Francy's New Morning

                                     Memories of Eastern Long Island   Long Island grew longer on Sundays. As a child, forced to endure family drives out east, I was sure of it. Dad said it was 118 miles long, but it seemed more like a million. We lived in Mount Sinai, a town on the north shore, almost halfway between New York City and the eastern tip of Long Island. The drive always took about three hours with traffic and stopping along the way. From a kid’s point of view, that was way too long to sit in a car—but Dad promised we’d have surprises on the trip. And we usually did.   Mt. Sinai sat smack in the middle of the Island’s suburbs where new mini-malls grew every few months. We were never more than five minutes from a Long Islander’s necessities: pizza, bagels, ice cream and a hair salon. Travel...

    It’s time for celebrating! Our house is done. Two years after Super Storm Sandy flooded and ruined our home, it is done—all because of Samaritan’s Purse Ministries.   This Tuesday, November 18 th , at 3:00 we will welcome the Samaritan’s Purse staff and volunteers, family, friends and everyone else who wants to share this special time with us. They call it a house dedication. After eleven months of Samaritan’s Purse people devoting their time and energy into rebuilding our home, we have this opportunity to thank them and give God the glory for it all. They will pray a blessing over our home as we pray for every person who came.   After the storm, we felt discouraged, trying to cling to our hope in the Lord. We had faith that God was in control, but still struggled with how we could ever get back to normal. Then Samaritan’s Purse teams arrived. Every week a different team of volunteers wearing their orange t-shi...

  Sunlight seeped through the cracks of New York City skyscrapers and glistened on the sewing needle in my hand. I guided it through the black linen and sewed the fourteenth button on the dress I designed. What was I thinking? Sixteen more buttons to go and my term garment was due in three hours. A term garment was the Fashion Institute of Technology equivalent of a final exam.   Back at the sketching stage, a full-length dress with thirty buttons and a jacket looked nice, made the dress unique. I should’ve foreseen the days of all-nighters I’d have.   Three hours? My stomach twisted like a garlic knot; my eyelids were determined to close; and my finger bled needle-size raindrops. Thank God the fabric wasn’t white.    All I wanted was sleep. Ginina slept peacefully. As Ms. Perfect Interior Design major, she finished her project early. Of course. Probably dreaming about her model boyfriend back home in Costa Rica . No, I wasn’t jealous…mayb...

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?   ...