The Villagers of Stiltsville

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 pupose of sticks,
tall stilts upon which
Stiltvilllians 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!” “Your’re pretty!”
“You’re clever!” or “Funny!”
And bequeath a prize,
not of medal or money,
not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts,
the 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!
Not time for chatter
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.
Stiltvillians still cluster
and crowds still clamour,
but more stay away
They seem less enamoured
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.”

An excerpt from Max Lucado’s book, Fearless.


About mndunn26

I recently realized that my life is somewhat of a beautiful mess. A "pollack-type-picture" if you will, of colors, experiences, and people that, despite the seeming disarray, is captivating & confusing; patterened & yet unpredictable. But most of all, it is mysteriously designed, purposed, and appointed. For what? I don't know yet... but I'm learning as I go.

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