WANTED: Angie Neal

WANTED: Me

Also Known As: “Miss Angie”, “Mrs. Neal”, “Mommy”, Daughter, Friend, Sister, and Speech-Language Pathologist

Vital Statistics:

Height: Not enough

Weight: Too much

Date of Birth: July 26th, 197something

Place of Birth: Cary, NC

Hair Color: Brown (with a little help)

Eye Color: Brownish-Green

Distinguishing Characteristics:
Usually looks happy or stressed.

Wanted For:
The crime of wearing too many hats at one time.

Accused of:
· driving while under the influence of children
· teaching while under the influence of creativity
· performing youthful acts of fun well below her age
· talking to unresponsive life forms… cows on the side of the road, birds in her yard, spiders in the window

· dancing as if no one was there
· singing as if she were all alone
· purchasing children’s books under the guise of “these are for my children”
· stealing quiet moments for herself
· caring more than recommended

The Consequence of Arrogance

The Consequence of Arrogance

Who are we to judge?
Flowers suffer no shame if the petals of another,
blaze a hue more unique than their own.

Who are we to criticize?
Each branch has its own perspective,
from the window of life it looks through.

Who are we to belittle?
Each rock shaped by the motion of time,
fractured through the fall, yet strong… resilient.

Who are we to insult?
All living things are born and will die
christened in universal experience.

Who are we to domineer?
Each leaf has its own time to fall,
each seed its own time to grow.

Who are we to intimidate?
ignited by mystifying flicker,
the seasons bargain for their own turn.

Who are we to humiliate?
Is it not the thorns of the rose that keep it humble?

The screen door of perspective
encourages to not only look out, but in.
Vulnerability the result of ignorance,
Invincibility the consequence of arrogance.

Mama, Where Are You From?

"Mama, Where Are You From?"

I am from the hot, red-clay stained sidewalk to the cool, dark quiet of the vestibule.

Listening to the "click" of women's sunday high heels and the "clomp" of men's freshly polished wing-tips.

I'm from quiet reverance; surrounded by the deep, dark wood of empty pews where the congregation once stood.

I'm from the back of the church, the secret passages and hallways, where the choir learns the hymns and the pipes of the organ can actually be seen.

I'm from sunday covered dish and week long revivals, fried chicken, "real" macaroni and cheese, mysterious-delicious casseroles and buckets of sweet tea.

I'm from the quarter my grandaddy gave me for the offering plate,

the bell beneath my many layered organza sunday dress,

warm colorful light streaming through stained glass,

and my granny reminding me to always remember who I am.

Faith

Faith is peaceful guidance through life’s times of pain
Faith is emerging, unsoaked through the rain

Faith is feeling full without a crumb to find
Faith is accepting that these choices are mine

Faith is believing in the things you can not see
Faith is the leap to trust again in me

Faith is the parent leaving their child with another
Faith is that miracle we call becoming a mother

Faith is facing betrayal and making your way back
Faith is becoming stronger in spite of things you lack

Faith is stretching out your hand to help a stranger
Faith is walking away safely from the precipice of danger

Faith is following a map to places you don’t know where
Faith is recognizing God counts every lost hair

Faith is the letting go when you've done all that you can
Faith is a solemn promise between God and Man

Faith is living the life you’ve been created to live
Faith is sharing more than you think you could ever give

Faith is finding someone’s best when everyone else has given up
Faith is having the “half full” and not “half empty” cup

Faith is His eye on the sparrow and also on me
Faith is the gift you accept first and then receive

Prayer Walk

Prayer Walk

A prayer for every step,
a song for every journey.
Following only the rhythm of my stride,
and the cadence of every footstep.

The sway of nimble tree tops,
moves with the tide of ambling wind.
The bend of broken tree limbs,
points out paths not yet tread.

The faint glisten of a spider’s web,
the ripple from a frog’s impetuous vault.
The happy welcome from the cardinal,
the playful, quick nod from a passing squirrel.

This puzzle not yet perfect,
is though pristine in it’s every attempt.
Not made by man, but for him,
these humble treasures oft overlooked.

A crumbling tree trunk my pew,
eyes looking up toward heaven.
The altar of life surrounding,
My senses all give thanks.

I Am Home

I Am Home

The canopy of limbs feels like a ceiling,
not allowing me to rise.
The birds are singing audibly,
a tune I do not know.

Tree roots trip me clumsily,
as I try to wander along.
The tiniest bug disturbs the procession,
interrupting this careless journey.

But then, the whisper of traveling water,
speaks to me of familiar, forgotten places.
The stained-glass skylight above,
wisely dares me to pause and linger.

It is only now I am able to see…
I am,
in fact,
at home.

An arched foyer of bending limbs,
invites guests to the chambers inside,
Leaf-covered walls delineate rooms,
devoid of simplified names.

Floors rich in varied texture,
evolve from stone to leaf-covered trail.
The porch, a wide pasture of green,
freckled by sparks of a familiar yellow.

No hall in this home the same,
No view from these windows repeated.
The address belongs to us all,
The door - always open.