From 6
Build Your Own Boat
The world has filled up with fighting and noise. It's one big mess, and decides to start over.
He gives the job of building an enormous boat. Right in the middle of dry land. Everyone's doubled over laughing: a ship on land, how do you even come up with that.
Noah keeps building. For years.
When it's finished, he goes inside with his family and a pair of every kind of animal. The door closes.
And then it starts to rain. The water rises and rises, and outside everything gets swept away. Inside, between the wooden walls, it's quiet.
Forty days. And then a very long wait until there's dry land again.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
There's unrest in your class. Fights on the playground, nasty comments at break, everyone's angry at everyone and no one remembers how it started. It wears you right out.
You're not going to change the whole class. You can't, and it's not your job either.
What you can do: not join in. And find two people who are calm, to do something that has nothing to do with the mess.
That's your boat. It's not big. But it floats.
Bring everyone along? Forget it. I'm building my own boat and leaving the rest to swim!
Take a look in the mirror:
- Where do you go when things get too loud in your head or at school?
- Who do you bring on board?
- When did you join in with trouble you'd actually rather have stayed out of?
Mirror line
I'd love to just leave everyone who's fighting behind, but I've learned you can't change the whole class — you can only build your own boat.
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.
