Francy's New Morning

Chapter 1   I waste ten minutes of my life and ruin my plans today just by being me. If my bathing suit had been easy to find, neatly folded in my drawer, Randi and I would have been running and jumping through the sprinklers by now. Instead, I have to empty my dresser, tossing butterfly underwear and mismatched socks across my rug for these crucial minutes. I find my bikini under the bed, the neon green straps wrapped around a naked doll and a lonely boot.             While I scramble into my suit and struggle with the knot, I hear Dad ask Randi the worst question ever. “How would you like to pose for a portrait?” Poor Randi is trapped. I know she won’t say no. So I hurry to warn her, “Dad makes it sound simple, but sitting still for fifteen minutes in that stuffy attic studio is worse than eating fried eel.” Randi smiles. “When did you eat fried eel? Maybe it’s good.” “You’re weird....

             A new screen door, siding and roof fixed, railing rust removed and repainted…these are just some of the jobs accomplished by Samaritan’s Purse volunteers over the last two weeks.   Imagine coming home from work each day to discover something else new or fixed or redone by the hands of angels. That has been our life since Samaritan’s Purse ministries started rebuilding our house in November 2013 from the damage left by Hurricane Sandy in 2012.   It’s been a long time getting back to normal living, but a time God has used for pruning. You can’t go through a storm like this and be the same person. Every time I ride my bike by the bay, I picture the water rushing in; I pass the recreation center that was used as a temporary donation and supply center with lines of people out the door; trees slant away from the ocean as if running from the surge of the storm; some homes were abandoned, unable to ...

          Francy age 10   Gene age 7     There was a boy, a pale-skinned, freckled face, strawberry blond boy, born in Manhattan. A little seed in the Big Apple.     This boy spoke English, yet went to a French elementary school. His parents said it was the best school near their apartment. He didn’t learn much French, maybe: “Est-ce-que je peux aller aux toilettes?” and other essential phrases. Most of the time he’d fall asleep at the kitchen table staring at letters that didn’t make sense. In class, he’d focus on the skyscraper view out the window and imagine the people inside who didn’t have to be stuck in school, but he was funny and could twist humor out of any situation.     This boy liked to play stick ball with his friends who lived in the same apartment building. He liked riding his Huffy bike to Central Park…but one day a group of teenagers surrounded him and pushed h...

                     Stephen age eight                                                      Stephen age twenty-one at FIT                         I knew without a doubt that Stephen was right-handed. I homeschooled him since he was six and never saw a problem with his writing ability. He had beautiful penmanship and ate with his right hand, never questioned if he was using the wrong side…until he decided he wanted to change. And for what? Baseball. At age eight, life’s all about baseball.   Coincidence?   ...

              How strange at the park today, just me and the squawking parrots! No kids, mine or anyone else’s. The park was booming with life a few minutes ago…kids laughing, running, crying over skinned knees, the squeaking of rusty swings in a constant background rhythm. What happened at three o’clock? Is there a reason everyone disappeared? The sky is clear, no signs of lightning, hurricane or tornado. It isn’t dinner time yet. Mid-day siesta time, maybe.   For whatever reason, I sit, reading Atlas Girl on the faded bench, alone and writing. A tractor roars as it shovels dirt and covers the silence of an empty playground…and I reminisce about the days my five kids climbed the slides here, played tag, and splashed in the sprinklers. The entire park was cooled by the mist carried in the bay breeze. This was always one of my favorite places to take the kids, five minutes away by car and free. They thought it was a spe...

 Married July 7, 1990 outdoors at Smithtown Landing Country Club Is he the one for me, Lord? The question stirred at night; I knew He had the answer, Even birds find Mr. Right, As they flap their finest feathers And fly off in one accord. We met today or you could say We smiled and said hello, But his smile said a thousand words As cardinals kiss the snow And dart through flakes with perfect grace Like a winter white ballet. Are you sure that he’s the one for me? I’ve seen his other side, And much to my dismay, he’s seen Me morph to Mrs. Hyde. Perhaps the seagulls battle clouds To reach the swirling sea. I’m practically nocturnal, While he’s a morning hen, Enjoys a languid sunrise stroll And baseball’s on again. By noon I’m zooming on my bike, Then writing in my journal. I’m sure that he’s the one to stay; I felt so with his touch . . . Hand in hand as starlight glowed . . . Do robins know this much? Th...

BEFORE pictures of our living room, gutted  after Hurricane Sandy      and AFTER (or during, getting close to finish)                                                                                                                   Newly painted walls and new floor hidden under the paper Keyra enjoys her new lookout post from a clean room Our house is getting close to being finished. After all the devastation from Hurricane Sandy, we will soon have a new home. In the last few weeks, we have had Samaritan’s purse volunteers come from Illinois, California and Kentucky. Many of these special people ha...