Francy's New Morning

          With September a week away, I’m thinking about school and supplies and learning, but what if…let’s say, your child has a trunk for a nose; it won’t know what to do with it. Some newborns swing it like it’s a toy for jumping rope; some suck on it like it’s a giant pacifier or the thumb they wish they had; Sometimes they step on it, tripping so they fall into mama who might not like being bumped. A five ton mama is not someone to anger. Baby might get a trunk slap.   But mama is a good teacher. She has to be; God didn’t give baby elephants instincts; they need to be taught what to do with their unusual appendage. From within minutes of birth, when mama and other females help baby stand, until it is weaned about two years later, mama has the important job of teaching her young how to survive. Without words she demonstrates how to siphon water and squirt in its mouth to drink. She pulls down branches with her trunk and pluck...

                                                                                                                            Stephen age nine winning award for charcoal portrait of Grandpa   Today we drove our oldest son to FIT in Manhattan to live in the same dorm I lived in.   I had been looking forward to reminiscing about my days there and peeking into Stephen...

Dexter's Story   (I wrote this about ten months ago before his health deteriorated. We had to say goodbye to Dexter when he was suffering, but he left my parents' home with many fun memories.)  I thought they left. Just as I finished barking at various trespassers and started to doze on the green couch, I heard the cacophony of children yappin and squealin. “They” bounded inside, without any grace I might add.   Francy and her pack of five came on Sunday. Their noise spanned an octave from the short female’s: “Awww... Dexter” to the largest male’s: “What’s up?” The grandkids, as they’re called by Good Boy, are tolerable for a day or two visit, but something was wrong this time. I knew down to my tail life would be messed up for a while.   On Monday the wind howled louder than Rudy next door, and trees danced and bowed to a prince I couldn’t see. I barked my best, but couldn’t stop this monster everyone kept calling Sandy. The...

      Keyra cocks her head, surprised at my angry voice. I’m sure in her mind seven AM is a perfectly good time to bark at the outside world. Rephrased, when isn’t it a good time to bark? And once she gets going, everything makes her bark. A boy wearing a backpack. A mother pushing a stroller.   An old man carrying a bag of groceries. A squirrel. And of course, my son’s friends—the worst enemies of all aside from the mailman. She will only tolerate guests if they stay seated. Heaven forbid they stand up or walk down the hall; she’ll bark and jump on the ankles of the largest visitors. She only nipped once. Or twice…and both times the same friend. She hates him with a doggy passion.   She’s a dog on a mission—to see how much food she can find or steal. She can’t bury the pizza crust she snatches, so she hides her stash in laundry piles. I’ve come close to washing a hamburger bun and dog biscuits.   Last week, a whole stick of b...

(Previously published at FaithWriters.com and The Leah Messenger 2010) I thought I'd share an article from my homeschool days since this fall ends my years of homeschooling. An experience I will miss. Some days I’d like to disappear. The conversation twists into one of those uncomfortable, tongue-tied moments—the perfect time to test time-warp travel. And I’m sure my tongue knots easier than most. Yesterday was one of those tongue-tied-get-me-outta-here days. Sunlight skipped in and out of clouds; every few minutes, I’d throw on my sweater only to yank it off again. The unique scent of hot turf, sweaty boys, and garbage trucks, rose up from the soccer field—worse than rotten broccoli, the potpourri of sports. But my son’s soccer game was exciting and I could ignore the smells tickling my nose, at least until half time, when I’d join the other soccer moms in complaining. “Ooh, that smell is unbearable,” I said to the moms next to me on the bench, covering my nose with the ba...

Something I never talk about, but a slight annoyance I have to deal with every day: my name. Okay, I know there are a lot more important issues to deal with, but sometimes you got to vent about the insignificant matters in life like burnt toast and bad hair days.   I don’t hate my name…if it’s said right. That’s the problem: nine times out of ten, I get called what someone thinks is my name. Frances is the name on my birth certificate, which is fine. I can’t blame my parents. My mom is a wonderful person who deserves to have her child named after her. But I’ve always been called Francie. The nickname came from A Tree Goes in Brooklyn , a favorite novel of theirs that year. If they read the Bible back then, I could be Sarah or Rachel, nice easy names .   Unless I spell it out and even if I do, people say Francine. Do they think I forgot to write or pronounce the n? It’s not there. So I’m called Franny or Francine more often than not. I don’t even bother...

 I am older today, and hopefully wiser. I’ve always liked having a birthday two days before the Fourth of July. As a kid, I would pretend all the fireworks were for me. Yes, the entire country wanted to celebrate my birthday. I’m just soooooo famous. I imagined having a first kiss under the night sky as it exploded with color. Ahhh, and who doesn’t like the smell of burnt firecrackers and the sizzle of sparklers? All for me.   But the truth is—and here is where the wiser part fits in—joy won’t happen if all I live for is serving me. I spent enough years trying to wiggle my way into the mouse size tunnel of perfectionism, where all the perfectly happy people hide. Even if I could reach such a place, it would be boring. A place where perfect people spend all their time staying perfect.    Joy happens when we give our lives to God and seek His will. Even the smallest gesture of kindness to our fellow imperfect neighbors adds a notch to our joy line. The...