CHANGE YOUR

WORLD IN 52 DAYS

THE LEADER IN YOU

TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THIS WORLD, YOU DON’T

HAVE TO BE THE BEST, YOU JUST

HAVE TO CARE THE MOST.

God specializes in using ordinary people.

To change the world you have to see yourself as a leader, equipped and empowered

by God.

A “CHANGE YOUR WORLD” LEADER

Three thoughts of a world-changing leader.

A “CHANGE YOUR

WORLD”LEADER :

DEFINES THE MISSION CLEARLY

NEHEMIAH 1:11

O Lord, let your ear be attentive to the prayer of this your servant and to the prayer of your servants who

delight in revering your name. Give your servant success today by granting him favor in the presence

of this man." I was cupbearer to the king.

NEHEMIAH 2:4-5

4 The king said to me, "What is it you want?"

Then I prayed to the God of heaven,

NEHEMIAH 2:4-5

5 and I answered the king, "If it pleases the king and if

your servant has found favor in his sight, let him send me to the city in Judah where my fathers are buried so thatI can rebuild (the wall)."

WHAT IS GOD LEADING YOU

TO DO?

If you can’t define it, YOU CAN’T DO IT.

A “CHANGE YOUR

WORLD”LEADER :

MAKES PLANS

CAREFULLY

NEHEMIAH 2:6-8

6 … It pleased the king to send me; so I set a time. 7 I also said to him, "If it

pleases the king,

NEHEMIAH 2:6-8

may I have letters to the governors of

Trans-Euphrates, so that they will provide me

safe-conduct until I arrivein Judah?

NEHEMIAH 2:6-8

8 And may I have a letter to Asaph, keeper of the king's forest, so he will give me

timber to make beams for the gates…and for the city wall

and for the residence I will occupy?"

If you've failed to plan, you plan

to fail.

- John Maxwell

Nehemiah makes two very specific requests to the king:

NEHEMIAH 2:7

… “If it pleases the king, may I have letters to the governors of

Trans-Euphrates, so that they will provide me

safe-conduct until I arrivein Judah?”

NEHEMIAH 2:8

“If it pleases the king, may I have a letter to Asaph, keeper of the king's forest, so he will

give me timber to make beams for the gates…and for the city

wall and for the residence I will occupy?"

God works as much in your preparation as how he does

in your presentation.

A “CHANGE YOUR

WORLD”LEADER :

INSPIRES PEOPLE

PASSIONATELY

NEHEMIAH 2:17-18

17 Then I said to them, "You see the trouble we are in: Jerusalem lies in ruins, and its gates have been

burned with fire.

NEHEMIAH 2:17-18

Come, let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, and we

will no longer be in disgrace.“

NEHEMIAH 2:17-18

18 I also told them about the gracious hand of my God

upon me and what the king had said to me. They replied, "Let us start rebuilding." So they began this good work.

John Wesley said:

Light yourself on fire with passion and people will come from miles to watch you burn.

John Wesley said:

And you don't have to be the best, you just have to have a heart that breaks for the things that break the heart of God.

MALALA YOUSAFZAI: The Bravest Girl in the

World

In this exclusive excerpt from her

autobiography, I Am Malala, young activist

Malala Yousafzairecounts the day she

was shot by the Taliban.

In a country that’s seen morethan its share of violence, thefate of one teenager might notseem to count for much. Butsomehow Malala Yousafzai ofPakistan has managed tobecome an internationalinspiration. She was only 11when she took on theTaliban, demanding thatgirls be given full access toschool. Her campaign led to ablog for the BBC, a New YorkTimes documentary, and aPakistani peace prize.

But all that was only a preludeto even more extraordinaryevents. Last October, Talibanassassins attacked Malala, then15, on her way home fromschool, shooting her in thehead. Here, Malala describesthat day and offers her hopesfor the future.

Tuesday, Oct. 9, 2012, wasn’t thebest of days to start with, as itwas the middle of exams—though as a bookish girl I didn’tmind them as much as some ofmy classmates did. That morningwe arrived in the narrow mudlane off Haji Baba Road in ourusual procession of brightlypainted rickshaws sputteringdiesel fumes, each one crammedwith five or six girls. Since thetime of the Taliban, our schoolhas had no sign and theornamented brass door in a whitewall gives no hint of what liesbeyond.

For us girls, that doorway waslike a magical entrance to ourown special world. As weskipped through, we cast offour head scarves and ranhelter-skelter up the steps. Atthe top of the steps was anopen courtyard with doors toall the classrooms. We dumpedour backpacks in our rooms,then gathered for assemblyunder the sky, our backs to themountains.

The school was founded by myfather before I was born, andon the wall above us, “KhushalSchool” was painted proudly inred and white letters. We wentto school six mornings a week,and as I was in Year 9, myclasses were spent chantingchemical equations orstudying Urdu grammar,writing stories in English withmorals like “Haste makeswaste” or drawing diagrams ofblood circulation—most of myclassmates wanted to bedoctors.

It’s hard to imagine thatanyone would see that as athreat. Yet outside the schoollay not only the noise andcraziness of Mingora, the maincity of the province of Swat,but also those, like the Taliban,who think girls should not goto school. Because it was examtime, school started at 9instead of 8 that morning,which was good, as I don’t likegetting up and can sleepthrough the crows of theroosters and the prayer calls ofthe muezzin.

I slept in the room at the frontof our house. The onlyfurniture was a bed and acabinet that I had bought withthe money I’d been given as anaward for campaigning forpeace in our valley and theright for girls to go to school.On some shelves were thegold-colored plastic cups andtrophies I had won for comingfirst in my class.

There were a few times I hadnot come out on top—bothtimes I was beaten by my classrival, Malka-e-Noor. I wasdetermined it would nothappen again.

The school was not far frommy home and I used to walk,but since the start of the lastyear I had been going withother girls in a rickshaw andcoming home by bus.

It was a journey of five minutesalong the stinky stream, pastthe giant billboard for Dr.Humayun’s Hair TransplantInstitute, where we joked thatone of our bald male teachersmust have gone when hesuddenly started to sprout hair.I liked riding the bus because Ididn’t get as sweaty as when Iwalked, and I could chat withmy friends and gossip withUsman Ali, the driver, whomwe called Bhai Jan, or “brother.”He made us all laugh with hiscrazy stories.

I had started taking the busbecause my mother worriedabout me walking on my own.We had been getting threatsall year. Some were in thenewspapers, and some weremessages passed on bypeople. I was more concernedthe Taliban would target myfather, as he was alwaysspeaking out against them. Hisfriend and fellow campaignerZahid Khan had been shot inthe face in August on his wayto prayers.

Our street could not bereached by car. I would get offthe bus on the road below, gothrough an iron gate and up aflight of steps. Sometimes I’dimagine that a terrorist mightjump out and shoot me onthose steps. I wondered what Iwould do. Maybe I’d take offmy shoes and hit him. But thenI’d think that if I did that, therewould be no differencebetween me and a terrorist. Itwould be better to plead,

“Okay, shoot me, but firstlisten to me. What you aredoing is wrong. I’m notagainst you personally. I justwant every girl to go toschool.”

I wasn’t scared, but I hadstarted making sure the gatewas locked at night and askingGod what happens when youdie. I told my best friend,Moniba, everything. We’d livedon the same street when wewere little and had beenfriends since primary school.

We shared Justin Bieber songsand Twilight movies, the bestface-lightening creams.Moniba always knew ifsomething was wrong. “Don’tworry,” I told her. “The Talibanhave never come for a smallgirl.”

When our bus was called, weran down the school steps. Thebus was actually a whiteToyota truck with three parallelbenches.

It was cramped with 20 girlsand three teachers. I wassitting on the left betweenMoniba and a girl namedShazia Ramzan, all of usholding our exam folders toour chests.

Inside the bus it was hot andsticky. In the back, where wesat, there were no windows,just plastic sheeting, which wastoo yellowed to see through.

All we could see out the backwas a little stamp of open skyand glimpses of the sun, ayellow orb floating in the dustthat streamed over everything.

Then we suddenly stopped. Ayoung bearded man hadstepped into the road. “Is thisthe Khushal School bus?” heasked our driver. Usman BhaiJan thought this was a stupidquestion, as the name waspainted on the side. “Yes,” hesaid.

“I need information aboutsome children,” said the man.“You should go to the office,”said Usman Bhai Jan. As hewas speaking, another youngman approached the back ofthe van.

“Look, it’s one of thosejournalists coming to ask foran interview,” said Moniba.Since I’d started speaking atevents with my father,journalists often came, thoughnot like this, in the road.

The man was wearing apeaked cap and had ahandkerchief over his nose andmouth. Then he swung himselfonto the tailboard and leanedin over us. “Who is Malala?” hedemanded.

No one said anything, butseveral of the girls looked atme. I was the only girl with myface uncovered. That’s when helifted up a black pistol. Someof the girls screamed. Monibatells me I squeezed her hand.

During her stay in the hospital,Malala received thousands ofletters and cards, many ofthem from children. (UniversityHospitals Birmingham NHSFoundation Trust. Used withpermission of the QueenElizabeth Hospital inBirmingham)

My friends say he fired threeshots. The first went throughmy left eye socket and outunder my left shoulder. Islumped forward onto Moniba,blood coming from my left ear,so the other two bullets hit thegirls next to me. One bulletwent into Shazia’s left hand.The third went through her leftshoulder and into the upperright arm of Kainat Riaz.

My friends later told me thegunman’s hand was shaking ashe fired. In the year since thatfateful day, Malala hasundergone a recovery that isnothing short of miraculous.The bullet narrowly missed herbrain, and doctors at QueenElizabeth Hospital inBirmingham, England, whereshe was brought in a medicallyinduced coma six days afterthe attack, marveled that shewas able to stand within aweek of her arrival.

Malala underwent multiplesurgeries and spent nearlythree months in the hospital(which specializes in treatingwounded soldiers), thoughmercifully it was found she hadsuffered no major permanentneurological damage.

“It feels like this life isnot my life. It’s a secondlife. People have prayed toGod to spare me and Iwas spared for areason—to use my lifefor helping people.”