New September

Zinnias dance in swirls of saffron, pale pink, and tangerine; God blesses me with this day.

Coolness of autumn at summer’s scorching finale.

Doorstep of Autumn; God blesses me with refreshing coolness.

Steel gray birds serenade from the canopy of mint green beauty bush leaves laden with deep purple berries.

September morning oak branches brush the pale blue sky; God’s artistry calms my soul.

The heavens heal my brokenness.

Sunshine, breezes, birds, trees, bees, the earth beneath my feet prove that God is holding me.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2025

Shades of Purple: A Short Story Sketch

Pressed against the lilac sky, rain clouds marched across the dusty, beige hills. Haddie watched the advancing storm from her kitchen window and clicked her chipped cherry red fingernails in rhythm with the song playing on her transistor radio.

Purple rain, purple rain, purple rain.

The man’s voice pleaded as if he were stuck on a thought that was at once sorrowful and unintentionally seductive.

Jazz, Haddie’s scarlet macaw, scratched at the mauve and fuchsia threads of Grandma Heloise’s old afghan. Jazz strutted along the back of the sofa and perched himself smugly on the top of the tiffany lamp, also Grandma Heloise’s.

Purple rain, purple rain, purple rain.

There was that sorrowfulness. That catch in his throat. Rawness of emotion.

She switched the volume louder in an attempt to merge with that voice, in an attempt to absorb the freedom of that voice, the freedom to feel, to expose that raw emotion.

Then the voice stopped.

She drowned in her own sorrow as torrents of rain pelted the tin roof of Grandma Heloise’s bungalow. It had been built by her grandpa Carlton in 1939.

Time had stood still in that little space.

Time had stopped.

But the rain pelted the earth with a cruel, unrelenting voraciousness.

Haddie turned the transistor radio dial in search of that voice that had the capacity to express emotions that she had clamped down deep within herself.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2025

Note: Unless you’ve been living on another planet in a distant galaxy several light years away you should recognize “Purple Rain” is the title of a song sang by the musical artist Prince in 1984.

Winter Reflection: A Poem

Brown-billed bird with ruby throat ignores winter’s threat.

Alights upon icy oak branch and injures itself.

Rush of furious winds topple the weak branches to the frozen earth.

Brown-billed bird with ruby throat darts under splintered limbs.

Sky cries with ice chips splattering and splashing withered brown leaves.

Brown-billed bird with ruby throat camouflages itself within the warmth of withered brown leaves.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2025

Update after a Break

It’s been several months since I wrote on my blog.

Honestly, I haven’t felt much like doing anything since my husband passed from this valley of sorrows last September. I truly believe his soul is at peace on the other side of the veil with God, the angels, and all his loved-ones who have gone before him. I truly believe that he was greeted into the warmth of God’s eternal love. These are truths that have sustained me on a daily basis. These are the truths that get me from moment to moment.

It has been eight months since that rainy September morning.

Eight months later on this sunny spring morning I listen to birds singing high in the oak trees and I consider the future, the years that lie ahead of me. This life is a journey filled with twists and turns, with heartbreak and joy. It is a rollercoaster of emotions. I have run the gamut of emotions these past eight months.

God has sustained me through the darkness. He is my fortress, he is my strength. I turn my soul completely to God and trust that I will move forward on my journey and that I will live my days with purpose, that I will serve him with my life.

I have been working on my writing projects: Two novel ideas, and a poetry book. I plan to put them on Barnes and Noble Press. Oh, also, an art book. Yes, I consider myself an artist of sorts. I love colorful drawings so I have been trying my hand at my own art book.

I am being intentionally happy. Yesterday, I took a river cruise. It was spectacular to see such wilderness on either side of the river’s bank. There were cypresses, oak, and pine, and several crocodiles.

Feeling the cool wind, the warm sun, and just basking in the loveliness of this earth’s beauty revived my soul.

I have to move forward from this grief of the past eight months.

With God’s help I shall. Only God can heal us in this life. Only God. Not religion. Not money. Not acquiring things. But only God.

So, with intentional happiness, each day I will find joy in the beauty around me.

I will set aside time for my writing projects.

Please pray for me; please pray for this world and the hurting souls that dwell in it.

May we all turn our eyes to God who loves us and gives us peace in the storms of this life.

There is light at the end of the darkest night.

God is that light.

Thank you for reading.

Jenny

Copyright 2025 Jenny W. Andrews

Misinterpretation: A short story sketch

Miss Naiomi had not been been pleased in five and a half decades.

That money, oh, that money! Oh, she would have been able to have broken away earlier had she not been such a coward. Cowardice was a genetic trait, of that she had convinced herself.

“Dang fool,” she announced to the skinny nurse’s aide who had just walked into her room. “Stop pursing your lips and staring at me with pity. I’ve got the money. Why don’t you go and eat a sandwich.”

Linda M., the nursing supervisor on the night shift, bent to hug Miss Naiomi. “You’re such a sweet lady, aren’t you? You don’t mean a cross word you say.” She turned to the skinny nurse’s aid and whispered, “it’s such a shame the dementia is progressing this quickly.”

Miss Naiomi rolled her pale blue eyes. “Dang idiots, the whole of you.”

“I know you don’t mean that Miss Naiomi,” Corrinne H., nursing home social worker, touched Miss Naiomi’s thick cottony hair gently. You’ve got such lovely hair.”

“Turds, you’ve all got turds in your teeth.”

Linda M., Corrinne H,. and the skinny nurse’s aide, simultaneously tilted their heads, pursed their lips, and smiled with compassion. “Such a sweet lady,” Linda M., restated. “She doesn’t mean the insults. She’ll be ninety-seven tomorrow. That’s hard to believe. She barely looks seventy.”

Miss Naiomi glared at the three women as they turned to leave. “I have the money. I had the money. Now, they’ve got the money.” She stabbed her fingers into the metal bed railings. “If only,” she muttered as she nodded off to sleep.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024

Note to my readers:

I am trying to return to my passion, writing, after a long stretch of being the caregiver for my husband who passed away on September first from a long battle with cancer. Daily I am doing activities to try to return to some sense of normalcy. Actually, I doubt if I’ll ever truly feel the same again. But, that’s okay. God has walked with me through this dark, painful season in my life. Now, I want to start a new chapter and move forward with a spirit of hope for my future. God is in control and I turn to him for my strength. Our lives are short, so we need to focus on making each moment count. If we live long enough we will inevitably lose someone whom we love. That emptiness is real, but only God can fill up that void. So, I am turning my eyes to God who is my strength and my fortress in this storm. I am beginning to see the sunlight. I will always miss my husband, but this life is not all there is. One day, he and I will meet again in eternity. But, for now, I am going to focus on living the best life I can. I am going to focus on my writing and getting published. I am going to focus on enjoying this beautiful world that God has bless me with the opportunity to see. With gratefulness I turn to God of miracles and I rest in his abiding love.

Thank you, readers, for your prayers during this difficult season.

Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think about my short story sketch (but be kind).

Thanks,

Jenny

Hand

Rising again from sorrow’s ashes.

Coming up from the drowning of dreams.

Grasping for the hand of God, who had never for a second,

forgotten me in my sorrow.

Clinging to God who loves me; resting in God who rescued me from the drowning of my dreams.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024