berg.ooo
Røde Kors er Norges største, frivillige humanitære organisasjon. Røde Kors er en støtteaktør for norske myndigheter, og aktivitetene til organisasjonen støtter og utfyller det offentlige tjenestetilbudet.
Les mer om Røde Kors sin fantastiske historie her.
By Wednesday, the December Project had started to feel like a rhythm — a quiet pulse of goodness woven into ordinary days. On the board, in red chalk, the new instruction read: “Mission #10 – Give what you no longer need.”
Ms. Larsen explained that the class would collect clothes, toys, and books for families in need. “Look around your home,” she said, “and see what could bless someone else.” She paused, letting that word settle — bless. It wasn’t about getting rid of old things; it was about giving them a new purpose.
That afternoon, students went home and began searching. Emma gathered picture books she’d outgrown but couldn’t quite part with — until she imagined another child reading them for the first time. Jonas found a warm jacket he’d barely worn, and Ida convinced her parents to add a few extra scarves and gloves. Some even brought toys, cleaned and carefully packed in boxes with ribbons.
By Friday, a small mountain of donations had formed in the corner of the classroom. Ms. Larsen’s voice was warm when she said, “These will go to families who could use a little light this Christmas. You’ve done more than collect things — you’ve given comfort.”
As they carried the boxes to the school office, Jonas whispered to Emma, “It’s strange — giving stuff away actually feels… good.” She nodded. “Maybe that’s the secret. The more you give, the more you have to smile about.”
Tuesday’s task made the class collectively groan when Ms. Larsen read it aloud: “Mission #09 – No screens tonight. Spend time with your family.” A few students laughed nervously. “So… no phone, no tablet, no gaming?” asked Jonas. “Exactly,” Ms. Larsen said with a smirk. “Just people, words, and maybe a board game.”
When evening came, the temptation was real. Notifications buzzed, the TV glowed in the next room, and the house felt strangely quiet without the usual background noise. But one by one, small changes began to happen. Emma found an old deck of cards and convinced her parents and brother to play. They laughed so hard when her father accidentally shuffled half the deck onto the floor that no one even noticed an entire hour had passed.
Jonas’s family dusted off a puzzle box they hadn’t opened in years. It started awkwardly — no one quite knew what to say — but as the pieces began to fit, the conversation followed. They talked about Christmases from when Jonas was small, about the time the tree fell over, about nothing and everything.
For many, the evening ended the same way — with warmth. No glow of screens, just the softer glow of lamps and conversation. The next morning, when Ms. Larsen asked how it went, the room filled with small smiles.
“It was weird,” said Ida, “but in a good way.”
Ms. Larsen nodded. “Sometimes silence helps us hear what matters most.”
Monday began quietly, with a trace of candle wax still lingering in the air from Sunday’s church service. On the board, Ms. Larsen had written: “Mission #08 – Gratitude in words.” Underneath, she’d added: Write a letter to someone you appreciate. Tell them why.
The room fell into thoughtful silence. This task didn’t involve glitter, tape, or teamwork — just paper, pencils, and sincerity. Some students began writing right away, their pencils moving fast. Others hesitated, unsure how to begin. Emma chewed her pencil for a while before starting, “Dear Mom, I don’t say thank you enough for everything you do…”
Jonas stared at his page for several minutes. Then he began, slowly but steadily: “Dear Dad, I know we argue a lot, but I still look up to you.” He stopped once or twice, erasing a few words, then decided to keep them. Ida wrote to her older sister, thanking her for always listening. Others wrote to teachers, grandparents, or even a best friend.
By the end of the lesson, the room felt different — softer somehow. Ms. Larsen gathered the letters that students wanted her to deliver, promising to post them that afternoon. “Words are gifts,” she said quietly. “And the right ones can last longer than any present.”
That evening, across the small town, parents and siblings opened envelopes written in uneven handwriting — each one a small miracle of honesty, wrapped not in paper, but in love.
