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.