during hardship and keep him grounded in success.”

“And what did the advisor tell him?”

He paused, the way he did when he wanted a line to land with full weight. Then he replied, “This too shall pass.”

For a moment, I was disappointed. It sounded too simple. Surely the great conqueror of the world deserved something more profound than that, some elaborate secret rather than a phrase you might find stitched on a cushion.

He must have sensed my reaction, because he laughed. “You don’t seem impressed.”

“Honestly,” I admitted, “it sounds obvious.”

“It is obvious,” he replied. “The problem is that we rarely live as though it is true.”

I thought about that for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“When we are suffering, we unconsciously act as if the suffering is permanent.”

That resonated with me immediately because whenever I am anxious, disappointed, embarrassed, or hurt, the feeling never announces itself as temporary. It feels endless, as though the walls of the moment extend infinitely in every direction.

He continued. “Think about the last major difficulty you faced.” I immediately thought of several: a professional setback that had felt like the end of something, a misunderstanding in a relationship that had cost me sleep, and a long period of uncertainty when nothing seemed to move forward. At the time, each had felt overwhelming, the kind of thing that reorganizes your whole sense of what the future holds.

“Do those things affect you today in the same way?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because time passed.”

He smiled. “Exactly.” Then he leaned back and said something I found genuinely interesting. “The strange thing is that people usually understand this lesson intellectually, but they struggle to remember it emotionally.”

I asked him to explain. “When you’re anxious, your mind acts as if this moment will last forever,” he said. “When you’re sad, it feels permanent. When you’re worried, it feels permanent. When you’re embarrassed, it feels permanent. But none of those things are permanent.”

I remembered something from years ago. I had once been deeply upset over a professional issue, the kind that occupies every idle minute. For weeks, it dominated my thoughts. I replayed conversations I had already gone over a dozen times. I imagined consequences that never arrived. I lost sleep over decisions that, in hindsight, mattered far less than they seemed to at three in the morning. And yet years later, I could barely remember the details, only the vague shape of having once been very upset about something at that job.

When I told him this, he laughed. “Exactly. Most of the things that dominate our minds today will barely occupy them a few years from now.”

Then he surprised me. “You know, the phrase is just as important in success.”

I had never thought about that. “I understand why it helps in hardship,” I said. “But why in success?”

“Because success creates a different illusion.”

“What illusion?”

“The illusion that good things will stay forever.”

I sat quietly because that was true too. When life is going well, we quietly begin to assume it will continue indefinitely: the job, the health, the relationships, the recognition, the comfort, the stability. Without ever deciding to, we begin treating temporary gifts as permanent possessions, as if a person might forget that a rented house is not actually theirs to keep.

He nodded as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “That is why the phrase is so powerful. It comforts you in difficulty and humbles you in success.”

I remembered an elderly man I once knew who had suffered enormous financial losses. At the time, he believed his life had been ruined and that everything he had built was gone for good. Years later, when speaking about that same period, he described it very differently. “Looking back,” he told me, “that was one of the best things that ever happened to me.” When I asked why, he smiled and said simply, “It forced me to become a different person.”

I shared the story with him. He nodded. “You see? At the time, he could only see the pain. Later, he could see the growth.” Then he said something I found myself returning to long after the conversation ended. “The present moment is a terrible place to judge the entire story.”

I laughed. “That sounds true.”

“When you’re standing inside a chapter, you can’t see the whole book.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Then I asked, “If everything goes as planned, doesn’t that make life less meaningful?”

He shook his head immediately. “No. It makes life more meaningful.”

“How?”

He pointed toward the window. “Imagine a sunset.”

“Okay.”

“Would it be as beautiful if it lasted forever?”

I thought about it. Probably not. A sky that stayed gold and pink all day, every day, would eventually become wallpaper, something the eye no longer registered.

“The fact that it ends is part of what makes it precious,” he continued. “A child is small for only a few years. A conversation happens only once, exactly this way, with exactly these people, never to be repeated in quite the same form. A season comes and goes. The very fact that these things pass is what gives them much of their value.”

I had never considered impermanence from that angle before. We usually treat permanence as the thing worth wanting, the goal underlying most of our other goals. Yet so much of what we cherish draws its beauty from being temporary in the first place.

“Then maybe,” I said, “the problem is not that things pass.”

“The problem is that we keep expecting them not to.” He smiled. “I think that’s a big part of it.”

As the conversation drew to a close, I asked him one final question. “What should I do when I’m overwhelmed?”

He paused for a moment. “Ask yourself a simple question.”

“What question?”

“Will this feel as important a year from now?”

I laughed. “That would ease many of my worries.”

“Probably.”

“And if it still matters a year from now?”

“Then deal with it, but remember that even this chapter is not the whole story.”

As I left that day, I kept hearing those words in my mind. “This too shall pass.” Not as an invitation to indifference. Not as an excuse to avoid responsibility. Not as a reason to care less. But as a reminder to keep perspective.

The difficult moments will pass. The joyful moments will pass. The praise will pass. The criticism will pass. The success will pass. The failure will pass. Perhaps wisdom lies in learning to walk through both triumph and trial with the same quiet awareness: “This too shall pass.”

Points for Reflection

  • Name the last thing that felt permanent. Recall a difficulty from a few years ago that once felt unbearable. Notice how much of its weight remains today, and what that tells you about the one you’re carrying now.
  • Ask the one-year question. For whatever is overwhelming you right now, ask honestly: will this feel exactly this important a year from now? Let the answer change how much of today you give to it.
  • Check what you’re treating as permanent. Where in your life, right now, during a season that is going well, are you quietly assuming the good will simply continue? What would it mean to hold it a little more loosely?
  • Remember the chapter is not the book. The next time a single moment feels like it defines everything, ask what you might be unable to see simply because you are standing inside it rather than looking back at it.
  • Let impermanence add rather than subtract. Choose one thing you love precisely because it does not last, a season, a stage of a child’s life, an ordinary evening, and let that temporariness deepen your attention to it rather than your anxiety about losing it.

 

 

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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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From Vision to Action: One Step at a Time

From Vision to Action: One Step at a Time

 

 

Creating a compelling vision for one’s life is both inspiring and essential. It provides direction, sparks purpose, and aligns our energy toward something meaningful. But soon after that clarity emerges, another experience often occurs—overwhelm. The gap between where we are and where we want to go can feel vast. We might ask ourselves, “How will I ever get there? There’s so much to accomplish. What if I fail?”

This is where we need to pause and reframe. Because progress is not achieved by solving the entire puzzle at once. It happens by taking the first clear step—with faith, humility, and courage.

Begin with What You Can Do

In every situation, the first question should not be, “How do I solve everything?” but rather, “What can I do right now?”

The idea is not to plan 300 steps ahead, which only causes anxiety. Instead, focus on one small but right step that you can control. Put your energy there.

Often, we immobilize ourselves with questions about the future:

  • What if it doesn’t work?
  • What if I can’t handle the next phase?
  • What if I run out of strength?

But the present asks us to focus on today, not solve tomorrow.

Let the First Step Reveal the Next

Once you take that first meaningful action, a surprising thing happens: the next step becomes clear. Like headlights in the fog, you don’t need to see the entire road. You just need to see far enough to keep moving forward.

Trying to control or predict the entire journey often comes from fear. But faith-based living teaches us: We are responsible for effort, not results. The solutions belong to God. Our role is to take wise, humble, consistent action, one step at a time.

Destiny Reveals Itself Along the Way

You might think, “I’ll arrive when I reach this milestone.” But every destination turns out to be part of a longer journey. As soon as you achieve something, new responsibilities, emotions, and uncertainties come up.

Even joy can cause fear: What if I lose what I’ve just found?

This is a reminder that life isn’t a fixed point — it’s a changing, evolving journey. There is no “final arrival” in this world. There is only movement, growth, surrender, and constant re-alignment.

Faith, Not Forecasting

When we create a vision for our lives, we must remember Who ultimately shapes the outcomes. We may walk with wisdom, but only God sees the full picture. Our responsibility is not to predict every step but to act with trust and integrity at each decision point.

Let the future unfold as it will. Focus on doing the next right thing—and trust the One who writes destinies to handle the rest.

Reflection Questions

  • What is one action I can take today that aligns with my vision and values?
  • Am I fixating on outcomes I can’t control instead of focusing on what I can do?
  • Where do I need to let go of the illusion of control and trust the process more?
  • Have I mistaken a milestone for the end instead of embracing the next chapter of the journey?

Final Thought

Don’t let the size of the mountain prevent you from taking the first step. You were never meant to carry the entire journey on your shoulders—only to walk it, one step at a time.

And in that walk, God meets you.

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Learning: A Natural and Evolving Process

Learning: A Natural and Evolving Process

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

Recently, while sitting beside my grandson—who will soon be two years old—I found myself pondering the mystery of human development. At his age, he still can’t form complete sentences. Yet, surrounded by people who speak, he listens, learns, and experiments with sounds. We are not overly concerned about his current communication abilities. We understand that if he’s a normal, healthy child, the words will start to come. It’s just a matter of time, nourishment, and environment.

This is how nature teaches us one of life’s most important lessons: learning is a gradual process, not a sudden leap.

The Evolving Rhythm of Growth

Every genuine learning process follows a natural rhythm. Skills develop through practice, exposure, and repetition. Just as speech blossoms after many failed attempts at words, so do other abilities—such as understanding, patience, discipline, or faith. Expecting instant mastery is to misunderstand how human growth works.

The natural process requires us to build a healthy environment, provide encouragement, and give time. Shortcuts, on the other hand, often produce fragile illusions of growth that break down under pressure.

The Danger of Pretending

One of the biggest risks in learning—or in character building—is the temptation to show results before they are genuinely there. We want others to believe we have improved, so we imitate fluency, exaggerate strengths, or put on a polished front.

But this pretense fosters a subtle duplicity: the exterior we present doesn’t align with the inner self we cultivate. Over time, this gap between appearance and reality erodes integrity, making us more focused on impressions than authentic growth.

Trusting the Process

The lesson is straightforward but deep:

  • Growth happens naturally when we nurture it with patience.
  • Progress shows when practice is consistent.
  • Authenticity is more important than appearances.

Just as a child’s first words cannot be hurried, our deeper learning in life—whether intellectual, emotional, or spiritual—needs time, sincerity, and trust in the process. Forcing it or faking it means losing the core of what learning is meant to be: a journey of becoming, not just a performance of seeming.

 

Reflection

  • Where in your life do you feel pressured to demonstrate results before your inner process has fully developed?
  • How can you realign with the natural rhythm of growth?
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