Francy's New Morning

BORN TO US by Frances Judge So simple to love The swaddled infant in my arms with his baby breath, a whisper of wind, warming my skin; the echo of angels’ praise Beating my heart in the stillness of the night. So simple to love The toddler teetering on wobbly toes, falling into my embrace, I could hold forever. A divine gift, the joy of my soul, to be shared. Golden leaves release their grip; a determined breeze lays the pile on prickly grass at His feet, prepared for sacrificial love. So simple to love the one we named Jesus. I try to shield my young son from the rain but cannot. It is persistent, planned. And he grows; Angels breathed the Father’s blessing long ago; Hidden behind hazel eyes, my son’s mind holds the universe; in time to be revealed, a promise from the first birth, my womb was blessed to carry. So simple to love the one who is love Bare branches point bony fingers, catching snowflakes,  the b...

A stunning and inspiring biography Have you ever read a biography and felt the author became a friend you’d like to meet in person? Dima Ghawi is the author I’d like to meet.  In Breaking Vases , Dima writes about her life growing up in the Middle East in an upper middle-class home under continuous oppression as a female in her country. Reading about her life was an eye-opening experience, transporting me to a place I have only seen in movies. The vivid details she weaves throughout her book are captivating, painting a clear picture of the culture she lived.   Her writing is both poetic and honest, including her worst experiences and her happiest memories. Dima does not attack her family and culture. She suffered, and doesn’t hide what she felt, but she also remembers and shares what she did love. She persevered and overcame horrendous challenges while remaining kind and optimistic. She inspires the reader to hope and follow dreams for a bette...

Andrew, our second oldest, at age three,  when he wore overalls and slept in his racecar bed Let me tell you, this was a dark and stormy night, of another kind.   Sitting across from my three-year-old son at the dinner table, I tilted my head, like our Yorkie when she is trying to understand what we’re saying. “Does Andrew look a little green?” I asked my husband.   He glanced up from his pasta. “He looks fine. If he was sick, he wouldn’t have eaten his dinner.”   The plate still had a mound of squiggly noodles, his favorite. He ate about half.   His five-year-old brother, Stephen, continued his car noises in between mouthfuls. He looked fine. Sounded fine.   “Andrew, do you feel ok?”   “My tummy hurts.” He scrunched his little nose and pushed the plate away as if it were his enemy or a serving of his most hated vegetable, broccoli.   Pale skin with a green hue isn’t cute, especially on a three-year-old. By now I...

I am not a nurse. I wasn’t born with the genes for nursing, but I work alongside nurses each day. They’re busy from the second they clock in at the nursing home until they leave, often working overtime to finish their patient notes or working a double shift. Some residents are demanding and unappreciative, yet the nurses still devote their time to providing the best care. They have bus-size more patience than me. Last week, I had the surprise of observing from the flip side—from a hospital bed, a humbling position. From the moment the admitting nurse handed me a white cotton gown with the blue diamond print, snaps on shoulders, and open back, I was humbled. The ties, dangling at the side, are completely useless and do nothing to improve the silhouette. One size fits all. Lying on that hospital bed, I was quickly transformed into a patient, dependent on nursing care. It’s hard to do much when your arm is attached to an IV pole. Of course, I wanted to get better, so I le...

Time to celebrate! I received my copies of this year’s Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition Collection. I have entered this contest for years and have only won two honorable mentions. I never thought I would win first place. There were over 5300 entries this year for the nine categories. I always pray before writing, so I have to thank God for this blessing. I encourage you to persevere in your writing endeavors. Keep writing. Keep submitting. Consider rejections as steps to improve. You can’t succeed without trying.   “But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded.” 2 Chronicles 15:7 You can buy your copy of the 2018 winning stories (only $10) at this link: Writer's Digest 87th Annual Writing Competition Collection

  FROM THE BRANCHES By Frances Judge Memories dangle from the branches of our decked-out tree; gold bead garland snakes around treasures hung haphazardly— Backwards and tangled Popsicle stick squares, sprinkled with glitter, frame silly boy smiles, laughter I could hold forever, blessings worth tears and trials, And whispered prayers Some decorations span three generations; one Wise Man persevered; though his orange robe tattered, his gift will still be revered— Calls for celebration Ruby ballet shoes, trimmed with gold ribbon from the year of pink lace; Crystal girl angels declare the great gift of God’s grace. Share the good news Displayed at the core, a special glass ball, painted a violet night; Messiah sleeps in a stable, cradled beneath divine light. “O come let us adore…” Memories transcend time, from the branches of our love-filled veins, displa...

Post-thanksgiving, when the turkey carcass had been thrown away, the grease cleaned off the counters, and hundreds of dishes washed, I couldn’t wait to go to bed and read a book. It was 2:00 AM. I have heard other homes quiet down by that hour. Out of our 4 sons and 1 daughter ages 15-26, only the oldest prefers sleeping before midnight.   I had one more task to accomplish—brushing our little dog’s teeth—a task neither one of us particularly enjoys. As I turned on the faucet to wet Keyra’s scraggly, chewed toothbrush, I found myself victim of my kids’ favorite prank. They wrapped duct tape around the hand-held sink sprayer head, so when the unaware hand washer, me, turns on the faucet, the handle is squeezed and shoots water everywhere. I was not amused. I was too tired and cold to enjoy being drenched.   They said it wasn’t meant for me as they giggled. Hmm. At that moment, I forgot the day’s theme of thankfulness. No, not a hint of it left. I did grumbl...