Just One Person

"You must understand, Gabrielle, you're just one person."
I know it is crazy, but this phrase has been echoing in my head for over a month now.  I know it was well intended but I have been secretly glowering since then.  Since this statement lacks context allow me to explain, again.  I am a Roman Catholic.  I find it hard to separate my religion from any other part of my life.  Everything I do I try to do with God in my heart and  I hope that everything I do is a humble witness to what I believe.  Sometimes it is easy but most of the time it is hard.  It is hard to be faithful.  It is hard to be hopeful.  It is hard to be loving to everyone as Jesus would.  It is hard to be Catholic, but the hardest part for me comes from something I have no control over.    


I do not recall much about the time I was hospitalized for an allergic reaction, but what I do remember I doubt I will ever forget.  The smoke in the air, the illness that followed, my hazy vision as all my other senses went wild, the panic as I realized something was very wrong, and the smell of incense.  More than anything I remember fear.  Fear as I told my friend.  Fear as we searched for my RD.  Fear as they called 911.  Fear as they called my brother.  Fear as they loaded me into the ambulance.  Fear as my parish priest came to give me a blessing.  Fear as I came to the hospital.  After that, I do not remember anything from that day, or the next week.  I lost a week of my memory from the drugs I was on to stabilize what was happening to my body and it still scares me.  Every time I smell incense I struck by that fear like a slap across the face.  


The only thing stronger than my fear of incense became my love for Mass.  


I suppose I should consider myself lucky, because my allergy took so long to develop, but also because it could have been so much worse.  I also consider myself cursed because so many people are unwilling to sacrifice so that I may attend Mass.  I lived in a small Catholic College community for four years- and because they prized their traditional Latin Mass with all the smells and bells, most Sundays I was unable to attend Mass at all.  I would suffer through my embarrassment and pride and I asked the priests not to use the incense and I got a myriad of answers ranging from, "Try and if you get sick leave", "Suffer through it," and "If you are sick then your obligation to go to Mass is over so don't worry about it."  What all of these priests failed to realize that my desire to be in Church did not waiver because of incense- it fueled it.  


I would make myself sick, trying to be close to God while avoiding incense.  I would hide in the hallway or just outside the back door.  One time I sat outside my Church in a storm that eventually became a small hurricane but if I was anywhere near the doors of the Church I became sick.  If I was in a Church that had used incense any time in the previous 48 hours I would be sick.  If I ran out while it was coming in, I would usually be sick but if I got medication quickly and got away from the incense I could stop the symptoms from progressing.  


I suppose everyone gets labeled during college but while some people could boast being known for being really great at something or by who they were related to, I became known as "that girl who doesn't like incense" or "that crazy chick who is allergic to being Catholic."  Some of my non-Catholic friends outside of my community laughed and told me I had chosen the wrong religion and I tried to laugh with them after all, I did not choose to be this way.  The worst part of being there during college is that some people had the audacity to tell me that it was all in my head and that I was making it up.  I would like to say I was a silent martyr, but I have never managed silence or martyrdom and instead I became very angry.  Angry with my fellow parishioners.  Angry with the priests.  Finally I became angry with God.  


I wasted time being angry with Him, blaming God for making it so hard to be Catholic, and so hard to practice my religion in Christian unity of the Mass.  It took years and lots of spiritual direction to move past that anger and move on to acceptance.  Years of avoiding the chance of having an allergic reaction again, trying to find an answer.  I prayed for a miraculous recovery but it never came.  I was very fortunate to have great support from my mother, godmother, and some of my close friends in college.  (What I didn't know then was that I was the first of my female relatives to have this allergy, albeit mine is still the worst of us.)  Together with them I tried allergy medications that I could take in advance but they gave me worse reactions than the incense.  We did research into hypo-allergenic incense and discovered that what might work for one person rarely works for another.  I had painful skin tests done to see what I was allergic to and discovered that pretty much everything in incense will give me a reaction.  I found support groups online from other Catholics with my problem but none of them seemed to have an answer.  I traveled to other Catholic Churches but they frequently used incense to.  It was heartbreaking news but I finally accepted the fact that I would not be able to practice my faith as I wished.  After a while I gave up on trying to find a cure, which left me the one sole Catholic in a small town in Florida who was unable to celebrate with the rest of the community.  On Holy Days and Feast Days I would hide in my room, embarrassed to go out in public because of the judging looks I would receive from people who did not know.  Sometimes I would try to go to Mass and then run out of Church when I saw the thurible*.  Afterwards I would laugh that I had decided to become pagan at the beginning of Mass- most people would laugh with me, but I became very tired of the endless sympathetically condescending comments, recommending different ideas that I had already tried.  Finally I grew tired of explaining.  

My senior year of college, our Bishop put a new priest on campus to be in charge of the parochial ministries and the actual building of the Church, a generally unpopular move.  This priest was unaffiliated with the school and was immediately labeled as the "Bishop's man."  I suppose it was unkind of me to go above the heads of the school priests but I was desperate for one thing- I wanted to go to my baccalaureate mass and so I wrote him a letter, begging for abstinence from the use of incense.  He was shocked.  Shocked at my allergy but even more shocked that I had been unable to attend Mass and immediately instituted a school policy that the first Mass of every Sunday would be incense free.  He also ensured that no incense would be used in the Church for two days before the Mass was held and for the first time since that trip in an ambulance I did not feel like a freak.  I was so happy I could have kissed him.  Instead I put that enthusiasm to good use by not biting off the heads of some of my fellow graduates who grumbled that incense would not be used at our "Traditional Catholic School" for our Baccalaureate mass.  And then I moved to Texas. 


I would like to say that when I went about choosing my parish I took such things as location, or family, or music, or ministry into consideration.  No, the one thing in my mind was incense.  It was really nice that after four years as being known as "the girl who runs out of church" or "that chick who went to the ER in an ambulance freshman year" to not be known by something I had no control over.  By the time I graduated almost everyone in our small community knew about my allergy.  I basked in my ability to go to Mass without fear here.  I loved my pastor because he never used incense and rarely used scented oils.  It felt good to be Catholic again and it was nice to not live in the fear of the past.  


Now I find myself having the same problems that I had in college again because some people just do not care.  When my parish changed pastors I took him aside and told him about my allergy and questioned him about Christmas Mass.  He told me which mass would not have incense and then changed his mind, leaving me to run out of Church.  I thought I had overcome my anger but this year I was provided with fresh bitterness and I was reminded how weak, and how dangerously close to sin, I am.  


I have found exactly two priests who have willingly altered their masses so that I could attend.  I have found endless support from my family and friends over this issue, but I feel guilty burdening them every time I run out of Mass.  I feel like just one person again- one lonely, broken, little person lost at sea.  I know Jesus did not promise to make my life easy, only that he would never leave me.  I know I am just one person, but I am just one person that God loves and believes that I am more than this allergy.  I am just one person who loves God.  I am just one person who absolutely adores being Catholic.  I am just one person who understands that in most cases, the use of incense is not required.  I am just one person without another option.  I am just one person who is being denied the ability to practice my faith because of my allergy.  I am just one person who might have been lost because of my anger.  And I am just one person who is speaking up because I finally can.  

*These are thuribles.  They can also be called censers but the Catholic censers are known as thuribles.  

New Year's Resolution for 2012

So these are my 2012 New Year's Resolutions.  I know... I'm a little behind.  I accidentally published them LAST January but I thought it would be fun to share with you my progress.  

1.) Make a crowd do something.

Yes, but does it count if the "crowd" was my family?  Just kidding.  I got a crowd of guys to dance with me on my birthday.  It was very amusing.

2.) Talk to a complete stranger that I find attractive.

Yes, Penney made me do it.  It really is amazing how many of these resolutions were checked off because of the Fed. 

3.) Go out on a date.
Depends- I got set up something like five times, so... 
Actually, I did go out on a date.  A couple even.  With my Daddy, with my goddaughter, and with my sanity.  I think that last one was my favorite.   

4.) Make someone laugh without the use of potty humor, self deprecation, brothers, or smalls.

Yes, I stopped talking for a week altogether and it cracked Fr. Paul up, and anyone within the vicinity every time. 

5.) Get a job that I don't hate after three months.

For the most part I managed this.  Of course I had to go through three months of five different job offers first. Discerning is hard. 

6.) Keep a plant alive for more than a year.

Barely, my bamboo.  It's alive.  So is my orchid.  The bamboo still looks pretty.  The orchid has not behaved since I brought him home.

7.) Write more than ten blog posts in a month.

Ha! No.  If anything my blog post count has gotten worse over the course of 2012.

8.) Keep all my Lenten sacrifices. 
Yes, I did.  Do I remember what they are... not really.

9.)  Clean Bennie out at least once a month.  

Yeah... ummmm.... no, but I did clean Bennie out. 

10.) Visit my parents at least twice.

I visited them once!  To be fair, it was for three weeks, so that should count for more.  My Mother and my brother came to visit me once too!

11.)  Forgive everyone who has wronged me and forget about how they did so.

This was a year of forgiving.  Unfortunately it was also a year of asking for forgiveness.

12.)  Make a new friend.  
Yuppers.  I would even warrant that I made a few... and lost a few.  It was a long year. 

13.)  Go to confession at least three times. 
The worst part is, I'm not sure that I managed this.  I didn't keep track.  I think that I did, but I'm not certain.  

14.)  Celebrate Mass every Sunday and every Holy Day of Obligation (including Easter and Christmas), without having to run out of Church. 
Well , I almost did.  Thanks to my favorite Fr. Matt, I got to go to ALL of the Easter Triduum.  That being said I missed three Marian Feast Days- I was sick in bed for Mary, Mother of God, I was traveling in May and I didn't get there early enough to talk to the Sacristan (but I got to go to Mass in Roswell- of course it was by sitting by the side door), and in early December Karina turned off my alarm clock so I missed the early Mass.  On Christmas I got to Mass late and didn't get a chance to alert the sacristan, but I did get to stand outside and listen to the homily.  Unfortunately I got really cold and sick.  

15.)  Be a good example and live by all the standards I have.
This is a hard one.  I don't know if I have been a good example.  I got my first speeding ticket.  I was pulled over twice (once for a broken tail light). I blew up at a friend for being a closet racist.  I don't know if I've been a good example... but I got a new godchild. 

16.)  Get my blog counter up to 2400 before my 24th birthday. 
Just barely, but I did it.  Current count... I'm not sure.  I think it is better when I don't look. 

17.)  Write at least one blog post about each of my immediate family.

Hehe, yeah, um no.  

18.)  Write a blog post about funny things that happened every year of my life.

See #17 for that answer.

19.)  Have a resolution for every year of my life (i.e. 24 at the end of January).

Yippers.  Okay, that wasn't so hard.

20.)  Find someone to keep my hands warm. 
Yeah, this one totally didn't work.  I tried a couple times... but it really just made my head hot... not my hands.

21.)  Not argue with Jip about frivolous things.

This was largely due to the fact that I haven't really seen him. 

22.)  Smile more and put a smile on someone else's face every day.
I have succeeded at this regularly.  I make people laugh ALL the time at work.

23.)  Finish writing a book.  
Ummm, yeah, no.  

24.)  Finish reading a book.
Ummm... I did.  I'd rather not admit which book it was.  Just kidding.  I finally finished Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist.  It was rather good... I'm never going to read it again.  
*Get your mind out of the gutter.

New Year's Resolutions

I know what you're going to say.  It's been 22 days Gabbie- New Year's has long since come and gone- most people have already given up their Resolutions and returned to their old ways- in short, Gabbie darling, you've missed your chance.  However that is not entirely true.  I could argue that the "New Year"
could also apply to the Chinese New Year (which is tomorrow- year of the dragon) or the Liturgical New Year which isn't until Easter, but either way the point is moot.

This is largely because I made my resolutions weeks ago.  I'm really only writing about it today because of the 24 point list (one for every year that you've been blessed to have me among the living with a window seat) I have been unsuccessful in marking ANYTHING off my list... that is, until now.  I'll let y'all know about them as I conquer them... or maybe I won't tell you anything.  I digress, as of today I can mark number 12 off my list- make a new friend.  Now there are only 23 to go...

whoops

Success is not measured only by your ability to accomplish something but also by how you go about doing it.  Once upon a time success for me was achieving a goal on my own in the fewest steps, with little (if any) assistance, and as quickly as possible.  Then I learned that not all things done quickly are efficient, independence can be a sign of pride (and therefore a precursor to falling), and few steps can also mean skipping important details.  In addition to these details, it is not nearly as much fun, or as much of an adventure to do things by myself, and we all know how I feel about adventure.

Today my friend Bernie called and mentioned that her headlight was out and she was going to ask one of her brothers to help her replace it.  Before I realized I had done it, I volunteered my warm, quiet, respectably boring, (did I mention humiliatingly healthy) evening by the fire in for helping Bernie fix her new minivan.  She asked if I knew how to replace a headlight and I chuckled that I had seen it done once... eighteen months ago... on  my PT Cruiser and not on a mini van.  Needless to say I left out most, if not all, of those details.  I quickly checked with Tio if he was willing to be my backup plan if I found myself in over my head, and then volunteered us both for the job.  Little did Bernie know what I was getting all three of us into... did I mention that she loves me- and as a result she does not mind when I drag her along for little adventures occasionally?  All I can say is that at least this time it did not involve a bog monster- don't ask.

So out to the minivan, in the dark she and I went, alternating holding her ten-month-old, the flashlight, and a screwdriver.  Hmmmmm... hmmmm... hmmmmm.... next time I should bring a step-stool.  Finally I managed to loosen a dark, plastic piece that bore a striking resemblance to the top of an apple juice carton that protected the light from water.  About two minutes later I realized it was the wrong light.  Note to self: next time double check that I am removing the right light.  To be fair, there were three lights on each side, and I only managed to remove the plastic water protector piece from one of the front lights, and not the turn signal.  Now I feel stupid.  After five minutes of fumbling around in the dark (largely because I am not quite tall enough to see that part) I put it back and realized that I could not get to the right piece because of several superficial, aesthetic pieces covering the engine and at least one metal piece that served a purpose, but I could not tell you what that purpose was other than giving me a headache, and so we called on Steven.  Steven came out and looked at it for a few minutes and said, "I doe know... to the INTERNET!" I stifled a laugh and grinned like an idiot as I thought, "and all the kings horses and all the kings men, could not put Bernie's car together again.  To the Internet Tonto."

Fifteen minutes later we took apart part of the engine.  Okay, we took apart part of the plastic facade and part of the front light.  Okay, Tio took apart part of the plastic facade with plastic bolts and screws and the front light and I helped, but it was worth it.  Ten minutes after that we managed to get the juice cap off and after several attempts we pulled out what I think was a mangled paper clip and the mutinous light bulb.  Ahahahahaha, success!  Then we pulled out the light bulb that Bernie had already purchased (with the help of several Wally world employees) and got ready to replace it.  Three seconds later we realized it was not going to fit and we had the wrong light bulb.  So off to the store we went- Bernie, baby, Bennie, and me.

Baby, gracefully fell asleep three seconds later.  Also worthy of note- I used to think that people who went out in public wearing visible sweatshirts under over-sized denim jackets looked stupid.  Today I realized that there is nothing stupid looking about being warm.  Into the Wally world we marched, returned the wrong light, got the new light (with no help, I might add), juggling baby, old light, and new light, and were out again in ten minutes flat.  Tee-hee-hee.

Then we returned home and put the car back together again, only forgetting to put one piece back (and therefore having to backtrack a few screws) once, and only scratching our head wondering what happened to two of the plastic screws for a few minutes.  Then we were all done and I was very happy, not because the job was done, but because for some, success is the reward of accomplishment.  I did not manage to fix it by myself, but I got to help and that is worth far more than a two minute, quick fix, efficiently effective could ever be.  For the record, we decided that the missing pieces were never there to begin with as both the nuts and bolts disappeared in the process.  I might accept that it was possible that we could have misplaced one or two things in the process, but not two of each evenly.  After all, even the gremlins do not take things in pairs.

My "Loving" brother

I love my brother Jip.  I've loved him since he was born (an event that I do not recall with clarity).  I loved him when he broke a window trying to sword fight with a mop staff against Danny, and we all got in trouble.  I loved him when he showed me how to jump off the top bunk but failed to mention that there is always a proper way to land and I ended up going to the Emergency Room with what my Mother assumed (from my screaming and my refusal to walk- because of the pain) was a broken ankle.  I loved him when he used to charge at me with his backpack and chase me down the sidewalk until Mother rescued me.  I loved him when he used to ask if every boy in my class was my boyfriend- within earshot of said boys.  I loved him when he cut in on my first real dance with a real boy who really asked me without bribery or threats from any of my brothers.  I loved him when he flirted with my friends in Elementary School... and Junior High... and High School... and college... and I'm sure he would now if he knew any of my friends.  I loved him when he convinced me to spend New Year's Eve watching all the Home Alone movies with a 12 pack of Mike's, salsa and chips.  I loved him when he came to visit me in college and I didn't see him except when he arrived and when he left.  I loved him when he asked every guy he met at my college if he ever liked me and warned them to never try to date me because he had seen me in the morning and there was not enough therapy in the world to get over that kind of scare.  Oh yes, I love my brother Jip.  I love him so very much, but lest you think that every one of my embarrassing stories growing up stemmed from something he did on purpose, tried to do, or accidentally did with flair- let me set the record straight, that it might not be all his fault.

I remember the early months of 91 with some fleeting memories.  Mostly I remember searching in vain for the return of the stork to take back the wailing, stinky bundle that he had deposited unceremoniously into my fragile 2-year-old life.  I mean I was used to nuisances- after all I already had one brother, but two!  TWO!  Was the arrival of a second brother really to be tolerated?  After all, it was not long after the arrival of Jip that my cousin Carolyn got a little sister (I offered to trade- she said "no.")  I suggested to my mother that there was still time- we could try making him a girl and no one would ever know the distance.  I tried to help her out by telling her that Daddy would like another little girl anyways cause he already had Danny and Danny was boy enough for the rest of our lives.  My Mother, trying not to laugh, reassured me that there was no changing him, what was done was done, and that God had intended for me to have a brother and that I should be grateful.  Little did she know, I threw a mini tantrum at God that day and set to praying that Jip would magically turn into a sister... or a kitten- I was okay with either outcome.
My Father informed me that for better of for worse, we were stuck with him.  I asked him why Jip had to be so whiny.  He told me that he was a baby and that's what babies do.  When Jip started to crawl I asked him why Jip had to get into everything.  He told me that's what babies do.  When Jip learned to talk and right off the bat learned to tease me, I asked Daddy why Jip had to be so annoying.  Instead of the answer I was expecting- that's what babies do- Daddy changed his line to, "It's in the brother contract- look it up."  I've been looking for this contract for the last 21 years.  If I ever find it I'm adding an amendment- thou shalt not bug thy sister.
When Jip was still relatively small I went into my baby phase and played with my baby doll all the time.  I had named the baby "Princess" (a name I now detest) but despite my love for my doll, at the age of two I was incapable of caring for her properly.  My mother tried to help me- Daddy never did.  On one day while my Father was home alone with all three of his offspring I came into the room with my a fore mentioned doll. Danny was playing in his room and Jip was sleeping  in his crib.  I dragged Princess into the room by her ankle.  I ran her into a wall.  I think I even picked her up a few times and dropped her unceremoniously on her head.  My Father watched, thinking to himself, it's a good thing that's not a real baby.  Unfortunately for all parties concerned, as he was finishing this thought, Princess started kicking, only to reveal that not only was this not my Princess, but to add insult to injury, it was my baby brother, in my dolls pink frilly clothes.  If you look closely you can see his look of fear because he's so close to me while I look annoyed at being near him.
21 years later, Jip still loves to tell this story when introducing me to his friends.  Then he laughs, leans over from his massive five-ten frame, and gives me a side hug, saying, "And we've had the same loving relationship ever since."
Geeze- you dress a guy up in girl clothes and drag him around a few times two decades ago and he never forgets it.  In short, I love my brother, but I don't always like him.