100 blessings before lunch

It's been a long week.  In fact it's been a long month, albeit a good one.  Either way though I find that too much of my time is spent being overwhelmed.  So I'm going to take a step back, perhaps not relax, and count my blessings again.

1.) Alarm clocks that work.
2.) Forgetting to set it.
3.) Beautiful children who did not scream at me this particular morning. 
4.) Not having zombie dreams.
5.) Warm blankets.
6.) Listening to history lessons instead of teaching them.
7.) Bird songs of the Cardinal, Blue jay, and Bluebird.
8.) Someone else's productive insomnia.
9.) Fun band-aids with Disney Princesses on them.
10.) Wearing black without Sasha seeing it.
11.) My beautiful goddaughters.
12.) Kleenex boxes placed appropriately everywhere throughout the house.
13.) Allergy medications.  That work.
14.) Coffee that I can't taste.
15.) Remembering my Lenten abstinence and keeping it up without reminder.
16.) Not ruining the split peas by setting them to soak.
17.) Cold midwinter mornings that very while show rain.
18.) Snugly baby girls.
19.) Not being the reigning adult in the house.
20.) Not going to the Emergency Room.  For two months.
21.) Snugly godchildren.
22.) Not having any emergency scheduled babysitting jobs for the past several weeks.
23.) The Giant coming to visit.
24.) Happy coincidences in a (*very*) small Catholic world.
25.) Impending visits from out of state family.
26.) The eternal gratitude of a little boy for my aid in his menial task.
27.) Surprise feast days.
28.) Keeping busy.
29.) Being able to laugh at my ruinous best laid plans.
30.) Listening to Saint stories.
31.) Brightly colored markers.
32.) Little girls' little toes with unavoidably bright colors.
33.) Special surprises for my youngest goddaughter.
34.) Deplorable cat.
35.) Being able to help 10... which is a rarity.
36.) New jeans.
37.) Being loved.
38.) The laughter of children.
39.) Thinking about baby gifts.
40.) Finishing part of Six's scarf... only two months late.
41.) Teaching myself to croquet roses.
42.) Six listening the first time. 
43.) Learning from my mistakes.
44.) Unsolicited voluntary hugs.
45.) Crazy random happenstances.
46.) Not actually being crazy.
47.) Not actually living with six teenage boys.
48.) Peace of mind.
49.) Hope concerning the future.
50.) Old friends that remember to call.
51.) New friends that don't seem to mind my oddities.
52.) Godmothers.
53.) Being loved so much that people fight over me.
54.) Loving someone so much that you miss them when the are gone.
55.) Being loved so much that people miss you when you are gone.
56.) Knowing when to give up and walk away.
57.) Not living with regret.
58.) Amazing hair days.
59.) Being short.
60.) Humility.
61.) My awesome car that doesn't look anything like an old time taxi.
62.) Not having to watch the Richard Scary videos with Four and Six.
63.) Time to think.
64.) A lack of suicidal squirrels.
65.) Hugs from Ten.
66.) Permanent markers.
67.) Eight's perseverance.
68.) Not being sick.
69.) A joyful singing voice.
70.) Noise canceling headphones.
71.) A blessed escape.
72.) Clean laundry smells.
73.) Not killing the cat.
74.) Figuring out how to spell Latin words in l33t.
75.) Flowers on the trees that foretell spring.
76.) A funny Boston accent that makes Four laugh.
77.) Well behaved car seats that I installed myself
78.) An un-whiney Six to accompany me to the store.
79.) Store employees who thought she was cute and not clumsy.
80.) No one seeing my goddaughter drop the loaves of bread.
81.) Noticing when she left my purse behind.
82.) The polite, unprompted asking of a free sample.
83.) Happy people.
84.) Kindly gentlemen who didn't step on mine or Six's toes.
85.) Getting home in record time.
86.) Funny pink flamingos to make me laugh- cause this is Texas.
87.) Not getting hit by the red car which I didn't see.
88.) Polite children.
89.) Not dropping ten cans of "frijoles negro refrijitos"
90.) Not being yelled out by Eight.
91.) Stealing the last of the lime rice.
92.) My own green cup, unsullied by morning cups of coffee.
93.) Understandable classical music while on hold.
94.) Kindly telephone operators.
95.) Not being on hold forever and a day.
96.) Yummy, albeit hastily prepared lunch.
97.) Questions about storybook characters that I can answer.
98.) Not screwing up.
99.) People wanting my attention
100.) Being loved.

Unsent Letters February 2012

My dearest prayer warrior,
   I suppose I should grow accustomed to thinking of you as Sister Mary Angela, but whenever I picture your delightful laugh, held within your mischievous grin as you raced down the stairs ahead of me to class, all the while calling back to me to remind me that I was a "glum slowpoke" I cannot imagine some cloaked figure, enshrouded with the mantel of a nun.  It's been seven months since you entered and years since you first told me that you were going to enter a convent and I remember that I uncharitably laughed.  Surely God would not call one such as you away from society, where you would undoubtedly change the world for the better?  Worse yet was the day when you told me you were entering a cloister and that we would never speak again, but I had learned not to doubt you.  Surely God had a plan for you and one still for me.  I remember being jealous because you had known God's calling for you for so long whereas I still seem to be floundering about in search of my calling.  I remember when we said good-bye and I questioned how I would get along without you.


    So many farewells filled that day but mine to you was perhaps the most lasting.  I know now that this is the life that God has called you to, knowing from before you were formed in the womb, that you would be his beloved, a true bride of Christ, but knowing this and accepting are not always symbiotic.  I know that if you truly love something you must set it free, or more importantly (and perhaps the same thing), give it up to God.  Anyone who knew you before you entered cannot help but know that there is a God, that He loves us, that He has a plan for us, and that He is watching out for us.  God brought you into my life to show me that much can be accomplished by loving every person as if they were Christ- you showed me that, my little warrior.


    I thought I had affected your life by sharing your days in school, but now I realize that you changed my life more by sharing with me your joie de vivre.  You showed me that battles, both in the world but also within the soul, can be fought and won through prayer, and I thank you for fighting for mine.  You showed me that farewell maybe lengthy but goodbye is not forever when God is at your side.  I firmly believe that you are the living embodiment of joy (if not always kindness) and I sometimes wonder if you are really Azarias?


    In this life time I do not dare believe that I shall meet you again, but in time I hope to meet you again in the presence of our heavenly Father.  Perhaps we can race up and down the heavenly stairs as we once did at University?  I pray no one notices us playing behind the organ again, but if God created you to be my friend, I am quite certain that He has a sense of humor and will not be too angry.  I miss you, my dear, and I think of you often.  Pray for me even though I know you will never get this.  I love you, my prayer warrior, my friend, my Lina.  And don't forget, hurry up, slowpoke- we might be late.
-Gabrielle

The Grass is God's Handkerchief

I love books.  I've always loved books.  In elementary school I didn't have any friends so I turned to the only things I could think of on school property that didn't get a choice if I was there or not- books.  Some I would read once, others I would read over and over again.  Like familiar faces my books became my friends.  From this crazy idea was born the convoluted idea that maybe I should study books in college.  After all, I was the only kid on campus to read all the books in the library by the fourth grade.  I was wrong.

My freshman year of college was a learning experience based loosely on my core classes.  As my Mother likes to tell people, I learned a lot that year, but very little of it was in the classroom.  The next year I became a serious student and really hunkered down to my major classes.  Half of my classes were Literature, and three of them were with my favorite professor, Dr. Rommel.  Standing over six foot most of the students on campus had a healthy fear of her.  She normally wore long dresses and tall heels and spoke using such terminology as "who is your audience?" "look at it through the eyes of the author", and my favorite, "dig deeper."  A few students called her "General Rommel", a joke I didn't quite understand a the time.

Some time over that year I realized that no matter how much I studied and how hard I worked, Literature was just not coming to me as easily as it should have.  What was even more crazy was that for as hard as my Literature classes were there was inverse relationship that all my History classes were a breeze.  Instead of taking a hint I decided to double major.  During my last semester of Sophomore year I took an American Literature class.  It was one of my smaller classes and I was the youngest student taking the class and the only sophomore.  I was the only one who ever did the reading, I was always the first one in the classroom and I was the only one who sat in the front row.  There were no men in the class and Dr. Rommel ruled that class like she did everything- an undying passion for teaching her students.  I was one of the few people who liked her.  She jokingly addressed me as "the history major" whenever she had a history question.  I rarely knew the answer but I enjoyed the class and I enjoyed trying.  I doubt I remember much of that course as a whole except for one class-  Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.  I didn't actually remember who wrote it or what it was called and I probably would have forgotten about it entirely except for one line.

The grass is God's handkerchief.

One might think that the way Dr. Rommel repeated his words and that specific line that our lives depended upon the outcome of this knowledge.  She paced back and forth, questioning us, prodding us, trying to get us to voice our thoughts.  Like usual, everyone behind me shielded their eyes and pretended not to notice as they studiously wrote notes.  I snickered.

Immediately Dr. Rommel rotated back to my part of the classroom.  "Well, what do you have to say?"
If I had any lick of sense I might have shied away, or try to become very small in my seat.  I didn't.  With her gaze she implored me to share my thoughts concerning Walt Whitman as tried hard to stop laughing.  Everyone behind me gave me warning looks, all the while questioning if I had gone nuts.
Remember, the line was "the grass is God's handkerchief."

Finally I managed to smother my laughter enough to voice, "Well at least now we know why it's green."  Every set of eyes on the classroom looked at me in shock.  No one understood.  So I had to explain.  No one laughed.  Except for me.  I'd like to say that I had enough self confidence to defend my position, to challenge their questioning gazes, to answer their stares.  Finally I had gotten the message and sunk down in my chair.  And I might have stayed there except for Dr. Rommel who stood up and announced, "Now she has a perfectly arguable position," as she continued on with class.  I considered her words.  She was right though, as usual.

After class I went to see her.  I was very confused and who better than my adviser to help me sort them out.  I told her that I never had a problem speaking up in History class.  I could argue against the most outspoken boys in school about the most ridiculous of subjects.  I could play devil's advocate to my heart's content.  I could do research and my research made a difference in class.  I never had to question my understanding of history.  With Literature I was usually lost in space.  I still remember what she said.  Just because I wasn't as good at Literature didn't mean that I was bad at it- just that I was better at History, and maybe I should pursue it completely.  The next day I declared my history major and worked stuck with it till I graduated.  I changed that semester.

Fifty ways to ruin macaroni and cheese

If ever there were a title for my unwritten biography, this would be one of the first runner ups.  It is a tragedy and a curse that the women in my family are usually inept at cooking.  When you combine this with our natural affinity to not follow simple instructions my brothers and I might have been doomed in the kitchen had it not been for the simple saving grace of my eldest brother.  The gentle giant that is my eldest brother has always been something of a mystery to my parents.  The giant stands at just over six feet tall while my parents cannot boast anything taller than five foot, five inches between the two of them.  If you inspect my grandparents the conversation becomes even more confusing as my father is the tallest member of his family by quite a few inches (my grandmother was four foot two) and my mother's parents weren't that tall either.  In fact, if the giant didn't look exactly like my father, except for being eight inches taller) one might question my brother's paternity (I sometimes wonder if he came from BFG).  In addition to his height, the giant has one more mysterious quality which we question- unlike the rest of my family he can cook.

Growing up he liked to experiment in the kitchen, sometimes with my Mother's knowledge.  We'd wait until date night and then we would have a party in the kitchen- the Giant would experiment, Jip would be at the laptop playing DJ, Baby would be playing, Boyo would be doing whatever it was that he did, and I would be on damage control- i.e. I cleaned up.  We would look forward to date night with the enthusiasm that most children would wait for Christmas because as soon as the parental units were gone we would have a dance party in the kitchen.  If the parental units ever discovered what we did while they were out, they never let on and never complained, so long as the Giant didn't go crazy with his creations. 

In person the giant is kindly, careful, friendly, and always a gentleman.  In the kitchen he is pushy, controlling, and orderly, if not clean.  We, his siblings, might not forgive him for his culinary tyranny if not for his creations and the constitutional rule that anything edible must be shared by all parties.  For the most part this worked out for as the giant is an expert at making pasta, seafood, casseroles, breads, desserts, meat and potatoes, salads, vegetarian, potpies, regular pies, cakes, cookies, meat lovers, porkless, porkful, soufflés- if you can think of it he can make it, with one minor exception- from a box, simple as that, macaroni and cheese.  

1.   1. Undercook the noodles. 

      2. Overcook the noodles. 

      3. Burn the noodles. 

      4. Scald the noodles. 

      5. Sautee the noodles. 

      6. Forget about the noodles.

      7. Set off the smoke alarm. 

      8. Accidentally leave the lid off and get dog hair in it. 

      9. Rinse the noodles too much. 

      10. Forget to rinse them at all. 

      11. Use goat milk. 

      12. Use fake butter.

      13. Use water instead of milk. 

      14. Use salt instead of butter. 

      15. Add chili pepper. 

      16. Spill in whole peppercorn by mistake.

      17. Add a chili pepper.  

      18. Wash out the butter. 

      19. With soap. 

      20. Leave the top off and someone tossed in a toy car. 

      30. Add the cheese too early. 

      31. Add the cheese too late. 

      32. Forget to mix the cheese. 

      33. Drop the package for the cheese into the pot.

      34. Drop the box into the pot. 

      35. Mix it in anyways. 

      36. Forget to mix the butter. 

      37. Try to mix the cheese, noodles, butter, milk, and hot water altogether. 

      38. Try to mix them all separately. 

      39. Stack them like a seven layer dip. 

      40. Bake it in the oven. 

      41. Forget the cheese. 

      42. Forget the butter.

      43. Forget the milk. 

      44. Forget the water. 

      45. Forget the noodles. 

      46. Forget to turn off the stove. 

      47. Forget to turn on the fan. 

      48. Forget to drain the water.

      49. Serve it up like crunchy cereal. 
      50. Serve it like soup. 

Now it stands to reason that most of this probably didn’t happen.  After all I am his sister and I have to rib him as best I can from four states away, but in the interest of truthfulness you must know I could not have exaggerated everything, right?  Anyway you can imagine some of the ways, and a great many that I am sure that you can’t, he can ruin macaroni and cheese with the best- or worst- of them.  I like to think that he has trouble following directions, like most of the engineers in our family, but he can follow recipes as well as his preferred method of making it up as he goes along.  The giant is the only person I know who can make a mistake while cooking and it turns out fabulously.  Most everything I know about cooking I learned from him and no matter how I try he could whip the pants off me in the kitchen.  It’s not fair.  And it never will be.  Except for the fact that I can make mac and cheese.  

And so we suffer through it, his chicken that is so amazing it almost tastes like pork, his spicy chicken soup that could cure any cold, his beefy casseroles, his surprisingly good lentil chip dip, and his beyond heavenly shrimp sauce.  Hmmmm…. When people ask me what I miss most about California I say good food.  I’m sure they assume I mean my favorite restaurants, but really I mean the giant’s cooking… with the exception of macaroni and cheese.    

Potato Salad

This was written in 2006 when I was still a minor.  I like to think that my writing has improved.  I'd like to point out that I was a wee bit crazy at this point.  I would also like to point out that it's still true.  Most people think of Valentine's Day and if they are alone they sulk and if they are in a relationship they stress.  Seven years later, when I think of Valentine's Day I still think of Michael.

How many times since the war started have we passed over the stories of a soldier’s death, or a civilian’s martyr? How many pangs have we forgone in the attempt to keep our own perfect little worlds from shattering? How often have we tried to shut out the darkness and the sadness? We need to reopen our hearts to the pain, so that we don't block out someone in need. Here’s the story of my wake up call.

Yesterday, Valentine's Day, my Mother was waiting for some sandwiches to be made at the supermarket to feed the throng of teenage boys that always seem to accumulate around her. A woman came up behind her and since she was just picking up four containers of potato salad my Mother spoke to the lady behind the counter to assist the woman first. In an effort to make conversation my Mother asked, “So, are you having a party?”

The woman looked at my Mother and answered, “Not exactly. My son died in Iraq on Valentine’s Day and all the family is coming into town today.”

The woman began to cry and my Mother went and held her tightly. “You know he’s in heaven now?” my Mother reassured her. My Mother continued to try to comfort the lady as the woman behind the counter (who didn’t speak or understand English all that well) watched on in confusion. The woman began to sob and managed to say, “I know he died doing what was right, but I would do anything to have him not be a good guy and still be here with me.”

My Mother asked the lady, “What was his name?”

And she replied, “Michael.” Apparently he died in transit going to the hospital and he held his rosary and he was wearing his medals.

Please say a prayer and then pass this on if you could. Now is not the time to forget and tomorrow isn’t either. Please continue to pray with me for our soldiers’ safety.

What they said...

The time has come, the Gabbie Lady said, for some funny recollections based mostly in truth of things that the smalls have said.  
"That would be like... great" -10, a long, long time ago. 

"Well don't grab the bottom, you dope." -GL
"I'm not dope."- six, when she was five.
"No dear, you are not." -GL

"I think you need some tea... and some sugar... and some stuff that goes on top of sugar." -six, when she was Five

"Oh no! Someone broke the little ball that SOMEONE gave me!!!!!" -Four

"Water is not air" -Ten when she was two after choking on water.

"Seven, will you ever wash my socks." -GL
"No." -Seven
"What if you get married?" -GL
"No." -Seven
"You don't think you'll ever wash your wife's socks?" -GL
"No." -Seven

"What are we having for lunch?" -Eight
"Cold mush... hot sauce... and the grossest kind of beans I can think of." -me
"Cool." -Eight

"And what was Christopher Columbus looking for when he set sail?" -Tia
"Texas!" -Four

"And Saint Gabrielle, pray for us." -Seven
*This one is especially funny to me because he does it every night.  I chortle and think, he's not talking about the Archangel, but rather the saint I am becoming.*

"You are all my minions." -Four
"No, you are the shortest so you have to be our minion." -Seven
"No, because I told you first." -Four

"See, those are dolphin babies.  Those are dog babies.  And those are elephant babies." -me
"Elephants don't have babies.  People have babies." -Four

"What are we having for lunch?" -Eight
"Jim." -me
"Yeah!" -Seven

"We saw a dragon egg today." -Ten
"You mean a Komodo dragon?" -Tio
"No, a dragon egg." -Ten
"An ostrich egg?" -Tio
"No, it was a dragon egg." -Ten
"How could it be a dragon egg?" -Tio
"It was the egg of an extinct dinosaur like creature... that might've resembled a dragon." -me
"I told you we saw a dragon!" -Ten

"We learned about how the sinks is near the period in Egypt." -someone else's kid

"Why do you think they are called beaded lizards?" -me
"Because they are always beated up." -Six

"Why do you think all the hippos have scars on their backs?" -me
"Mating season." -Ten
*What was better was that when she said this she said it loud enough for everyone in the room to hear and more than one adult turned and laughed.  I was not one of them laughing.* 


"Rematch!" -Seven *as they toss a lightsbaer at Joja J.B.*
"Ow!" *as it lands on him.*


"SHARKS!" -Eight
*while watching an educational movie.  I encourage the kids to ask questions and to tell me what they see.  Frequently what they "see" is not actually what they are seeing.*
"They can't be sharks because they don't have a dorsal fins." -me
"Finless sharks!" -Eight

"I'm going to give Joja* J.B. a lightsaber." -Seven, *"uncle" in Russian.*
"No, we don't want a fair fight." -Eight
*The little darlings were going to ambush their weirdest uncle when he came to visit.  It certainly gives incentive not to come and visit.*

"Manatee!" -Eight
"No, that's a Dugong." -me
"No, it's a whale!" -Six
"Actually they just said it's a Dugong.  It's related to a manatee and looks like a manatee but Dugongs live in salt water and manatees don't." -me
"It's a dolphin!" -Four

"WE can't attack Princessa Sarah* or the baby but Joja J.B. is fair game." -Seven
*Their favorite name for their prettiest aunt.*

"What are we eating for lunch?" -Seven
"Whoever asks that question next." -me
"Hey, go ask Gabbie what we are having for lunch." -Seven

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.