I still have to work on patience.

Hear the humble confession of Robert Mueller: “I still have to work on patience.” Though he is a man who has borne the weight of high office, who has walked the narrow path of law and justice with solemn duty, even he acknowledges this truth—that patience is not a prize grasped once and held forever, but a discipline that must be tended daily, like the fire upon an altar. His words echo across the ages, reminding us that even the strong wrestle with delay, with endurance, with the slow unfolding of time.

To say, “I still have to work on patience”, is to admit that mastery of the self is never complete. The warrior may train his body until it gleams with strength, the scholar may fill his mind until it brims with knowledge, yet the battle of the heart against restlessness is unending. The wise know this: impatience is the great thief of peace, the restless stir of the soul that demands harvest before the seed has even sprouted. Mueller’s words reveal not weakness, but wisdom—the wisdom to see that patience is the hardest work of all.

Look upon the annals of history, and you will see how impatience has toppled kings and wasted empires. Consider Napoleon, whose hunger for swift conquest drove him deep into the snows of Russia. His armies, once invincible, were broken not by swords alone, but by the harsh lesson that time cannot be rushed and nature cannot be forced. If he had endured, if he had waited, if he had tempered his ambition with patience, perhaps history would bear a different record. Yet haste brought ruin, as it so often does.

But patience, when kept, is a crown. Think of Nelson Mandela, imprisoned for twenty-seven years in the dark silence of Robben Island. How easily could he have been consumed by anger, by despair, by the restless cry for vengeance! Yet he endured. His patience became his strength, his long waiting the forge of his spirit. And when the hour came, he emerged not as a man broken, but as one made whole, able to lead his people into reconciliation rather than revenge. Thus, his life is a testament: patience is not passivity, but the fiercest kind of strength.

Mueller’s words are thus a mirror for us all. If a man seasoned in discipline and hardened in public service confesses that he still has to work on patience, how much more must we, who are often hurried, restless, and distracted, acknowledge the same? Let us take this not as discouragement, but as encouragement—for it means that patience is a path, not a destination. We are all walking it, stumbling sometimes, advancing slowly, but always moving toward the greater stillness of the soul.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: do not despise the slowness of time. Let the seed rest in the earth, let the wound take its season to heal, let the heart learn to wait without despair. To cultivate patience is to learn to trust that life unfolds in its appointed hour. When you are tempted to rush, to force, to demand, remember Mueller’s confession—greatness does not free one from the struggle of waiting.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: practice small acts of patience each day. Stand in silence when the world clamors for haste. Listen fully before answering. Endure the trial without complaint. Pray in waiting, and wait in prayer. For if you do this, you will not only gain peace for yourself, but strength for others. And in your endurance, you will learn the deepest truth—that patience is not weakness, but the very soul of wisdom, the armor of the heart, and the path to lasting victory.