Being sick is sickening

Being sick  is ghastly.  The endless bed rest, nothing to do but sleep, not being up for anything but sleep the kindly excuses by everyone to cancel plans with you, and the quiet.  I know this sounds like vacation but for me there is nothing worse than being alone... alone and bored.  After two days from a stomach bug followed by pink eye I am ready to fire this week.  When I told this to Jonathan he kindly offered, "Out of a cannon?"
To rest my eyes I have all but given up using the computer (hence the late blog post), reading, and any of my crafts that require hours of concentration and eyesight.  Even this post I am typing while gazing at the ceiling and am only going to do a cursory glance at it when I am done typing (I apologize for any spelling errors or grammatical nonsense that I am certain I shall spew forth before I am done.)  The good news is that I am getting better.  The bad news is that I am still sick.
To make my involuntary sabbatical from writing easier, Tia kindly downloaded an audio book onto my much neglected iPod, for which I will be eternally grateful.  The book in question is very confusing and I have to concentrate when listening to it, causing all sorts of miscommuniations around the house.  Ah well, a few more days and I hope I shall be back to normal.

Ohhhhh Canada

When I was in college it was not uncommon for my friends and roommates to discuss foreign citizenship.  One roommate was going to claim her Irish citizenship because her paternal grandparents were born there.  Another was going to claim Italian citizenship for a similar reason.  Of course I had a few friends that were born in other countries and therefore had all the rights to be a citizen of another country, but when the conversation turned to me I just smiled and let it pass, and thought of this story that has gone down in family lore.  

In the summer of 1988 my parents got the wandering bug.  This bug crops up every few years (and sometimes every few months) and then they pack up everything necessary for survival in the wilderness (i.e., their camping gear, even if they didn’t end up camping), load up their car and progeny (if there were any), and drive.  This particular trip followed all the previous parameters but this particular trip stands out because, a) they took my eldest brother's godparents and their young son, Nicky Boy, so that my brother, the giant, wouldn't be the only child underfoot, b) the destination was outside of the United States (i.e. they were traveling to Canada), and c) my Mother was seven and a half months pregnant.  I would also like to point out that this pregnancy was particularly stressful for her because she was expecting a girl and the last time she was pregnant with a girl they had lost the baby shortly after her birth.  And so they left, four adults, one RV, two not quite toddlers, and enough gear to make it to the Sahara desert and back.  Their trip was beautiful, camping up the coast, driving the mountain paths, and explaining to strangers that the albino child in my very hispanic Father's arms was indeed his and the Norwegian looking Nicky Boy, who did indeed belong to my Uncle.  Finally, after a week on the trail they made it to Canada.  My Father was ecstatic.  He was hoping to accomplish two of his life long dreams, seeing Canada and (hopefully) an aircraft carrier.  He was also hoping to see a Polar bear (to be fair he did realize that it would have to be in a zoo).  

Then they hit border patrol.  They had no trouble getting into Canada as border patrol only questioned where they were from and where they were going.  And they had a lovely time.  They didn’t stay in Canada long but they did see a lot, although my Mother was very confused by all the posters disparaging the loss of Wayne Gretzky to Los Angeles.  She made the mistake of asking who was Wayne Gretzky and was curtly informed that he was the Canadian Hockey player who had been transferred to Los Angeles Kings.  My poor, unworldly, Mother unwisely commented, "Oh, I didn't know we had a hockey team." One can imagine the result.   And then they tried to go home. 

For anyone who has run into border patrol officers on the Interstate 5, or the random ones on I-10, or somewhere else in the middle of nowhere, or if you have ever tried to leave the country you know the standard questions include, "Are you all citizens of the United States?"  This frequently asked question caught my parents by surprise on their journey back into the U.S., and unfortunately, my parents didn't lie.  Of course my Aunt, Uncle, cousin, Mother, and brother were all American Citizens.  However, my Father, a natural born Mexican who had traveled to the U.S. as a child with his mother and two older siblings on a bus seat between two Navy sailors, was not.  He still had his green card from when he was a child and had never updated the picture.   

Some of my relatives still suggest that the best way to smuggle a Mexican man over the U.S. borders is to send him up to Canada and pair him with a very pregnant Caucasian woman who claims he is her husband and the father of her children, and then try and sneak him over that border.  My parents do not find this joke funny- but that’s what the Canadian border patrol thought.  Although in there slight defense the border patrol were very polite, explaining that they really couldn't verify that the little boy on the green card was in fact my Father, and even if they could prove it was him how could they prove that he was supposed to be there now. 

My Mother is a very understanding woman, not prone to emotional outbursts, always seeing the bright side of things, and almost never gets angry. Apparently almost never happened that day because she lost it and I don't know what she did but suddenly the border patrol couldn't WAIT to get my Mother and her husband back into the United States.

She always smiles when she recalls this part of the story—about how the crazy pregnant woman got her way—and then she turns to me and pats me on the head as she says, "And that's the story of how you almost got away with citizenship in three countries: The United States, Mexico, and Canada."

The Perfect Storm

If I could bottle a perfume- if I could wear perfume- I would like the smell of the first rain of a Texas summer.  Texas summer rainstorms are perfectly beautiful because they invariably brief, more parts wind and fury, abruptly dark in an otherwise cloudless day, which when combined with a landscape that is very dry becoming just barely damp for a few seconds creates an illusion that makes any witnesses question if they actually saw it or just imagined the whole thing.  If you are lucky enough to be caught in one you barely have time to admire it before the fickle storm moves on. 

After its passing you wonder if it was just a daydream as the raindrops quickly disappear into the parched earth.  With all signs of the storm departing almost as swiftly as they appeared.  One could just as easily miss it as admire it. Immediately after the storm ceases all manner of creatures burst forth from wherever they hid during the momentary natural outburst, just as the echoing thunder drifts away. 

The combined effect creates a smell so distinctive- so very clean- that for a few moments you are caught up in the pure amazement of this planet- of this land- so very beautiful with grandeur unimagined.  And I am left in awe.  And I wonder, how could people see this, and wonder if God exists?

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.