From 19
The Full Backpack
A young man comes up to . He's rich, he's kind, and he really tries hard. He asks: what else must I do to live well?
He probably expects to hear that he's doing just fine.
But the answer is: sell everything you have, give it away, and come with me.
The young man just stands there. He says nothing back. He turns around and walks away. And there's one small sentence that carries the whole story: he went away sad, for he owned a great deal.
He's not angry. He's sad. He does want to. But his things hold onto him more tightly than he holds onto them.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
You get something new that makes you really happy. And for the rest of the day you're mostly afraid of it. You don't take it outside, in case it gets dropped. You don't let anyone else hold it.
Outside they're calling you to come help with the den. And you're sitting inside trying out your new thing.
Or your suitcase for camp. You stuff it with everything you might possibly need, and on the way there you're lugging it around exhausted. Half of it never even comes out.
Share it? Absolutely not. I'm dumping all my excess baggage on someone else so I can travel light!
Take a look in the mirror:
- What do you own that you mostly guard instead of actually use?
- When did you stay inside because you didn't dare take something out with you?
- If you had to give away exactly one thing right now, what would it be? Not the easy answer — the honest one.
Mirror line
I'd love to just keep everything, but I've learned things don't make you freer — you also have to guard them, keep them clean, and not lose them.
From 10
The Hero from the Wrong Side
Someone asks : who am I actually supposed to help? Who counts as mine?
Jesus answers with a story. A man is walking down a lonely road and gets attacked. They beat him and leave him half-dead by the roadside.
Someone important comes along. He sees the man lying there, crosses over, and walks on along the other side of the road. A little later, someone else like him comes by. He crosses over too.
Then a passes. And that's exactly someone from the wrong side: the people listening to this story want nothing to do with Samaritans.
He stops. He treats the wounds, puts the man on his own donkey, brings him to an , and pays for him.
At the end, Jesus flips the question around. Not: who counts as yours? But: who became a here?
For today
Does this sound familiar?
Someone takes a hard fall on the playground. Not just anyone: it's that tough kid who was rotten to you last week. Your first thought is: serves him right.
You stop for a second. And in those few seconds you come up with three reasons to keep walking. You're going to be late. Other people are already there. And he probably doesn't even want your help.
Those reasons aren't lies. All three of them are a little bit true.
That's exactly what makes them so useful.
Stop and help? Why would I. He surely wouldn't help me either!
Take a look in the mirror:
- Who would you never help? Really think about it. You don't have to tell anyone.
- Which reason do you use most often to keep walking?
- Who helped you once when you least expected it?
Mirror line
I'd love to just keep walking, but I've learned the question isn't who deserves my help, but who I become when someone's lying there.
From 15
The Unfair Party
A father has two sons. The younger one won't wait and asks for his share of the money right now. He leaves, spends it all, and ends up with nothing. Eventually he's working among the pigs and is so hungry he wants to eat their food.
He decides to go back, and practises his apology along the way.
But his father sees him coming from far away. So he'd been watching. He runs to him, and a party breaks out. Music, food, everything.
The oldest son is out in the field. He hears the music, hears what's going on, and refuses to go inside. All these years, he says, I've worked here. And I've never had a party.
Then the father goes outside too. Towards him.
What the oldest son did next isn't written down.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
Your little brother breaks something and gets a hug. You got told off last week for something much smaller. You don't say anything about it, but something settles inside you.
Or this: someone who did nothing all year for the group project gets exactly the same compliments at the presentation as you, who put in three whole evenings.
In moments like that, you're the older brother. You haven't done anything wrong — that's exactly the point. You did everything right and it feels like nobody noticed.
That's a lonely kind of angry.
Be happy for him? No thanks. I'll give him a party he'll never forget!
Take a look in the mirror:
- When did you feel like nobody saw that you were doing the right thing?
- When were you the one who got the party without earning it?
- What would you want to hear if you were standing outside while the music started up inside?
Mirror line
I'd love to say I didn't mind about the party, but I've learned it's fine to be jealous of a party — as long as you actually say so out loud sometime.
