Why do I need to come into the chaos, sit down in the corner and absorb the confusion? The tension. The hurt. Why does it matter if I bring a tiny cup of something beautiful or calm or peaceful or restorative when the room is a cacophonous tornado;
trouble swirling, dissension brewing, and flare-ups spewing.
How can my single cup of water quench such huge thirst
birthed of pain, insecurity and fear?
I've been turning away. Hiding in my sweet haven.
Peeking between the curtains.
Hording my tiny cup of water.
Afraid to spill a drop or waste its sweet flavor
on the burgeoning fire in the streets.
For I am already being poured out like a drink offering...
But I don't want to offer the cup any more.
For I am already being poured out like a drink offering...
My tiny drop of water means nothing compared to the searing thirst.
For I am already being poured out like a drink offering...
What difference can I make?
For I am already being poured out like a drink offering...
Why does it matter?
Sit with me and tell me once again
Of the story that's been told us
Of the power that will hold us
Of the beauty, of the beauty
Why it matters
Speak to me until I understand
Why our thinking and creating
Why our efforts of narrating
About the beauty, of the beauty
And why it matters
Like the statue in the park
Of this war torn town
And its protest of the darkness
And the chaos all around
With its beauty, how it matters
How it matters
Show me the love that never fails
The compassion and attention
Midst confusion and dissention
Like small ramparts for the soul
How it matters
Like a single cup of water
How it matters
(Why It Matters, Sara Groves)
