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.

In search of John Wayne

My heroes have always been cowboys

And they still are it seems

Sadly in search of and one step ahead of

Themselves and their slow moving dreams 

-Willie Nelson

At the age of ten I first visited Texas and it snowed.  Actually, it was a rare southern blizzard but I didn't know that.  I had never seen snow before.  It wasn't as I had imagined Texas to be.  I think part of my childhood image of Texas involved the long dead John Wayne to come riding over the hill on a horse at sunset accompanied by lonely fiddle music provided by Charlie Daniels as a tumbleweed rolled by.  Needless to say I was surprised, but strangely not disappointed, and it became one of my dreams to live in Texas someday.  
I had many dreams.  I wanted to hitchhike across Europe.  I wanted to read all of Charles Dickens books.  I wanted to walk along the Freedom Trail.  I wanted to live farther from my parents than any of my brothers had before me for college.  (Technically speaking, only one of those dreams came true as my eldest brother's dorm was farther East than mine the entire time I was in college.)  That being said, I had one other crazy, fantastical, admittedly young-minded dream.  

   As some of you may recall I have a minor fascination with John Wayne.  I like him.  I've always liked him.  And not just because there are a frightening number of similarities between him and my grandfather.  My father, always the beacon of culture, raised me on such movies as McClintock, The Quiet Man, Donovan's Reef, Stagecoach, and my favorite, Hatari, films that featured a strong male lead, a protagonist with unconquerable morals, a gentleman, with a strong Irish temper and an odd propensity for spanking crazy women.  It didn't bother me.  (In fact it tempered my Mother's love for all Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby movies.)  My Father thought he was showing my brothers and I what real men looked like- military cowboys I think was the image he was going for.  Unbeknownst to him, he was really instilling in me a certain love of cowboys.  

    That being said, I must admit that when the opportunity finally came for me to move here I was scared, terrified really.  I finally had the chance to live one of my dreams... and I wasn't sure if I could do it.  Where my spirit failed me God intervened and pushed me out the door, quite literally.  And the promise of John Wayne awaited.  
   When people ask me why I moved away from California, and of all places, why did I choose Texas I usually smile and said that it was divine intervention.  It's true that since I was ten I felt called to live here- it only took ten years to succeed.  More than that though, I wanted to live here, in no small part because of my image of John Wayne.  I wanted to meet a real cowboy.  And I did.  And it was great.  And I may live and die happy because of that moment.  
   I'd like to say that most of my childish dreams I have outgrown, that I have more realistic expectations of my life now that I am "old" and not a child.  I'd like to say that I try to present myself as a mature young adult and that I no longer am defined by a whimsical, wandering spirit, but that would all be a lie.  As I tell my Mother frequently, at least two of my dreams have come true (well, maybe not the Charles Dickens one... I'm fairly certain that I've outgrown that one) and that is enough for now.  The rest will follow, but nothing will surpass the day I met my first John Wayne.  Even if I was too tongue tied to actually say anything, but as the Duke once said, "Courage is being scared out of your wits... and saddling up anyways."  

Live and leave well enough alone

Live without regret.  Since May 2007 this has been my mantra- to live so that I won't have to look back and wish I had done it differently.  Ironically this mantra stemmed from my biggest regret, but in some small way I am thankful for this mistake because it shaped everything about me.  My biggest regret is not about something that I did do, but rather, that I didn't do.  Every time someone tells me a secret I knew I couldn't keep.  Every time I see teenagers in love.  Every time I hear Quenya.  It still haunts me.  It's one of the many reasons why I don't think I will ever live in California again- I'm afraid to run into her.  I'm afraid to see something I might have been able to prevent. 

I've been gifted with an unusual knack for people telling me their secrets.  Complete strangers walk up to me and tell me their life stories without question.  People I have known for a few hours tell me the worst thing that ever happened to them.  Reading post secret is therapeutic for me because it lets me know that I'm not the only who hears about the worst of humanity.  Someone out there is reaching out for someone... who isn't me.  It scares me because I never know what to say... and yet people keep telling me their secrets.  The one thing I have learned, albeit the hard way, is to never help a child keep a secret from their parents.  No good ever comes from keeping a big secret from a parent.  The other thing I have learned is... never promise to keep a secret.  I've had to report everything from rape to suicidal aspirations and there is nothing more terrifying than self doubt. 

What I am trying to say is, you could live and leave well enough alone, and trust that someone else is going to make things right, or you could be God's hand on earth.  I've lost many friends doing what I think is right.  Some of them will never speak to me again I suspect, but at least I'm not living with questions in my head of whether I could have stopped it from happening.  Living without regret requires action but also acceptance, and to that thought I issue this challenge; if you consider yourself a friend do what is right and not what is popular, even if that means that someone may never forgive you. 

A Saint for all Times

I'm not a saint.  I never claimed to be one.  There are serious doubts whether or not I contain the predisposed qualifications of humility, patience, and obedience.  I like doing what I think is right and I rarely listen to other peoples sentiments on the matter.  God and I have a good relationship but I wouldn't go so far as to say that it is a cherished part of my life because half of my conversations start with "WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO ME!?!"


That being said, the other day I was reading to 10 about the feast days of March and she sighed dramatically. When I lowered the book to ask her what was ailing her she sighed again before responding.  "Why aren't there any female saints that died of natural causes and actually got married!?!"  I told her there were lots of saints that were not nuns or virgin martyrs.  She gave me a quizzical look and I rushed back to the book, searching frantically for an answer- any answer.  Eventually, (after much searching) I came across Saint Frances of Rome.  Hmmm... I had never heard of her.  She couldn't have been that important.  It's nice to be wrong.


Frances was born in Rome in 1384 to a wealthy family.  She shunned the exciting life of the wealthy and as a mystic (at the age of eleven) she chose to become a nun.  She probably would have if not for the fact that her father had promised her to Lorenzo Ponziani.  At this time a Father could sell his children into slavery or have her sentenced to death if he desired to and informed his daughter that she would marry Lorenzo.  She sulked... and prayed... and sulked, to the point that she made herself sick.  She prayed that God would prevent the marriage from taking place.  Saint Alexis appeared to her and told her that God was giving her a choice in her life- to recover or not?  Frances' spiritual adviser asked her an even harder question- "Are you crying because you want to do God's will or because you want God to do your will?" Frances chose to get better and married Lorenzo. 


Frances had already decided she didn't enjoy the public parties and the fine clothing and jewels that went along with the celebration of a marriage.  She instead chose to pray by herself and wear simple, uncomfortable clothing, much the embarrassment and chagrin of her mother-in-law, Cecelia.  


Frances found a friend in the wife of her brother-in-law, Vanozza.  She too had wanted to be a nun but when God called her to marry Lorenzo's brother, she had chosen to take on the role with joy, even if it hadn't been what she wanted.  Together the two started serving beggars in the streets, a charity that Cecelia did not approve of.  Lorenzo adored his wife and loved her dearly and therefore would not let Cecelia intervene in Frances and Vanozza's charity.  It was during this time that Frances gave birth to her first child, Battista.  Battista was followed by his brother Giovanni Evangelista and his sister Agnes.  


Many civil wars were fought during Frances' life and frequently her husband would be called away to fight.  At one point her brother-in-law was captured by Troja, the leader an opposing army.  His ransom was an exchange of his life for Frances' son Battista.  At first she tried to run but her spiritual director changed her mind, asking her to trust God.  When Troja put Battista on a horse to take him away the horse wouldn't budge, even under severe whipping.  The superstitious army sent Battista back to his Mother.  Later Battista was captured again and was taken away, leaving Frances to pray for his safety.  A plague came to Rome which killed Frances other son, Giovanni.  A year after his death, her second son appeared to her in a dream to warn her that Agnes would soon died from the plague as well but that God was sending an Archangel to be her guardian Angel for the rest of her life.  Her Angel told her to stop fasting and wearing penitential clothing because, "You should understand by now that the God who made your body and gave it to your soul as a servant never intended that the spirit should ruin the flesh and return it to him despoiled."


Frances' life was far from boring after that.  Marauders destroyed her house and murdered her servants but after they left she turned the remnants of her palace into a hospital, where eventually her husband, frail and old from the wars, and her son, now a young man, would be returned to her.  As she nursed her husband back to health she founded the Oblates of Mary, a lay group affiliated with the Benedictines.  Forty years after their marriage Lorenzo died.  Before his death he told Frances,  "I feel as if my whole life has been one beautiful dream of purest happiness. God has given me so much in your love."


After her husband died, Frances joined the Oblates full time, becoming their Superior, finally having the life she had yearned for at the age of eleven.  Four years later, at the age of 56 she died, saying,"The angel has finished his task -- he beckons me to follow him."


I like to think that we can learn a lot from Saint Frances.  She accepted that sometimes God's plan and your own plan for your life are not always the same thing- and that timing is everything.  She learned that happiness, even in sorrow (both as a child bride and as the mother of two dying children) is both a gift and a choice.  When life was the hardest for her she tried to help those worse off than herself.  She was a Mother and a wife.  She was rich and she was poor.  She didn't die a martyr but she lived with great sorrow but showed joy.  As I said before, I'm not a saint.  I don't think I ever will be one... but I also know that with Saint Frances of Rome as an example, perhaps Ten and I will persevere.  Onward Christian soldiers.  

So what'dya give up for Lent?

In some places this question would be met with confusion.  In others a scathing look.  In perhaps my favorite of places, laughter.  During my Catholic Education, confessing your Lenten abstinence would be met with either answers or obstinate glances as some people felt that Lent is about keeping your suffering to yourself.  Some people would have witty comebacks to the question such as- "Being Catholic."  Other people gave up being sober, gave up doing homework, or gave up distractions such as class.  My personal favorite was when someone suggested that the cafeteria had ceased making food for Lent- or was that me?

My 8th grade religion class discussed various kinds of sacrifices- everything from doing a random act of kindness to giving up your favorite pair of shoes for Lent.  One of the teachers recommended just doing something that reminds you of God.  I'd like to point out that the kids laughed at him and told him that if he wasn't thinking of God he was doing something wrong.  (I like them.)

Well, a week and half since Lent started and already I'm ready to throw in the towel.  Sure I gave up something I knew would be a sacrifice and would (hopefully) drive me closer to God in his 40 days of suffering but why does it have to be so long?  Why does it have to be hard? Why do Sundays not count?  Why can't I eat meat?  Why! Why! Why!  (I'm sure my prayer warrior is out there laughing.) 

Among other things I will admit that I gave up Facebook for Lent.  I waste far too much time catching up with other peoples gossip, keeping tabs on people I never talk to, and keeping up with my favorite funny links via Facebook.  And all in the name of sacrifice.  Now my question is, does my forfeit of my favorite social network really draw me closer to God?  Do I use that time to actually pray more as I intended?  Have I been more productive with my life?  Am I at least getting more sleep? I have no clue.

On that lovely note, I am going to list my favorite things that (other people) have given up for Lent... lest I sound like I am patting my own back too much.

1.) Sitting- the exception being in Church and class.  The former due for humility and the latter to avoid the distraction of others.  Unfortunately this young man chose to kneel at meal times and unfortunately usually ended up at a table full of girls.  You can imagine the humor that this caused.

2.) Abstaining from makeup and jewelry.  None of us recognized her.  In my mind I likened it to the change between the post-converted Mary Magdalene and her previous sinner self.

3.) Abstaining from use of the computer except for school.  This was particularly frustrating to the classmates of said student who needed his aid on the Internet but we could never accomplish a time when we were all online.

4.) Being kind to his arch-nemesis- namely me.  It was a long Lent as I was doing the same thing.  The difference was I didn't know he was being nice to me for Lent.  We didn't have much to talk about and rejoiced at Easter because we could continue with our usual bickering.

5.) Giving up whining and sighing.  Albeit this one came from two different people, I am particularly impressed by the first one because it comes from a six-year-old child.

In the effort of focus, I will continue this list later, perhaps even before Lent is over, but for now, this is my list.

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.