Old Spice

A few weeks ago I was in a restaurant, waiting impatiently for breakfast, intently focusing upon my book when I smelled something odd.  I looked up, caught some odd looks from other patrons, and tried to cover the the title of my book- Saints Misbehaving- and wondering if I should perhaps get a book cover for it.  There it is again, I thought as I smelled the familiar scent.  I got up to stand by the counter, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Maybe they had forgotten about my order?  Maybe they were having a bad morning?  I smiled at the owner as he rushed in.  Definitely a bad morning, I thought to myself.  I don't want to be a bother but a number of people have come in, ordered, and left since I came in and I was beginning to be flustered.  I found the owner, trying to make sense amidst my fluster, but every time I looked at him I had a strange feeling of familiarity that calmed me, making me even more flustered.

Did I know this man?  Despite living here for three years I still know few people and those that I do know I know so very well I doubt they will ever forget me.  While I waited for my mind to work I placed the smell.  I realized that most short, chubby, Mexican men do not resemble my Father, but this man was different.  His accent matched my Father (a rarity I assure you).  One of his employees called him by my Father's name- Gerardo.  I laughed to myself as I remembered asking my fourth grade teacher how to spell his name for my family tree.  She blanked and shook her head that she didn't have a clue- a first for her.  It made my Father laugh when I went home.  And then I realized what made me think of my Father the most. 

Every time I smelled him I was taken back to a time when I was very small and very young.  I used to wake early to watch my Father prepare for work every morning.   Some days he would sit me on the counter so I could watch and some days I would hide around the corner, peeking when I thought he wouldn't see me.  I would watch him brush his teeth, carefully pulling out the removable pieces that intrigued me to no end.  I would watch him meticulously comb his hair and then laugh as his thick, black waves went back to the way it had been before the comb.  I would watch him shave, or in later years, trim his beard into submission.  Last of all he would dab on his aftershave.  It is this smell more than any other that reminds me of my happy childhood and my love for my Father.  I was Daddy's little girl and that defined who I was long after I moved away. 

I have been a Texas resident three years now and I still resist the urge to introduce myself as Gerardo's daughter.  One of the best and yet the most difficult parts of moving to Texas was not being known by who I was related to, and no one knowing where I came from.  I couldn't say, "Oh yes, you must know my people from..."  Instead it was just me- just one representative of us all.  It was hard to be alone but it was good for me because I never saw myself as an individual before.  Moving made me see myself as a piece not a part of the whole.  Some days I still wish I was Daddy's little girl and that I had never left- but I could not be little forever, as much as I should like to.  And yet, that smell reminded me that it doesn't matter if people don't know who I am or who my people are- what matters is that I remember.  

And so I smiled and asked the very nice man where he was from- and then I told him about my Father and where I come from.  Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

A follow up to Just One Person

*I meant to publish this after Easter and I did, but for whatever reason the computer gods hated me and deleted it- therefore I am re-publishing it for my audience's laughter*

Had you seen me last night you would have watched a comically frightened young woman walk with trepidation into a Catholic Church. Upon reflection I am quite certain that I confused a few people as I stepped into Church, stopped, and sniffed. I'd take a few more steps, stop, and sniff again. I did this down the aisle and all the way into the sanctuary to the very first row. It has been more than six years since I was able to be in a Church during the Paschal Triduum. No one is better acquainted with the outside of Church doors than me. It has been six lonely years, watching and waiting, hoping and praying, wishing that I could come back in. There is an irony in the fact that until I turned eighteen I hated going to Church during Holy Week and I thought Christmas Mass was a bore. And then I went to college and discovered the many joys of being one of the faithful. Regrettably this was followed by my first allergic reaction to incense and suddenly all doors were shut to me.


When I wrote about my allergy and my dealings with the Catholic Church last January I was truthful. I have met few people who knew about my dealings with incense who have not tried to convince me it is all in my head or to suffer through it. Albeit annoying I can understand why they may be confused, but therebe confused, but there is nothing that makes me madder than people who try to fix me. I have an allergy. I have tried just about everything short of voodoo to overcome it. I haven't found a magical cure and I think that this is my cross to bear. I will add that after publishing that post I received letters- that I will hold close to my heart till the day I die. I love being Catholic but I think that the best part is the support we give to one another- okay, the second best part. God's kinda impossible to one up.


Yet I digress, back to my story. I don't know if guilt tripped is the right word, but apparently whining to God works because I found a priest who was willing to abstain from the use of incense during all of Holy Week so that I can be there. Halfway through mass I started crying when I realized that I didn't need to keep looking for the thurible. It was like coming back home after a long absence- I was one with my fellow Christians in Mass during the most holy week of the year. I was jubilant.


And then remembered that it was Holy Week and that it was almost Good Friday and therefore I should be mourning for Jesus' suffering along with the rest of the Catholics. Even though we know that Christ will


Yet I digress, back to my story. I don't know if guilt tripped is the right word, but apparently whining to God works because I found a priest who was willing to abstain from the use of incense during all of Holy Week so that I can be there. Halfway through mass I started crying when I realized that I didn't need to keep looking for the thurible. It was like coming back home after a long absence- I was one with my fellow Christians in Mass during the most holy week of the year. I was jubilant.


And then remembered that it was Holy Week and that it was almost Good Friday and therefore I should be mourning for Jesus' suffering along with the rest of the Catholics. Even though we know that Christ will rise again, He did suffer, He was betrayed, and He did die a most horrible death having done nothing wrong. A single drop of His blood is enough to save the whole world. And it did. And it does. Every day. I don't know how, and perhaps it's wrong, but this makes me feel so loved, and I feel peace.


Oh, and before I forget, Father Matthew Kinney, you are undoubtedly a rock star for helping me.

In Defense of Cloisters

There is nothing in this world so unappreciated or misunderstood as God or love of God.  If there were anything to run a close second in this quandary it would be prayer.  It has been said that “If you talk to God people think you are holy.  If God talks to you people think you are crazy.”  I am sure it has been said before but I do not think this is a fair.  If God were any normal person He would surely be driven mad by the sheer number of people who talk at Him without allowing Him to get a word in edgewise. 

Can you imagine anything so depressing as an eternity of listening to everyone else’s problems without the opportunity to try and help?  OF COURSE HE RESPONDS!!!!  Of course, like with any conversation, you have to be listening to hear the reply. 

It has been argued, and perhaps justifiably so, that the cloistered religious serve no purpose.  Unlike other orders that live to serve the people through educating, nursing, or other charitable works, the cloistered religious do relatively little.  It could even be debated that the religious do not have a purpose within society at all.  I say that there is a justifiable argument against the cloisters and religious because to the secular world they do not appear to serve a purpose, but that is just it, we may live in a secular world, but we are not of this world.  Our spiritual lives are as much a part of who we are as our physical beings.    

In any normal relationship a body must be acknowledged at the very least once a month.  To be a friend to a person you will probably want to talk to them more frequently than that.  A close friend you would probably talk to at least once a week.  Calling your family once a week is necessary to keep up a healthy relationship and to be in a romantic relationship- someone you claim to love and desire the highest good for- you need to talk with a person at least a half hour a day. 

A relationship with God is a romantic relationship because He loves you more than anyone and desires the greatest good for you.  As one of my religion students pointed out, if you are not talking to God every day you are doing something wrong as a Catholic, but obviously not everyone does.  Not everyone practices their faith as well as they should.  Not every remembers to talk to God every day.  The only thing worse than an eternity of listening to people and not being able to help is an eternity of being ignored.  Outside of one Poor Clare convent there is a sign that says, “Dear friends, during the following times we will be praying for you in chapel.  Please feel free to join us there.”  And they are always so joyful.  I don't think I have ever seen one with an expression that isn't jubilant or a word that is not kind.  For this reason the cloisters exist. 

Where half an hour a day is necessary to carry on a relationship with God they are there spending their lives prayer and most of their lives in silence covering for us- because we forget to talk to God, because we are too lazy to talk to God, or worse, because we forget that God is there.  They spend twelve hours a day in prayer (or more) making for twenty-three other people who did not talk to God that day.  Can you imagine spending your life praying for everybody else?  Is it possible to spend your days caring enough for the good of humanity, a people that you will likely never see in your life, that likely will not understand your calling, and trying to make up for your spiritual deficiencies? We may never see the good that their spiritual lives have done for our physical lives, but we may hear of it. 

When my grandmother, Marilyn was in her early forties she was widowed and had four children, all of whom were on the brink of their teenage years.  Her elder sister, Sr. Lucia, a Carmelite, had her entire convent in Santa Barbara praying for Marilyn to find a husband.  That summer my grandmother had no less than five marriage proposals.

Saint Therese of Lisieux was a cloistered Carmelite beginning at the age fifteen until her death nine years later.  She entered a convent that was less than sixty miles from the town she grew up in.  She wanted to be unknown but she became the patron saint of Missionaries.

A few years back my grandfather, Sir, had leukemia, a cancer that infected his blood and his bone marrow.  The doctor said that Sir did not have much of a chance of making it.  Several hastily written letters to a Poor Clare convent in Roswell helped improve his odds drastically and less than a year later he was throwing out his knee climbing mountains.

Now, scientifically I cannot prove that prayer changed the course of history, but as Stuart Chase would say 

"For those who believe, no proof is necessary.  For those who don't believe, no proof is possible."  

 I will say that in both of these cases without a doubt prayer was heard.  It may be said that I am too close to this situation; after all I have had many religious in my family and grew up making annual pilgrimages to a cloister three states away.  In response to this I would have to acknowledge that it is true- I do take this personally- prayer is personal, religion is personal, God is personal, and if it is not for you then you are doing something wrong.  

His Voice

When I was High School God and I would talk frequently.  About school, about my family, about my friends, about my enemies, about my poetry and my art, about dirty dishes that filled up the sink in a matter of seconds, about the boys that I had noticed but who never noticed me, about the things I enjoyed doing and the things I loathed, about the open sea and sailing boats.  Only on the occasional boring day did we discuss the weather.  

Some days I would be doing so many things that God and I would have very little time to talk.   I remember Him telling me, “Slow down, my Gabrielle, slow down.”  Some days I would listen and some days I would cry off, “Not yet, Lord; I still have so much left to do.”  He would persist and warn me, “Slow down, my Gabrielle, you’re doing too much.  You need to remember that You need me still.”  And I would say, “Not yet, Lord; I’m getting so much done!”  

And then God would lose His patience and say, “Now STOP this foolishness!” thus proving that there is a difference between hearing and listening.  And I would fall off my bike and up in a wheelchair for a few weeks.  Or I would get strep and tonsillitis and end up in bed for a few days.  Or I would get stuck in a hurricane and be unable to leave my room.  I would be stuck and couldn’t do anything but “stop.”  And then God and I would talk.  

It was all very simple as we would discuss everything in my life- but not the weather.  And after a few weeks God would let me know I had suffered enough and I would get better… or else I’d have a relapse.  And yet even to this day when I think back to those warnings I remember that through the ominous thunder or the echoing silence I would hear the distinct sound of God’s presence in my weakness- proof that He had not abandoned me even though He had helped me find my way back.  I would hear His laughter. 

Insomnia

The following was written in Roswell, New Mexico when I had no Internet and couldn't sleep.  It is being published exactly as I wrote it with one out take because my filter wasn't on.  I would also like to point out that it doesn't always make sense because my filter wasn't on.  Welcome to another view into how my brain doesn't work.

No bars can hold me.  No prison can break me.  No mortal may hold what belongs to my God.  My spirit is immortal and my death is a portal.  For the death of oneself is the release to above. 

My goddaughters are beautiful.  Two lovelier girls have never existed.  Unfortunately for their parents, they are a lot like me.  It’s eerie.  In fact their distinctive, yet recognizable, imitation of me frequently leaves me apologizing to their parents. 

Blue eyes and brown curls

A girl like me could rule the world.

I’ve been a mess the last few weeks.  I know this could describe me frequently but my soul has been ill at ease since a day in May when I went to the hospital.  Sir had surgery for an angiogram and to put in two more stints in his heart (the current count is now four).  When he came out of surgery (several hours later than expected) my Mother and I went to visit him and my Grandmother.  Sir was but an echo of his normal self.  As he drifted in and out of consciousness he was making jokes but this was not Sir.  Sir who has always been so strong and tall and loud and obnoxious, even when going through chemotherapy, looked so weak and pale and I was frightened.  How could the world possibly go on without him? 

Pale face but red skin.

Reminds me that true beauty comes from within. 

Of all the towns we could travel to for family reunions, why’d it have to be the one known for alien landings? 

As my skins aches from the sunburn I now suffer after spending several days in New Mexico’s 110 degree weather I contemplate that perhaps I would do better to take up spelunking rather than swimming. 

Fear is the most powerful motivator. 

A prose for Dr. Rommel, my favorite Literature professor-

From the other room I hear two little boys even breathing.  They are sleeping.  I hear one little girl roll over.  She is also sleeping.  I hear my sister pull her blanket loose.  She too is sleeping.  I hear my grandmother’s dog yawn in her sleep.  Amazingly, she sleeps on.  I hear my fingers tap dance across a keyboard- impatiently waiting for insomnia to abate.  I am not asleep.  Life isn’t fair. 

In California there is an utter fascination with cowboys.  It was only upon this most recent trip that I realized that it doesn’t matter how you dress a surfer boy- his speech, wavy locks, and dimwitted stare will always betray his true nature.  And I would think, “What is this strange creature?” 

Oh little bug on the wall

How I pray you do not fall

If you should tumble before they wake

You should be aware it would be a grave mistake

On the drive from Los Angeles to Roswell a great many things entered my head as the landscape flew by out the window.  Miniature redwoods on foothills transformed to flattened desserts disturbed only by the occasional black mountain in a matter of minutes.  Saguaro cacti arranged themselves upon adobe colored hills just in time to be replaced by rolling hills of sand stone.  The occasional city would find us just before we found the painted plateaus that lead to flat lands of hardy, green grass with the occasional confused tree who was really just trying to be an overachieving piece of grass by managing to grow just taller than the shortened shrubberies.  The sky was always blue and the sun was always bright.  The road went ever forward interrupted only by the descending night.  And through it all I wondered about the atheists and the deists.  I’ve met people who have said that God’s not really there.  And if He’s even listening then it’s clear that He doesn’t care.  And through it all as I watched the changing landscape pass me by I wondered how anyone could find this land anything but beautiful- and moreover, how could anyone miss that God loved us enough to create this. 

The Most Magical Place on Earth

Every one remembers the first time they go to Disneyland... well, unless you were under the age of reckoning... like me.  Yesterday I had the pleasure of introducing one of my childhood memories to one of my mature, young adult friends.  And it was very strange because before we passed through those enchanted gates she was 22, but afterwards she was (by my best estimate) only 5.

I will admit that it was very enjoyable to share all my favorite haunts with one of my Texans friends.  We rode Star Tours three times (and finally went to Hoth and participated in one of the great Rebel vs. Alliance battles), went on Big Thunder Railroad three times, ate more sweets and popcorn than I would ever care to admit, saw a few shows and even a parade, but under pressure the most exciting moment of my trip came towards the end of the day.

I was casually sitting on Disneyland Main Street, chatting idly with Katrina about what we should get for dinner, waiting for the parade to start, when she suddenly started spazzing out.  Please note that I do not use the word "spaz" lightly and I wouldn't use it at all except there was no other word for it.  She looked like she was trying to say something but nothing was coming out.  Her arms were motioning wildly but made no sense.  Her expression was priceless but kept on fluctuating between shock, ecstasy, and jubilation.  It was at this time that I began to worry that she was having a stroke or a seizure when the words "Nathan! Nathan!" escaped her lips.  Nathan?  Nathan who?  I don't think we know any of the same Nathans.  "Nathan Fillion!"  She pointed to a spot in the crowd ten feet away where there was a tall man wearing dark shades, half blocked by a menagerie of security.  "I just saw Nathan FILLION!" she sputtered.  Oh.  I looked again, wondering if there was any correlation to her stroke symptoms and seeing stripes when in a jungle?  Sure enough, I was wrong, and Nathan Fillion was walking by.  Hmmm... cool beans.  Apparently this wasn't the desired reaction. I am now pondering the merits of looking like a fish caught on dry land and how this would better portray my thoughts, but really, it's the most magical place on earth, so why wouldn't Nathan Fillion be walking down the street?

Keys

When I was a child my Mother was forever losing her keys.  She'd tie things to them to make noise when she shook her purse, or bright colors so she could find them.  Finally she resorted to giving her older children spare sets of keys for when she, inexplicably, locked them in car (usually with some well meaning small person's help), or lost them in the house (again, we were usually to blame.)  Somehow I never managed to have my own set of keys.  I'm not sure if this is because I inherited my Mother's talent for losing things or if there were mild cases of kleptomania in my parent's house.  Then I left.  


I was already in college and had no intention of moving back after that and for a year I didn't have keys.  Sure my college dorm had locks but rather than keys we had temperamental "key cards" that still give me a headache.  And then I moved to Texas.  And I had keys again.  When I returned to Ave for my final year in college I brought my keys along with me.  I hung them on my computer bag to sparkle auspiciously and lend a pleasant klinking noise whenever I walked.  I got silly key chains- a silver dragon which was eventually replaced by a fluffy Ewok.  My spare keys still have a Lego Hermione from Harry Potter.  Those keys were my ties to a home, even though I couldn't use them.  I never told anyone but those keys made me feel needed- like I had a place to belong.  I had a home that was safe and that I could enter because I had the ability to unlock it.  


Now I am going to California and I really have no need to bring my keys with me.  My house key and mail box key would be utterly useless there and I'm not bringing my car so I really shouldn't be dragging it around with me.  I know it's silly, but this is one of the things that I am most upset about leaving.  How can something so insignificant hold you back?  The simple answer is it doesn't hold you captive like a lock would, but rather, it sets you free.  

An old white pickup

"I am Raphael, one of the seven holy angels, which present the prayers of the saints, and which go in and out before the glory of the Holy One."  Then they were both troubled, and fell upon their faces: for they feared. 

Tobit 12:15-16

When I was very small my Mother used to tell me that God had sent His Angels to watch over us on earth, but that you could not really see them.  She told me that my sister was an Angel and my two grandfathers were Angels as well.  I took this to mean that they were invisible except when you weren't looking and that perhaps, if I were fast enough, I could turn around quickly and catch them before they could change.  I found myself looking behind me in mirrors or in the reflection of windows- always checking to see if they were there.  I can never be sure but as a child I was certain that I saw them once or twice.

Then I grew up.  And as with most people the end of childhood brought the end of childish fantasies but part of me still wondered if they were still out there.  I mean it makes sense... but perhaps we weren't intended to ever see them?  Or maybe we just weren't supposed to know when we saw them.


The first summer I was here I was convinced that I had a stalker.  I mean really- how many old, plain white pickup trucks can there be in the state of Texas?  Answer- a lot. And the all seemed to be following me.  I was so convinced that I was being followed that I told my family about it.  They laughed and said there were just a lot of white pickups around.

Then one fateful day I was driving back from the airport, stopped at a red light on a hill, about a mile and a half from my house, and the engine stopped.  I had no clue what had just happened and I was scared stiff.  The light turned green and I could only roll backwards and there were a dozen cars behind me.  I tried to turn on the hazards but I couldn't manage that either and sat there with my foot on the break and my hand on the wheel like a vice grip.  Panic set in as I called my aunt, but she couldn't come and rescue me because I had her car.  And then a white pickup pulled up beside me.  The driver asked if I was okay.  I shook my head at the middle aged Mexican man who reminded me of my Father.  He smiled and I will never forget when he told me, "It's going to be okay and I'm going to be okay."  He backed up behind me and shouted for me to let go of my break and turn the car towards the side of the road.  I've been driving that road for years now and I still don't know how we managed to get my old blue truck onto the shoulder.  Once my foot was back on the brake he came back and asked if I had called someone.  I nodded between my tears and he smiled again- that same reassuring smile that I knew I would never forget- "You'll be okay."

A few weeks later I got lost coming home.  Admittedly it is not infrequent for me to get lost but a white pickup appeared in front of me and I followed it.  Before I knew it I was back on a familiar road.  Another time I was driving with a few small children and I couldn't get off the highway because no one would let me in.  Finally a white pickup slammed on his breaks and waved for me to go. 

After a few of these happenings I told my aunt that I thought my guardian Angel drove an old white pickup and she laughed at my description.  I might have been offended except she told me a similar story- when she was in DC with her two eldest, one asleep in the stroller, and the other toddling next to her.  She got stuck on the escalator and couldn't get the stroller off while her toddler tried to keep up.  A man appeared on the seemingly abandoned subway station, lifted up the stroller and helped her off and then grabbed her toddler and set her down safely on the ground.  He asked her, "Are you alright?" and when she said "yes" he disappeared. 

A week ago I was driving with Tio and the blue truck stopped working at the top of the hill.  I climbed into the drivers seat and he got in front of the truck trying to guide it back down the hill so we could park it out of traffic.  Someone cut me off and I had to slam on the breaks- therefore losing all momentum.  I was wondering what we were going to do since Tio was having trouble moving it before when I suddenly realized that we were moving again.  I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Tio and a blue collar worker pushing the truck.  I asked him later and Tio said the man had just appeared and said, "Where do I push?" I meant to thank the kind stranger but he disappeared as soon as the truck was in a parking space.

All these instances weren't really miracles per-say- or if they were they could only be classified as little miracles.  Even so I don't think we live for the parting of waters or the banishing of demons- cause really, how helpful is that in day to day life.  I live for the little miracles- remembering my keys before I lock the door, making the yellow light before it turns red, slowing down and not hitting the deer in the road I didn't see.  I live for the little miracles because it is further proof that God is with me, my Angel is with me, even when I forget to look for him. 

Then he took them both apart, and said unto them, "Bless God, praise him, and magnify him, and praise him for the things which he hath done unto you in the sight of all that live. It is good to praise God, and exalt his name, and honorably to shew forth the works of God; therefore be not slack to praise him. It is good to keep close the secret of a king, but it is honorable to reveal the works of God. Do that which is good, and no evil shall touch you."

Tobit 12:6-7

My name by which I am called

I consider it a personal failing of mine that I shy away from argument with people I care about.  Perhaps this is because I do not wish to offend those that I love or maybe it is because I secretly do not believe that people will love me if I make my beliefs known.  Either way I have come to an epiphany I wish to share it.  

I have always considered my favorite books to be dear friends.  I have read L.M. Montgomery's Blue Castle, her Rilla of Ingleside, Patricia C. Wrede's Sorcery and Cecelia, and James Barrie's Peter Pan, religiously several times a year since I was fifteen.  It is a small wonder then that these books which I love so dearly also took part in my name.  Where all my brothers and my sister were named for my parents' parents, I was named for a storybook character: Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables.  I was quite young when I realized this and I'm afraid I came to much the same conclusion as my predecessor- "Anne" is a very horrid name, improved only by the small accession that at least it has an "e" at the end.  Still I hated it and a small part of me still does, albeit to a lesser degree since I stopped going by it.  Adding insult to injury my family took on the name of "Annie" as a fitting alternate for "Anne."  I supposed I liked it well enough once but as I grew I realized that the name no longer fit.  "Annie" was the girl I once was and I had long since resolved never to truly be an "Anne."  Thus began my search for a less childish name.  


I might have gone by any other part of my name but "Marie" and "Nicole" were out of the question.  Marie was too close to Mary Elizabeth, Maria, Mary-Pat, Marilyn, and of course, our one lone Mary.  Nicole was too close to Nicholas, my favorite cousin.  Add in the fact that I once had known a Nicole in grade school who I perfectly loathed and I realized that this name was never going to work along with any nickname connected to it.  This left me with a variation of "Anne."  But we already had an Anna as well as an Aunt Anne and an Anya (spelled Aine).  I even tried going by "Annamarie" at one point but someone said it was a veritable slap in the face to my parents not to go by the name that they had given me, and so it seemed that I was doomed to be forever just "Annie".  And then something wonderful happened.


My best friend, Bernie, and I met when we were eleven, but had been writing to one another across the country for a year prior to that.  She lived in Michigan and I in California.  Snail mail was tortuously slow and phone calls were absurdly expensive.  Eventually our mothers gave in and granted us access to that new-fangled contraption, email, with one small requirement.  Our mothers didn't feel it safe for two young girls, children really, to be sending our real names across the Internet.  Obviously middle names would never do because some malicious, brigand, intent upon stealing one or both of us away might still be able to connect us to that.  Thus came about the use of our confirmation names because as good Catholic girls we both had at least one of those.  


Bernie was taking the name "Bernadette" after a humble child saint who had been visited by the Blessed Virgin.  I took the name "Gabrielle" after the Archangel who had first visited the Mother of God to give her the joyous and sorrowful news of the Child she would bear.  Bernie wished to see the word of God fulfilled and I wanted to bring it.  


As years passed I began to go by Gabrielle more and more- soon all my friends had at least heard of my preference for the name as well as most of my family.  And then I began to hear the complaints- how dare I go by a name that had not been chosen for me?  I found it unfair that I should be required to live with a name that was unsuited to me- I had long since stopped being "Annie" in my head, though I never asked anyone to stop calling me that.  The more I went by Gabrielle the more I heard grumbles.  Shortly after my move to Texas I heard more complaints.  Why was I moving so far away from my family?  Why hadn't I gotten married or at least secured a man before graduating?  Why didn't I follow the path laid out by all my relatives and do things as they did?  My mother would say that this is because I have to make all my own mistakes but I don't think that's fair either.  I am my Father's daughter- I chose to go where God called me, move away from my family and take on an entirely different culture, because it was the right thing to do.  I am my Mother's daughter- I help children and parents learn to live and understand their learning and emotional disabilities and find a common ground.  


This morning while waiting for I don't remember what I realized that all these rumors flying around about my lack of happiness and all the recommendations on how to change my life were really all signs of how loved I am.  And then I realized that all these people whom I love wouldn't be complaining so much unless I was disappointing them.  I considered ways I could make them happier but realized that this would only cause me to be less happy, and I learned the hard way that you cannot make someone satisfied with their life.  From this I deduced that if I was making no one else happy with my life choices then I at least should make myself happy.  And my happiness is dependent upon not being known as "Anne".  My happiness is dependent on being at peace with God- being able to sleep at night because I know this is where He wants me.  I cannot be at war with my relations lest I spend all my time being angry and therefore not speaking to them.  I am happy with my role in life- with my work and with my friends- and no matter what anyone says I love my family.  


If you had told me this was the life I was going to be like now two years ago I might have laughed because this was not what I had planned at all.  I planned to be teaching, dating a fabulous guy, and working crazy hours, and maybe have a dog.  I had everything planned and very few things have carried over.  This wasn't my plan at all.  It's better.  

For love of nature

I know what you're thinking.  Hey LOOK!  A Bunny!  But why is it here?  And you'd be pretty accurate.  My twenty eighth grader religion students crowded onto nine benches were wondering the same thing when we had class yesterday.  These thoughts were followed by, "LOOK at the squirrel!" and "LISTEN to that bird make a flying impression of a car alarm!"  This was description was surprisingly accurate and they were all giggles until a few dozen butterflies dive bombed a few girls and a bumble bee gave chase to one of the boys.  And you know what the worst part of class was- this was one of our most productive, highest participation, and deepest discussion filled, classes ever.  I don't like nature today.