From 11
The Tower That Grew Too Tall
Everyone on earth speaks the same language. They understand each other without any trouble, and they can do anything together.
Then they get a big idea. Let's build a tower that reaches into the clouds. Then everyone will see how great we are.
The tower rises. Brick on brick on brick.
And the higher it gets, the less they listen to each other. Everyone is busy with the tower and no one with the person standing next to them.
Then scrambles their language. They stand next to each other and can't understand a word. The building stops and everyone scatters.
The tower was never finished.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
You're building a den in the garden with a couple of friends. At first it goes well. But the bigger the den gets, the more everyone wants their own way — one wants a roof of branches, another wants a blanket, a third thinks it should all be done differently. Everyone's shouting, nobody's listening.
You all speak the same language. And yet you don't understand each other.
The only thing that helps is going quiet for a second, walking up to someone, and just asking: shall we do this?
Listen to him? Never have, never will. I'm quietly hoping his whole tower comes crashing down!
Take a look in the mirror:
- Have you noticed that shouting causes a fight faster than just talking does?
- When did you really listen to someone who thought something different from you?
- Who would you rather sit down with today, instead of shouting at them?
Mirror line
I'd love to just keep shouting until everyone agreed with me, but I've learned you don't understand each other better by shouting louder — only by actually listening.
From 12
The Big Move
has a good life. A fixed place, family around him, everything familiar. And he's not young anymore.
Then says to him: leave this place. Go to a land I will show you.
No map. No address. No idea how long it takes or what it looks like once he's there. Only that it will be good.
He packs his things. He takes his wife, and his nephew, and everything he owns. And he walks out through the city gate.
What he's leaving behind is certain. What he's walking into is not.
*(Later in the book he's called Abraham. It's the same man; he gets a new name along the way.)*
For today
Does this sound familiar?
The night before your first day at a new school. Or your first practice at a club where you don't know anyone. Your stomach clenches and you want to stay under your blanket until it's over.
And then you go anyway. You cycle over, you park your bike, you walk in. That's the scariest bit: those twenty metres.
Three weeks later you cycle there without even thinking about it. And you can't quite remember what you were so afraid of.
Leave? I don't think so. I'm staying right here and pretending the outside world doesn't exist!
Take a look in the mirror:
- What do you find scariest about something new?
- When did something scary turn out to be totally fine after all?
- What would you do if you knew for certain it would turn out okay?
Mirror line
I'd love to say I just didn't feel like it, but I've learned the scariest part of something new is almost always only twenty metres long.
From 22
Don't Hold On Too Tight
has waited a very long time for a son. Now that is finally here, he means everything to him.
And then asks him the hardest thing there is. He must give up his son.
Abraham says nothing back. He gets up early the next morning, saddles his donkey, and sets off. They walk together for three days. Along the way Isaac asks him something, and Abraham gives an answer that isn't really an answer.
On the mountain, at the very last moment, an angel calls out to him. Stop. Don't touch him.
There's a ram caught in the bushes.
They walk back down together. But nowhere does it say whether they said anything more to each other along the way.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
There's something you really love. A friendship, say. And precisely because you want so badly to keep it, you start acting strange.
You get angry when he plays with someone else for once. You ask for the tenth time whether you're still best friends. You watch who he looks at during break.
And then the strange thing happens: by holding on so tightly, you push him away.
Things work differently than people. The tighter you hold onto a person, the less you have left.
Share him? Absolutely not. I'll hold on so tight no one else gets anywhere near him!
Take a look in the mirror:
- Have you ever held on to someone so tightly that it got uncomfortable?
- How does it feel when someone gives you no room at all?
- What do you think of this story? It's fine to just find it a sad one.
Mirror line
I'd love to keep him all to myself, but I've learned the tighter you hold onto a person, the less you have left.
