From 3
The Bush That Didn't Burn Up
is tending his father-in-law's sheep. He's far from home and far from everyone. He used to live in a palace. Now he walks out here, with a stick.
Then he sees something strange. A thornbush is on fire. But it doesn't burn up. The flames keep going and the bush stays standing.
He walks closer to get a better look. And out of the fire, calls his name.
He's given a task: go back, and get my people out of there.
Moses starts making excuses right away. Who am I? They'll never believe me. I can't even speak well, you know that.
Four times he tries to get out of it. Four times.
And then he goes.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
Tomorrow's your presentation. Tonight in bed you think of everything that could go wrong. Your voice sounds weird. You forget your lines. Someone laughs.
You half hope you get sick.
And then you're standing there, and it starts. The first sentence is the worst. After that you just hear yourself talking, and before you know it you're on your last slide.
The nerves didn't go away before you started. They went away while you were doing it.
Just get on with it? Not likely. I'll cook up an excuse and be rid of it for good!
Take a look in the mirror:
- What do you keep putting off because it feels too scary?
- What excuse do you use most often?
- What would you do if you knew it was fine to fail?
Mirror line
I'd love to say I'd forgotten, but I've learned the nerves only go away once you actually start.
From 20
Rules of the Game in the Desert
The people are free. They're out of Egypt and can do whatever they want.
And that goes wrong. Because when nobody has agreed on anything, whoever shouts loudest is in charge. There's fighting all through the camp: whose goat is that, who gets to the well first, who said what exactly.
climbs the mountain. Below, the whole people stand waiting, and the mountain itself smokes and rumbles as if there's thunder inside it. Up there, gives Moses ten agreements. The first few are about God himself. The rest are about how people treat each other, and they're short. Don't take what belongs to someone else. Don't say things about someone that aren't true. Don't spend all your time wanting what your neighbour has. And: one day a week, you do nothing.
These aren't punishment rules. They're agreements that make it possible to live together without it being a fight every day.
Moses comes down the mountain with two stone tablets in his arms, written by God himself.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
Playing football on the playground with no referee and no lines. The first two minutes are fun. Then someone handles the ball, someone else shouts offside, and there's a fight.
Only once you've agreed where the goal is and what's not allowed can you actually play.
It works the same way at home. That rule about tablets and phones being put away at the table is annoying. But it does make sure people actually talk.
Follow the rules? Not a chance. I'm making up my own — rigged so I always win!
Take a look in the mirror:
- Which rule at home or school do you think is the most pointless?
- What do you think that rule is actually there for?
- What rule would you introduce if you were in charge for a day?
Mirror line
I'd love to make up rules that only suit me, but I've learned that without rules, freedom doesn't win — the strongest one does.
From 14
The Long, Hard Desert Journey
They're on their way to a new land. It's hot, it's heavy going, and it's taking a long time.
Twelve men are sent ahead to scout. Ten of them come back with bad news: it's beautiful there, but the people are giants and we're grasshoppers. Two say: it can be done.
The ten are the ones who get listened to.
That night the whole camp cries. They say to each other: if only we'd stayed in Egypt, at least we had food there. For a moment they forget they were slaves there.
And then they wander the desert for forty years. Children are born along the way and learn to walk in the sand; they grow up and have children of their own, without ever having seen anything but tents and rock. Only their children arrive. Not them.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
You've been at a new school for three weeks. Everything's different, you still don't know where to sit at break, and you suddenly miss your old class terribly.
Even though you were often fed up there. You know that perfectly well. You just don't feel it.
This is the hardest part. Not the beginning and not the end, but the middle. The old is gone and the new isn't here yet.
That takes everyone a while. And never exactly the same amount of time for anyone.
Keep going? Good luck to him. I'm leaving him behind with all his moaning about the good old days!
Take a look in the mirror:
- What did you want to quit because it was taking too long?
- What 'back then' do you sometimes make sound better than it was?
- What helps you when you're stuck in the middle of something that isn't finished yet?
Mirror line
I'd love to say I'm never going again, but I've learned the hardest part is always the middle — not the beginning and not the end.
