Fear of Not Mattering - Max Lucado

"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

Stilsvillians 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 high-ups of Stilsville
(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 fall straightaway

Into the Too Smalls,
Hoi polloi of the 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.

Ah, there it is.  There is the question.  The Amazon River out of which a thousand fears flow: do we matter? We fear we don’t.  We fear nothingness, insignificance.  We fear evaporation.  We fear that in the last tabulation we make no contribution to the final sum.  We fear coming and going and no one knowing.”


Excerpt taken from Chapter 2 of the book,
“Fearless”, written by Max Lucado