I have known for a long time that the opposite of Love is Fear, not Hate. I also know that I have lived much of my life in fear. Mac Lucado has written a wonderful book, not unlike his other wonderful books, called "Fearless". Max Lucado, as you may gather, if you have read my posts, or more importantly his writing, presents Truth in a light and humorous way, drawing on his own humanity, and inviting us to journey with him to a better place, Life in Jesus Christ.
Fearless is available in paperback, and is well worth the time and energy it might take to find it and to read it and enjoy the simple truths presented there.
Among Mac Lucado's many gifts is a gift for writing poetry, and he wrote this poem which is in the early part of the book, about the human condition, about a place called Stiltsville, and about life there, until something happened to change it. It reminded me much of London, Ontario, Tucson, Arizona, and any other place you call home. I hope you enjoy it and it speaks to your heart.
Perhaps you don’t know,
then, maybe you do,
about Stiltsville, the village,
(so strange but so true)
where people like we,
some tiny, some tall,
with jobs and kids
and clocks on the wall
keep an eye on the time.
For each evening at six,
they meet in the square
for the purpose of sticks,
tall stilts upon which
Stiltsvillians can strut
and be lifted above
those down in the rut:
the less and the least,
the Tribe of Too Smalls,
the not cools and have-nots
who want to be tall
but can’t, because
in the giving of sticks,
their name was not called.
They didn’t get picked.
Yet still they come
when villagers gather;
they press to the front
to see if they matter
to the clique of the cool,
the court of high clout,
that decides who is special
and declares with a shout,
"You're classy!" "You're pretty!"
"You're clever" or "Funny!"
And bequeath a prize,
not of medals or money,
not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts—
a gift of some stilts.
Moving up is their mission,
going higher their aim.
“Elevate your position”
is the name of their game.
The higher-ups of Stiltsville
(you know if you’ve been there)
make the biggest to-do
of the sweetness of thin air.
They relish the chance
on their high apparatus
to strut on their stilts,
the ultimate status.
For isn’t life best
when viewed from the top?
Unless you stumble
and suddenly are not
so sure of your footing.
You tilt and then sway.
“Look out bel-o-o-o-w!”
and you fall straightaway
into the Too Smalls,
hoi polloi of the earth.
You land on your pride—
oh boy, how it hurts
when the chic police,
in the jilt of all jilts,
don’t offer to help
but instead take your stilts.
“Who made you king?”
you start to complain
but then notice the hour
and forget your refrain.
It’s almost six!
No time for chatter.
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.
Stiltsvillians still cluster,
and crowds still clamor,
but more stay away.
They seem less enamored
since the Carpenter came
and refused to be stilted.
He chose low over high,
left the system tip-tilted.
“You matter already,”
he explained to the town.
“Trust me on this one.
Keep your feet on the ground.”
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