Observations on Love

A friend of mine asked an interesting question on facebook, "How do I show someone how much I love him?"  My first response was, "You can't."  

Love is something that cannot be said.  Like the song says, it is more than words.  In order to tell someone I love him or her I must first show him or her that I love.  Don't get me wrong- I love to hear and be reminded that someone loves me.  At the same time actions can negate those words far more thoroughly than the inverse.  I believe that lots of people love me, regardless of whether or not they are actually aware of it.  I have a friend who volunteers a lot at my work (I work at a Catholic Church) and this week he referred to me as "dear"*.  

My nephew interviewed me a few months ago, asking me what it was like working at a Church.  I told him that it was a lot like being the hands of God here on earth but that being God's hands also meant that I got my fingers caught in doors a lot.  That is still love.  

I also know that small acts of love for complete strangers may me cry.  Some friends of mine carry around bottles of water and canned instant soup with the pop tops to give to homeless people on the side of the road.  My parish has been collecting food continuously for our small Farmer community.  And yet, it will never be enough.  

There are so many people out there that want to be loved and spend way too much time, money, and energy in order to feel love or something that masquerades as love, but really, if they tried loving another person, they would feel so much better.  Love isn't about receiving- love is about giving.  God is love.  And until you have God as your center, everything else will be consistently befuddling.  "Our hearts are restless until we rest in You."  

And yet, He still loves us.  He doesn't have to tell us- we just know.  So, the short answer to my friend's question is, "Treat them as God sees them... and God will do the rest."  

*In case you are wondering what my reaction to this was, I almost fell out of my chair laughing.  

Jokes by the Captain

Question:
What do you get when you mix Star Wars and Florida?

Answer:
Darth Gator

A reminder

Tonight is the last night of the year and I'm staying in.  It seemed fitting as I am exhausted and I have been running a lot lately. And yet I have much to be grateful for.

I have many people who love me and enjoy spending time with me.  I have a huge loving family that cares enough to tell me how they feel.  I have a cat that likes to get my attention by whacking my hang.  I have some truly amazing friends.  I have someone who likes to keep my hands warm.

Now patience has never been by favorite virtue but I would have to say, for tonight, that would be enough.

For now.

Let's see what 2014 has in store.

May God bless you and may He grant you many happy returns to this wonderful day.

Jokes by Captain

Question: Who in the Lord of the Rings Universe has lost all his legos?

Answer: Legolas

Please note: TGL figured this one out before he spilled the beans.

You are Amazing

You are amazing.
You are so beautiful.
God made you just the way you are on purpose and with purpose, planning, and commitment.
He has forgiven you before you have fallen and He has loved you throughout all the ages.
In all of creation He made special plans for you.
You are loved for who you are, all that you are, and everything you will never be.
You are completley, insanely, and irrevocably His. 
He claims you as His own and He is Yours.

The First Post of Advent

As most of you are aware, I give a lot of thought into my blog posts.  And by "thought" I mean "thoughts" and by "thoughts" I mean about half a million of them.  In that line of thought, I actually had some foresight about what I wanted my first blog of the 2013 Advent Season would be.  I was going to make it holy, and moving, and absolutely perfect.  Seriously, it would bring tears to your eyes.  Wilfred Owen, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and James Barrie would look down from heaven and smile with a bittersweet smile and they would all be touched.  Really.  Don't believe me?  Well, I guess we'll leave know now that you DON'T believe me.  Foolish unbelievers.  

Anyways, my point was, this was supposed to be about Advent- and maybe it still will be.

I thought about titling this post, "Cooking Adventures with the Gabbie Lady" but that would be forgetting the importance of the Liturgical New Year.  Instead, I decided to be honest.  Today is the day that most of my friends are meeting my new beau.  I know, it's an old fashioned word, but I aspire to be old fashioned in my language, if not my thoughts.  By which I am still referring to my intro paragraph.  *mental image of fleeing thoughts running away from a gigantic thought monster that is picking up the smaller thoughts and mangling them in his giant claws as he raises them to his mouth before laughing maniacally and-* ANYWAYS, where was I?

Ah, yes.  I was terrified.  While I was slicing and dicing tomatoes and avocados for a "Sasha and Me Salad" (directions to be included at a later time) I was imagining all the ways that they wouldn't like him, or he wouldn't like them.  And I'll admit my first reaction wasn't to ask for God's intercession (although it would take an act of God to make that group behave) but to promise everyone all the ways I would get even in the days to come if they scared this one into the seminary as well.  

I was very focused on my worries, instead of on my salad.  Don't worry, I didn't cut myself.  I tossed in Parmesan, a small tad of garlic, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar.  I tasted it.  It still needed something.  Why not some lemon juice?  That would keep the avocado from browning and it would give my salad a nice kick.  Then I tasted it again.  Still not right.  So I added more of all the addins including the lemon juice.  Tasted it again.  Grrrr.... not right.  I am not accustomed to messing up on a recipe that I INVENTED.  I tossed in some more lemon juice and looked down as I drained the last of the bottle and realized that this was not a normal bottle of lemon juice.  This was a bottle of honey and lemon used to put in hot water to cure sore throats.  And thus, I was very annoyed.  

That's when I decided that my focus was not in the right place.  In fact, I was pretty sure I was approaching the whole situation wrong.  And that is why I am writing about Advent.  This is a time of reflection, of forgiveness, of spiritual growth and of patience.  All of these should be most reflected upon oneself, at least in my case.  

And so I say rather sheepishly, Lord, thank you for allowing me to ruin my salad with honey to remind me that You are my rock and that everything else will fade into obscurity.  My salad wouldn't last a week no matter what but I'm sure the story will live on, if I were brave enough to tell it tonight.  Relationships are important but no relationship is more important than the one I have with You.  All will be well as long as I'm with You.  So thank You, for reminding me of what's most important, in this first week of Advent.

-The Gabbie Lady                                                

The People: On the Banks of the Rivers of America

I enjoy talking to people, but even more than that I enjoy being talked to.  If you leave me alone for twenty minutes in a public place I will know the life stories of at least two separate people.  Give me an hour I will know how their parents met, the names of their children, how they ended up here, and what they studied in school.  Give me an afternoon and I will know where they were born, how they met their spouse, what they wanted to do when they grew up, and every pet they ever had- complete with how they got them, what they named them, and how they lost them.  Give me a day I will know the name of their first love, a funny story about every sibling that they have, what they hate about their life now, and what they would like to do to change it.  Some people collect stamps while others collect cars.  I've even met a few that collected swords, shoes, records, scientific instruments, books, and even kids.  I collect stories.  It seems everyone has a story to tell.  Everyone has something they'd like someone to know but they feel as if no one is their to listen, or if they do have someone to talk to they feel as if that person doesn't understand.  I wouldn't be able to do what I do if people felt like they were always being heard. 

My favorite teacher in high school told me that there are a set number of things about people that just are.  Some of them everyone else can see but that you are blind to, while other things only you can see.  Some things everyone can see -including yourself- and some things only God can see.  I'd like to add that there are some things that only complete strangers can see. 

I met a very nice woman, sitting on the banks of America at Disneyland while we were saving seats, awaiting the eventual arrival of Fantasmic.  She told me that she was here for her one year anniversary with her husband, her daughter, and his daughter.  She seemed very down to earth and extremely conservative so I assumed that she was widowed.  

After a few hours of conversation (yes, the wait for Fantasmic is usually this long, but completely worth it) she mentioned her ex-husband.  I didn't say anything because although it surprised me, it was not unusual in this world.  Normally when women discuss their ex-husbands they are bitter, angry, longing, and frequently they speak with a tinge of regret.  She was unique in that she did not have any of these characteristics- instead she was just sad.  Still, I didn't ask.  Believe it or not, as nosy as I am, I don't actually like to pry.  I like to see what people want to tell me when I am meeting strangers.  

About two hours later when I was discussing that people tend to think I am older than I actually am (she had mistaken my at the time ten-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother for my son and daughter) she brought up that she had that same experience once.  I chuckled because I was seventeen then and I was pretty sure that was one of the funnier instances of mistaken age I had had in a long time.  

She said that once she had been mistaken for her ex-husband's mother.  I thought that was odd because she was very pretty, fairly young, and didn't seem to act particularly old at all.  She mentioned that someone at a photo mart had lost her photos and she had gone a little crazy.  I don't pretend to understand people who go crazy at stores but I didn't comment.  She said that they had lost her pictures and they could not be replaced because they were the photos from her son's funeral.  The son she had lost with her first husband.  The child that made it so hard for her to smile when she thought of her first husband.  Suddenly it all made sense. 

Sometimes I hug complete strangers.  Sometimes they are surprised and sometimes they don't say anything. Sometimes we just need someone to remind us that we are loved- not because we did something to earn it or deserve it, but because we are.  Sometimes we show our scars on our faces, on our hands, on our bodies, where everyone can see them.  But the worst scars, that cut the deepest and are the hardest to see and to heal, are the ones on our hearts.  

A lost art

For much of their married life John and Abigail Adams were separated due to the politics of the era that they lived in.  He served as a circuit lawyer, a congressman in Colonial Congress, a congressman to the United States, an ambassador to Holland, France, and England, vice president, and eventually the 2nd president of the United States of America.  Abigail, one of a rare few educated women, stayed either in Braintree or in Boston, ran the family farm, and raised four children to adulthood, losing several more in infancy. Throughout their courtship, and marriage they wrote letters.  Not the short, overly saccharine, snippets that you might just as likely find in a hallmark card, but long, detailed, enamored letters that say something better than "I love you.  No, I love you more."  Their love was communicated through hundreds of tiny details and carried across borders, oceans, and decades.  

In Jane Austen's, Persuasion, Frederick Wentworth goes out of his way to write a letter to Anne, asking her to reconsider and see if she still has feelings for him.  (Plot spoiler: she does.)

When my grandmother found out her high school boyfriend's mother had passed away, she wrote him a letter of comfort and empathy.  She hadn't seen him since he got back from Vietnam and she missed him. They were married shortly after that.  

I love letter writing.  I think it is one of the great tragedies of our time that the youth of today don't know how to write a letter.  Sure, they can all text a mile a minute, but how often can they write something in the proper format of a letter, let alone with the proper punctuation and grammar?  Can they even write something with thought?  

My best friend and I became friends through letters.  She lived in Michigan when I lived in California.  Then she moved to Texas and I moved to Florida.  Finally I moved to Texas to be closer to her and two weeks later she moved to Virginia.  (Are we noticing a pattern?)  The one constant in our lives, through boyfriends, jobs, weddings, and babies, has been those letters.  Whenever I have a bad day I go back to those early letters and remember who we were back then.  It is a joy to see how far we have come, and it is only possible through those letters.  

We need to break away from the world of instant gratification- of texting and IMing, and not waiting for any answer.  Sometimes it's the wait that makes the letters so much sweeter- having known that someone took the time to sit down and complete a thought process and make it look nice, in a letter.

Blast from the Past: The Pants

Most of my High School stories involve four young men: my brother, BFG (Big Friendly Giant), Bigfoot (my blond brother from another mother and BFG's almost identical twin), Nicky boy (my favoritest cousin), and Major (my godbrother and one of my oldest friends).  Those four created a lot of great memories and even more great stories.  This is one of them.

In the days following every party we ever had from Junior High to present, Major swore he wasn't going to spend the night.  Usually, we ended up with BFG on the floor, Bigfoot on BFG's bed, Nicky Boy in a lounge chair, and Major on the couch crooning to his pillow.  Somehow whenever they got together they never could get around to leaving.

At the end of one such weekend it was decided by the parental units that we would have an early dinner, hit the sinner's mass (the very last chance to fulfill the Sunday obligation), and then take everybody home. Amazingly, Major had brought a change of clothes with him (which was amusing because he always planned to not spend the night) so he didn't smell the same way he did when he had arrived Friday night.

Dinner was hot dogs and juice and like usual we were in a hurry because the fast before Mass was swiftly approaching.  As we were sitting around eating dinner, Bobby (my second youngest brother) made his way around the table carrying a gallon size jug of apple juice.  To this day I am not certain if it was an accident or on purpose, but abruptly the apple juice fell and spilled all over Major.  Major being a sensible sort of young man with a cool collected head and generally quick on his feet, immediately jumped up and started sputtering something incomprehensible but that I distinctly remember being very, very high pitched and very, very loud. We, being the sympathetic and loving family and friends, failed to rush to his aid but did find the comedy in the situation and therefore started laughing.

Major wasn't amused.  Yet, he still managed to march inside, change into his only other pair of dry pants and then proceeded to finish dinner with the rest of us, which was a mistake.  Not five minutes had passed when Bobby spilled ketchup on Major.  And the squawking continued.  

After we all managed to pick ourselves off the floor (it was very funny) Major took my Mother aside and informed her that he was now lacking in pants and we were due to go to Mass in less than an hour.  Mother, secretly being a superhero, reassured the poor lad, disappeared upstairs, and returned moments later with a pair of denim shorts.  This was appropriate attire for Mass in Southern California.  

Major left to try them on and returned in amazement that she had found his size.  Then he was curious.  BFG was too wide to fit into those pants and the next smallest brother was far too short to fit into those pants. Who could they possibly belong to?  Of course Major would have to voice this aloud in front of the entire group.  I saw Mother disappear.  I saw the her return.  I saw the shorts on Major.  And still, I could not believe that Major and I, who had a foot and half height gap, wore the same size pants.  And yet, we did. And then Mother told everyone. 

I don't know who was more mortified- Major or myself.  Either which way, I was exceedingly glad when he took them home with him and didn't return them until after puberty.  Ah, thank God for little miracles.  

Genesis 3:14-15

Dear World,

Sometimes I come across things that even *I* don't want to deal with.  A week ago yesterday was one of those days.  I was minding my own business and walking to my car to get my sword (ironic, I know) and saw a funny stain on the ground in the driveway.  "Huh," I thought, "That's a weird place for a stain."  And then it moved.



And that, dear children, is a four-foot rattle snake.  For once I did what any normal, non-Texan, would do.  I shrieked, I ran, and I didn't look back.  I ran into the house where my second Mom saw me white as a ghost (well, whiter than I usually am).  I asked her, "Did you hear me scream?" And she said she hadn't and and then asked why I screamed.  I told her because there was a rattle snake in the driveway by my car.

She walked out with me and ascertained that I wasn't seeing things, and then ran for the neighbor.  I stayed there and made sure Mr. Rattles didn't do the Texas two step out of there.  He wasn't amused.  Neither was I.  Lauren my Lauren came out shortly thereafter and kept watch with me while I danced around on my own, thinking I had almost stepped on him.

A few minutes later Mom returned with a backhoe, a shovel, and a super neighbor.  And that, dear children is how the four-foot, living, breathing, RATTLING snake that I thought was a stain, became, this.

My apologies for not updating the world, but it has taken me a week to not shudder when I think of Mr. Rattles.  *shudder*

Anyways, as you were.

A talk with the Captain.

I work in a Church office.  A Catholic Church office.  Most of the time I find it very exciting and some times I realize how very fragile a person is.  The worst part of my job is I can't really publish what goes on there which is really unfair because the most interesting things happen.  This is one of those stories that I can tell, largely because it didn't take place at work.

So the Captain is working on one of his religious awards for Webelos (at least I think it's Webelos) and one of the requirements is talking to someone who works at or volunteers at a Church a lot.  He voiced this aloud and I had an "aha" moment.  Guess who fits the bill?  *preens*

His brother, the General, already spoke with the Altar Server director which is great, but that meant that I got to talk to the Captain and be important.  So he sat me down (okay I was standing) and after a minute I asked him what were the questions.  He read it to me... all of it... and basically what it said was "talk to them and ask what it's like to do what they do."  So he asked me what the best and worst part of my job were.  I chuckled.  The short answer, for a very active boy who is absolutely adorable, but still only ten is the following.  

"The best part of my job is that I get to be the hands and feet of Christ here on earth.  The worst part of my job is that means that I sometimes get my hands slammed in doors and my toes stepped on."  

The Captain smiled and nodded somberly in that creepily understanding way.  He used to do that when he was two-years-old and a baby faced heart throb.  He helped me pick out my boots (I have pictures) and he used to run and grab my hand when we went ice skating, even though he didn't need the support but because he knew I did.  His gift has always been joy.

I thought about telling him more about my job, about the funerals and the Baptisms, the weddings and the the HDO, and a sense of panic overcame me as I thought of the coming week. 

And then the Captain smiled.  And all my bad days seemed to disappear.

I swear, if I could bottle that boy's smile, no one would ever have a bad day again.  

Close Encounters with God and Other Unbelieveable Things 1

Several months since the events that caused Austinites to turn out en masse for a non-music-related event, I think I can finally talk about it.

Several months ago the Texas Senate called an emergency session to finish discussion of the House Bill 2 that Senator Wendy Davis successfully filibustered.  The only item on the agenda was to pass the bill that would limit abortions in the State of Texas after twenty weeks (the point when they can reasonably feel pain), as well as raise the health standards of all clinics that offered abortions, while requiring that a doctor with local hospital privileges be on the premises during all abortions.

And the world turned it's eyes to Texas.  Living through the events I didn't realize how much people noticed.  In fact, I was surprised so many Texans noticed.  Along with a one friend, I went down to the Capital in my car, Bennie, to "protest" with my old purple rosary, the only clean blue shirt I could find, and greeting everyone I passed with a smile or a "good morning!"  There was no way anyone would have noticed me except for the fact that I was wearing an outlawed color on an outlawed day. 

Koishka, who drove down with me and aided me through the terror of finding a parking garage in Downtown Austin, laughed with me as we walked a few blocks to the Capital.  We passed one other person who was wearing blue and we waved a greeting.  She stopped us long enough to let us know that she had worn blue by mistake.  Koishka and I tried very hard not to laugh at the hilarity of her situation.  Imagine, how very embarrassing to show up in the enemy camp's color on a protest day!  Imagine if someone believed you.

Jovialities aside, I was really scared.  Koishka and I wandered around for probably half an hour before we found an older, retired couple, who were heading to the Cathedral to join a rosary walk to the Capital.  There we ran into more of our friends and at least in a group I felt a little more secure.  Once we got TO the Capital it was a different story.

Police and Texas Rangers carefully arranged for none of the opposing parties to interact.  Just the same I found out after the fact that the orange shirts (or those that opposed the Bill) were constantly being reprimanded for violence or threat of violence.  One news report stated that at least one had a jar of urine in her bag.

Blue shirts paraded quietly to the Capital while praying the rosary.  After that we joined together to sing Amazing Grace, the first verse, over and over and over again.  Then we calmly entered the Capital (and I was grateful I had left my purse) and then we continued singing in the big oval dome.  At several points I looked up to see video cameras inches from my face.  I tried my best not to change my expression but that was a bit unnerving.

Once we were in the dome I found another friend of mine who had brought her three small children, the oldest of whom was four and the youngest of whom was only a few months old.  Up until this point I hadn't been within twenty yards of the actual orange protest, but after we had been singing peacefully for several minutes, the orange shirts came up and began running around (and I do mean running and pushing and shoving) while screaming... something.  Someone pushed past and bumped into the four-year-old and Koishka and I positioned ourselves in front of the children, holding up signs with bluebonnets that someone had given us.  They kept pushing to the railing and Koishka and I traded off being in the front holding up the giant flower sign in order to keep anyone from running into the children.

Normally I would have been terrified, but not that morning.  For some strange reason, I had peace.  Around noon, Koishka and I departed from the rally and made our way back to Bennie.  Along the way, no one bothered us.  And all I thought was God is at work here.  

When I went into to work that day several people told me that they had seen me on the news and I cringed as I realized my Mother might find out.  So I went to the local news websites to see what they were reporting.  Several stations stated that the orange shirts outnumbered the blue shirts a hundred to one.  No one would believe that there were 2/3's orange and 1/3 blue shirts out there.  I was annoyed at the lack of accurate representation.  I was annoyed by the Bill itself because really, the Bill could have enveloped one or two of the points instead of all of them, and that would have been better than this endless circus.  I was annoyed that the orange shirts were being bused in but that the blue shirts were just coming on their spare mornings.  I was annoyed.

So my point today (and I swear it's coming shortly) is that it's voting day.  Get out and vote.  I'm not telling you who to vote for but pick a side and vote for it.  You can't backseat drive your life and then blame everyone else when you're going in circles.

The Gabbie Lady is the Apple Lady

One of the best parts of living in Texas is Apple Season.  Sure, apples are available almost all year but in the real part of Fall, in the deep part of Apple Season, we make Apple Sauce.

I know what you're thinking, apple sauce?  Really?  You can buy it at the store; it's not that expensive.  And you'd be right, but it's not our apple sauce.

At Sprouts, our local mostly organic, ultra crunchy grocery store, most of the employees know me and once fall rolls around they start asking when is apple week going to be.  This fall I discovered that they call me the apple lady because of all the times I've bought fifty pounds of apples and promised they'd be gone by Monday.  I don't think they believed me... the first time.

Then apple week happened this year and all was wonderful.  I bought fifty pounds of apples to make apples sauce and I bought twenty pounds of apples to distract all the small people away from the apple sauce.  It was a great plan, and for the most part it worked (there were probably forty pounds of apples after all was said and done).

And then it was slice em, dice, em, peel em- and then we discovered that Tia's new mixer will pull out all the parts that don't go well in apple sauce (seeds, stems, leaves, etc.) and there was much rejoicing.

And now that it's all done except for canning, I don't think I ever want to eat apple sauce again.

Adventures in ESL Class: History lessons and humility lessons

My students didn't know what they were walking into today.  Of course, every time that I lead my English as a Second Language Class, my students have an unusual day.  The lesson was the usual reading and understanding, but today it was about history- American history.  

I love history.  Once upon a time I majored in history.  I still love to talk and talk and TALK about history. Then God gave me a captive audience of around ten people, stuck in a classroom with me, and fifteen pages of a lesson on major points in the United States in the last hundred years.  *cue the malicious laugh*

Unfortunately, my laughter was short lived as I was reminded that although they were all familiar with the major events we were covering, not one of them was familiar with the proper pronunciation of the words. Factor into the situation that my students had also planned and impromptu Halloween party at the end of class and suddenly the Gabbie Lady had a group of adults (many of whom had grandchildren older than me), tired from the repetition of subject matter, frustrated by the new pronunciation, and salivating from the smell of all the delicious food that they had brought.  

Nonetheless, I trudged through the lesson, because if I showed enough enthusiasm maybe it would rub off? (This is usually how my lessons go and this theory usually pays off.) Finally, I was writing vocabulary on the board when I hear one of my students turn to her neighbor and whisper, "I don't like American history."  

And that is why I don't teach history anymore.  

Lost in Austin

I feel like I write this post once every season and then never publish it, so here's hoping I do this time.  Yesterday I drove into Austin.  I do this a couple times a month because it's not THAT far but it does feel like driving into LA and I would just as soon not relive that period of my life.  I hate driving in traffic.  

Anyways, yesterday's trip was a short quest to buy local honey in bulk.  Every other year I drive down and buy a gallon or two at around 35 bucks a pop from Good Flow Honey- which really isn't bad.  And given that it's honey, it's really quite good.  

Thanks to my trusty GPS (Gabbie is not Pleased... Seriously) I found the place with limited scenic routes and in an unprecedented half hour.  A quick trip in and two minutes later I walked out with two gallons of honey, still warm, and smelling DELICIOUS!  At least my car doesn't smell like dog food anymore.  Then I was headed home.

I was pondering on the joy of my GPS (a present from my favorite uncle and my godmother) when I got lost in thought on the name of my GPS.  I used to call him Jason (after the Red Power Ranger) but on a recent trip my old college roommates dubbed her "Jazzy" and the name has stuck.  I decided that since I had gotten myself there I could get myself back and therefore didn't need to use the GPS.  Big mistake. 

It was not long after I got lost in thought that I got physically lost in Austin.  Never was there a more convoluted, badly named, intertwining, and never unwinding group of roads.  Gabbie was not pleased. 

After wandering around in figure eights for forty-five minutes I gave up, pulled over to the side of the road, popped a pop, turned Jazzy back on, and had a long conversation with God on my hour ride home.  And it wasn't that bad. 

It wasn't until I managed to get home that I realized, if I hadn't gotten lost and gone in circles, I wouldn't have spent an hour talking to God.  Sure, I started out complaining about Texas roads and Texas drivers, but then I was laughing and smiling and enjoying the morning, cause after all, my car smelled like honey.  Maybe God puts us in situations that we have to turn to Him in order to remind us that we CAN turn to Him?  Maybe this is His way of bringing us closer to Him?  Maybe everything does happen for a reason, and the reason is Him?  Or maybe I just got lost in Austin?  Yeah, sure, maybe.  But not likely.

Letters to God

Dear God,
Today was a bad day. Bennie wouldn't start, Alloysius wouldn't start, my phone turned off, my txtag account locked me out, and then Bennie wouldn't work again; did You have to send that flying cockroach? And did You have to make me slip on it when I stomped on it?
Sincerely, Gabrielle

Rejoice in the Lord Always

Lately I've been thinking a lot about joy.

Last night I was blessed to be able to attend Mass with the Legion of Mary of the Diocese of Austin.  This Mass might be in my top five favorite Masses ever- the music was great, the homily was short (and bilingual), the readings were relevant, and every thing was about Mary.  Mary has been a big part of my life but the most important thing I have learned from Mary was to be joyful in the Lord.  You always hear about Mary being joyful... except during the Crucifixion of Christ.  

King David showed his joy by dancing before the Lord.  Saint Cecilia showed her joy by singing.  My best friend shows her joy by dancing and my other best friend shows her joy by making cheesy jokes.  My youngest goddaughter shows her joy by smiling her less than toothy grin while trying to hand me a lizard I didn't know she was carrying.  Joy has so many different faces, but the one similarity I have found is that true joy comes with love of God.  

That is why I think I have a new life goal- to make myself as small as possible so that the Holy Spirit can shine through me and be God's joy in the world.  

And that is Gabbie's thought for the week.

Why didn't I just stay in bed?

I ran into the triangle bell.
I slipped into the door.
I bumped into the step into the office.
I trip on the floor.
I fell in the hole in the backyard.
I caught myself on a log.
I thought I was doing much better
And then I stepped on the dog.

There are some days (in so many ways)
That I think I'm doing better than I said
And then there are times I wonder
Why didn't I just stay in bed?

The Rose

I prayed the rosary all the way home tonight. There is a wonderful storm going on outside; it is one of the worst storms I have encountered since moving to Texas.  In fact, it's worst than all but two other storms I've encountered, and one of them was Hurricane Katrina in 2005.  Under normal circumstances I would've been terrified, but then again, this has been hardly a normal two weeks.  

In my youth I was instructed to never pray the rosary while driving as such things have brought upon many an accident in female predecessors in my family.  If my people had been the first to discover America, I'm fairly certain they would have been so focused on their beads that they well might have missed the continent until they ran aground.  Until now, I have heeded this warning carefully, but I was afraid.  

I was afraid that if I didn't say my rosary in the car that I would forget and if I forgot I would miss the last day of my novena, and I really didn't want to miss the last day.  Nine days and half an hour ago (it's just after midnight), our side lost a beautiful soul to Paradise.  Her name was Rosie.  

It's not the first time I've lost someone who I think died too young, but I have come to know that this is something that never gets easier.  Since I know that I cannot travel to her funeral I resolved to pray for her for nine days, as a Mexican tradition I found in a book, in order to guide her soul through purgatory.  Yesterday was my last day and although I miss her I am at peace.

I suppose it is unfair to say that I was not at peace before either.  After all, I have known for almost two months that she was very ill and not long for this world.  They doctor's gave her two weeks in early August and I found out through facebook.  I met Rosie in our early teens; she changed my life.  I haven't seen her since those summers together but she has never been forgotten by me. 

When I found out she was ill I became very angry: angry with God, angry that someone so young- someone so good- should die.  I tried to make it to Mass so that I could gain understanding through God's presence, but I kept on pulling away from Him at the last moment.  One day I even made it to Church and left before Mass began.  

Five days after I found out I finally managed to attend daily Mass.  I was surprised to find out that it was the Feast of St. Rose of Lima.  St. Rose was a lay woman- known for her great Faith and her great beauty- an every day Saint.  I remember my Rosie loving this Saint, among many others and this hurt me more.  It was while I was sitting there, waiting for the sermon to end so that I could cry, that I heard the words I have frequently repeated.  

"Rosie will be okay- she may not live, but she will be okay.  There are worse things than death, such as not being close to Me."  It was then that I remembered that being drawn close to God was not a sadness at all- it was an endearment.  I cannot prove that I heard God speak but I will say that it brought me peace.  

Rosie was given two weeks to live.  She kept fighting for five weeks and when she died I was overwhelmed.  I felt like I was letting God down because I was sad.  I had been praying for a sign from God, to remind me that He was here and that He still cared.  That's when the thunder storms came to Texas, and they haven't really stopped.  A friend told me that God doesn't want us to blindly forget those that we loved when they die.  Another friend told me that now Rosie is at peace and with God and she is no longer suffering.  I was reminded that we do not cry for the dead; we cry for those left behind.

On my way home tonight, while praying my poor, beat up old rosary, I wondered why God took someone so good, who was saving souls, my own included?  Why not take a poor sinner like me?  And then I heard His voice again and I trembled.  He reminded me that we all have our purpose here and when our mission is complete we move on to rejoin Him in His kingdom forever.  Rosie's mission is done but mine is only beginning.  

Adventures in Spanish

My Spanish isn't so good.  In fact it is what I affectionately explain as, "me Español es muy malo."  Generally, this causes more laughter than I would wish, and an accompanying compliment or a great deal of patience.  

In recent months I have been given a great opportunity to practice Spanish, both in my work and in an ESL (English as a Second Language) class that I am co-teaching.  I am the only native English speaker in the class.  Fortunately all my students speak Spanish, so even when I do not understand what they are saying amongst themselves, I can at least follow along tolerably well.  At least for the most part.  I also try not to laugh at my students as they are learning and I am the teacher.  This is the story of one of those occasions where I couldn't stop the hilarity that ensued.

Mary is a great student.  (I have several of them in my class so I don't have to worry too much about anyone pinning this to one person.)  She studies hard before and after class and is an active participant, never misses a class, and always does her homework.

Last week we were going through some exercises of arranging a present tense verb into a past participle within a sentence.  What Mary said was, "Oh really?  Do I usually talk to you in your dreams?"  I turned about face and walked away before I started busting up laughing.  So did my co-teacher, Carlos, who prattled off something to her in Spanish.  Everyone in the class, including Mary, started laughing.  I was blushing terribly.

What she meant to say was, "Do you usually talk in your sleep?"

Reading the Catechism

A few months ago I began taking an adult education class on the United States Catechism of the Catholic Church for Adults.  I can honestly say that as a former CCD teacher, a four time godmother, one time confirmation sponsor, a graduate of a Catholic High School and a Catholic University, an employee of a Catholic Church, and the daughter of a ten year seminarian who married a woman who was living in a convent, it has been one of the most humbling experiences of my life.  Half the time when I am reading it I think that I need a study group for my study group.  It seems I can't go from one class to the next without learning some phenomenal new thing about the Catholic Faith that I have been utterly blind to... until now.  

Anyways, as a consequence of this I have taken to bringing my Catechism with me just about everywhere.  Including the airport.  

I went to Chicago a few weeks ago for my college roommate's wedding.  This is the part of the story that happened even before I left the Austin airport.  

I found my gate quickly but there was nowhere to sit.  Ah well, I've always been most comfortable sitting on the floor, legs crossed, book in lap- either watching the world go by or ignoring it completely   This  was no exception.  So there I was in the Austin airport, sitting on the floor, reading my Catechism, trying to focus while fixing my hair in some truly geeky knots.  

And then this guy walked in.  Since the age of three I have been vocally aware of how boy crazy I am, but for the most part I keep it in check.  Then I realized this very cute guy was wearing a giant crucifix around his neck.  For the record- protestants don't wear Crucifixes- only Catholics do.  I proceed to kick myself for leaving my gaudy cross at home.  

Then I realized I didn't need a cross- I had something better- my Catechism.  That's right, I used my USCCC to get a boy's attention.  Except it didn't work.  I thumbed through it, held it upright, flipped through pages, jotted down some notes, dropped it, opened it again, and just about threw it at his head.  Then I gave up.

I sighed, closed the book and was putting it back in my suitcase when I heard someone say, "Excuse me, are you reading the Catechism?"  
I looked up into his lovely blue eyes and preened, all the while thinking, *oh the cleverness of me* as I said, "Yes, yes I am."

And I proceeded to talk to him for the next twenty minutes until it was time to board our flight.  We talked about all kinds of things, my job, his school, Texas, AMU... and that he's a Seminarian in the Diocese of Austin.  It was a humbling experience.  This was particularly embarrassing until we realized that we knew lots of the same people.  

Oh well, next time I'll know, never flirt with a guy who carries his own altar server alb with him on a flight to Chicago.

The purse

This picture was taken on the short bus from the rental car to the airport.  Please note, the time stamp is off. There are four girls in this picture: Jilly-Bean and Absolutely Abby, and myself (we roomed together in college) and Leslie, who moved in after I left. I never met her until this past weekend when we were almost inseparable. After spending three days together I am reminded how very much I miss my college friends but not college.  I don't miss college at all.  

The reason I am showing you this picture is because it is the only one that shows the purse, by which I mean Leslie's purse.  Leslie packed everything she needed (except for toothpaste) in this purse.  She had two complete and modest outfits, a set of pajamas, a hairbrush, toothbrush, makeup and jewelry in there. You can see that her purse is smaller than mine.  I am in awe of this girl.  I want to be more like her.  And in some small way I'm glad she was there to share my room and my car on one of the best weekends of my life.

Little Miss Muffet

Yesterday I went to turn on the AC unit in the office.  

Sitting pretty on top of the unit was a not-so-small spider. I carefully picked him up (on a box) and carried him outside and gently shook the box furiously, taking care to ensure that he was no longer a passenger of the box.  A moment later I returned to the AC unit to turn it on and found the spider sitting precisely where I left him. 

I gave up and left the AC unit alone (after carefully avoiding the spider and turning on the , complaining loudly to Fr. Steve.  Father asked me what I expected the spider to do and I half screamed, "I expected him to do WHAT I TOLD HIM TO DO!" Father had the courtesy not to laugh... or at least not loudly.

Being a Good Example: Part Four- More than Meets the Eye

A long, long time ago in a galaxy not so far away a real snake of a guy raised his head from the ground, saw this lady out in the garden wearing nothing but a smile and said, "Hey baBEE!!! Eat this shiney, sweet fruit and you'll be brilliant!" And she was all like, "OKAY!" Five minutes later she had her husband doing the same thing because, "All the cool kids are doing it," and about five minutes after that there was an echo throughout Eden that vaguely resembled someone saying, "Oh sh*t!" Thus began the fall of man and the epiphany of clothing... and modesty. 

This is one of those posts that I really didn't want to write, but it all goes back to the being a good example issue, and it has been bothering me again.  And if the fact that it has taken me three years to write this post is any indication- it has been bothering me a lot. Fear not- I'm not going to spend three pages lecturing on why women should wear burkas or shapeless potato sacks.  

Let's talk about one of my favorite subjects- clothes. My fashion sense has never been terribly, well, fashionable. I am capable of dressing to impress when necessary but most of the time I just dress like... well, like me. I like embroidered jeans, shiney shirts, headscarves, and shawls that are three years out of style. I like big earrings and tall shoes and my hair is usually a whirlwind of activity. That being said I like to be comfortable in my clothes. Wearing clothing that barely covers what it is supposed is usually awkward and in constant need of adjusting. If something is too short you have to carefully stand up and pull it back into place. If something is too low you can never bend over. That's gotta be restricting. 

I know that everyone is different. Not everyone has to wear things that are no lower than four fingers from the collar bone. Due to my... curves... I kinda have to. I imagine that really tall girls can get away with showing more leg than I can as well. This might be because they are more graceful than I am, or that they just have more leg. I am infinitely aware that not everyone is me, but these are my rules for modesty. 

1.) I believe everything from three inches above cleavage to just above the knee should be covered for aesthetic as well as modest reasons (not that I don't believe I have a beautiful belly button- I just don't think anyone else should be pondering this fact). 

2.) I believe that fitted clothing is okay so long as it isn't so tight as to look like you were dipped in it.  

3.) I think that if it has "slidies" on the straps it should be treated as underwear and covered.  I believe that there is such a thing as conditional modesty- you wouldn't wear the same thing to church as you would to go to the beach. This is the theory that you wouldn't wear an outfit to go clubbing that you would to go sailing just as you wouldn't wear your Halloween costume (and in particularly mine) to Church.  

4.) Shoulders don't always need to be completely covered provided nothing is going to fall out of your shirt in the process. i.e. bathing suits should cover everything they are supposed to... and nothing should "slip". Likewise panty lines should NEVER be visible- just like I clothing should not be transparent enough to see through. Cause really, I never wanted to know that much about anyone, especially complete strangers. 
5.) Otherwise clothing is fair game.  Clashing, matching, shiny  dull, standard, outdated, and otherwise weird- not a moral choice.  Big earrings, little earrings, no earrings, lots of earrings- not a moral choice.  Long hair, short hair, no hair, blue hair- not a moral choice. Long skirt, short skirt, fitted skirt, loose skirt, pants- not a moral choice. As my roommate from college- Jelly Bean- likes to say, "There's more than a fine line between nun and slut."

I have lots of brothers, lots of cousins, and lots of friends who are, at the core, real men. And that is great. Guys were meant to be guys. God hot wired them to think that women are pretty hot stuff and vice versa. In one of my stupider moments I asked a few of them what they actually think when they see cleavage... or legs... or feminine curves in general. I'd rather not repeat their words but the gist of it was that their minds go exactly where you think it will. And why shouldn't it? You wouldn't give a tiger a piece of meat and then get mad when he starts to eat it. You wouldn't yell at a bee for climbing all over a flower either. It is what they are designed by God to do.

I've had people tell me that I'm just doing this because I am Christian and that I have a lot of obscure, outdated ideas because I went to a series of Catholic schools.  I laugh.  It's not about saving myself for my husband. It's about saving myself. It's about keeping pure what God has made pure. I know I haven't always been the best at that sort of thing. In fact I know that at times I have been downright awful at it. That doesn't mean that I can't grow from my past. And even if God weren't the reason (because, let's face it, he is the reason I do a lot of things) I don't want to be an object. I try to dress modestly as a courtesy to the men I know and the men I don't. I wouldn't want any guy to like me just because of what I look like. 

Yes, it is nice to be appreciated, but it is decidedly unpleasant to be oggled. Yes, fashion has changed over the last few centuries, but the male mind hasn't really changed since Adam. Besides- I like to think that I am so much more than meets the eye.