Sin Much?

If there is one thing I succeed at in life, it is in being a "sinner."  I have mastered the art of being a rather crappy person quite remarkably over the years.    Competency in this area may come naturally to many, but I have taken it to new heights- having raised the ceiling of possibility to an entirely unimaginable level.   I’m not stating this with any shred of pride or flippancy, but rather matter-of-factly, in a simple desire to speak plainly.  I mean, let’s be real. The idea of being the chief of sinners is not lost on me. 

As another Easter has come and gone, my full-time status as a career sinner invokes in me the need to avoid taking this time of year lightly.  Contrary to popular belief, I value this season for reasons beyond just the Good Friday communion experience where I can consume wine and crackers and somehow chalk it up to a holy encounter.   Rather, this time is meaningful to me because more than most, I know the degree to which I am completely jacked up, and oh-so desperately in need of a something or someone to redeem this pitiful life I lead.

That said, I find the 6 weeks of Lent leading up to Easter to be moderately interesting.   Particularly, the things some people choose to give up.  You always hear the same old same old, “I’m giving up chocolate”, “I’m giving up a fill-in-the-blank brand of beer”, “I’m giving up Facebook”, etc. The list of trivial less-than-consequential things people “give up” goes on and on.  My response is usually to chuckle when I hear the more-than-manageable things people typically choose to “sacrifice” for Lent.  For me, if I gave up television or candy, that’s not a big deal. Now, if I gave up wine or carbs, one might think I was actually the one in the wilderness for 40 days being tempted by the devil, or the one carrying the cross up Via Dolorosa.  I suppose then that before I get all judgey and under-impressed with those who choose to give up something frivolous- like wearing heels or scratching their ass for six weeks- I have to ask myself, what is the point?  What is intended to be accomplished during the Lenten season of spiritual fasting?   Is it to merely participate in a tradition that represents the season between winter and summer (the word “lent” simply means “spring”), or the idea of self-denial, abstaining, and identifying with the social implications of Jesus’ sacrifice?  Is it a time to step back, refocus, take stock, and spend the time in self-reflection, meditation, soul-searching, and repentance?  Perhaps for some it is merely the necessary amount of time required to recover from Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, or Carnival celebrations and the ensuing hangovers and required rounds of penicillin treatments.

Depending on how one answers the above question, this may help define the appropriate item to give up for Lent.    For instance, if the answer is tradition, I’d like to give up annoying people, exercise, and bras.  If the answer is self-denial, then perhaps I should give up non-work related internet use, Nordstrom, and cheese.   But, if I really wanted a reprieve from the things that stand in the way of me living the most meaningful life and that would reaffirm my commitment to my faith, then perhaps I should simply give up being a self-indulgent bitch for 40 days? 

Let’s be honest, that probably won’t ever happen.   I wouldn’t make it from Ash Wednesday to the following Sunday, much less through an entire page of the calendar to Holy Week.   Even if I could manage 6 weeks of not being so crappy, would that somehow atone for being a self-serving schmoe for the other 46 weeks in the year? Does that make Lent the spiritual equivalent of a timeout?  Now now, give me some credit, just because I attend far more happy hours than church services throughout the year, it doesn’t mean my theology is that backasswards.   I will gladly speak up and confirm that I am very much a fallen person and in desperate need of a generous serving of grace.

Grace is an interesting thing. Recently, I was sitting in traffic, mulling over a particular situation where someone had defrauded me, and was getting ahead at my expense and by less-than-honorable means. As I did so, I found myself growing more indignant and demanding justice with each passing second (picture me shaking my clenched fist towards the heavens).  Suddenly, I felt an all too familiar thump on the walls of my heart and mind, and the voice of wisdom began prodding me with the question, “Really, Rachelle?  Are you someone who really should be demanding justice?”  It stopped my thoughts dead in their tracks as I chewed on the idea of why I felt I deserved justice in this situation.  The error of my thinking hit me like a freight train- would I want to have justice served for the things I have done wrong in my life, the times when I have been the offender, or the one to not play fair or to gain an advantage at the cost of someone else?  Even in the moments where a careless action seemed victimless, would I really want justice?

But that is the thing about justice, we always want it for ourselves when we have been wronged.   Rarely do we ever demand justice when we have been the one in the wrong and are skating free from the consequences we in all fairness deserve.   When our own ass is in the frying pan, we prefer to be moved to a back burner and simmered in grace, rather than being left to boil far past the point of al dente.     Since I am a complete failure in 90% of the situations in my life, wouldn’t wisdom suggest that I don’t demand justice, but rather extend grace as much as possible, and only demand justice in selfless situations, on behalf of those who can’t defend themselves?  

Maybe next year I will have the self-discipline to give up being a complete and total assface for Lent.   But in the mean-time, I think I will choose to apply my energy towards pleading for social justice on behalf of those who don’t have a voice and are overlooked by the masses, and imparting grace to those who have wronged me. And if the distractions of annoying people on the internet, shopping at Nordstrom, scratching my ass, or eating cheese derails my good intentions -that’s ok.  Because I already know my only hope is grace over justice.  And since I never have a shortage of wine and crackers around, I can always have my own impromptu communion experience to be reminded all through the year of where this is found.

Grounded

Normally what comes to my mind when I hear the word “grounded” is a flood of memories from my years as a teenager, as I happened to have spent the majority of my 11 – 17 era being just that, “grounded.”    It wasn’t so much that I was unruly, but rather because “grounded” was apparently the only word in English my dad knew when I ticked him off, and the only way in which my mom could guarantee free child care for my youngest brother, Nick.  While the word will always send a shiver down my spine when I think about it in the context of my early youth and my overly critical parents’ exasperation with their headstrong daughter, the word has evolved for me as an adult. 

Grounding.  What tethers us to reality, and guarantees that we will return to earth when we find ourselves circling in orbit somewhere because life has spun us off the grid?

I think the majority of the population prefers to display a reasonable amount of social poise, and in the event a circumstance takes an unforeseen nosedive south, they possess an innate instinct to “save face” (of course there are always exceptions, just look at reality TV).     But there comes a time for all of us, when we reach our “boiling point” and lose our resolve to give a flying $@#!   I’m sure there is a scientific equation that can be plotted out on a linear graph or a vapor pressure chart that would show us the exact temperature and pressure combinations where our emotional resolve can no longer withstand the environmental elements and our mental discipline/sanity vaporizes.  I can think of a few recent situations where this is where I found myself.   

A few months ago I was returning to the United States and grabbed something to eat in the London airport a couple hours prior to my flight.   As the plane was taking off I knew something was wrong and I was going to get sick.   Yep! I had serious food poisoning.  My initial trips to the lavatory were discreet and rather ladylike, which should solicit major kudos in its own right considering the beads of sweat dripping down my forehead, the look of terror across my face, and my ability to simultaneous flex my ass muscles and swallow my own vomit, all the while waiting in line.   But after several hours of the food-demon’s tyranny, somewhere between London and Seattle, I lost my “give a $!#@” and no longer had the social grace to protect my ego or shelter the innocent passengers around me from my plight.   I quickly went from the quiet girl with the groomed curls in the maxi dress, to the disheveled girl with the crooked bun, puke spattered dress, and who spent 20 minutes at a time curled up in a ball on the lavatory floor.   No horrified stares from onlookers or desire not to be a spectacle could affect me.  I was just too sick to care.  

Another situation that comes to mind is last summer when I had the unfortunate task of packing up the house I’d lived in for several years and getting it prepped for a renter who was scheduled to move in the following week.  Since all my earthly possessions were going into storage, it was important that things were actually inventoried, packed, and labeled carefully.  Yes, this is when my OCD can make me a danger to others and myself.   There were many reasons that I found myself completely alone with this daunting task.  I’m sure some of those reasons contributed to my weakened psyche (cough, cough… flaky fickle family members).  Regardless, one evening, after a few sleepless nights and too many days of fast food, the realization that I had not made nearly enough progress was undeniable… and I snapped.  I ended up sprawled out half naked on the floor of my walk-in closet sobbing uncontrollably.  Hear me, this was not a “dainty girl cry with a delicate glistening tear caressing my cheek as it fell” moment, but rather an ugly, snotty, mascara running cry that could cause the average passerby to call the wildlife authorities because they were positive a loose walrus was in distress and/or ravaging a herd of wild goats… In hindsight I would have benefitted from the tranquilizer dart the rescuers would have needed to take down a 2000 pound walrus.    Suffice it to say, I had reached my boiling point.   I remember waving my white flag, dragging my fatigued body across the floor to my cell phone (with a pit stop at the shoe rack that was holding my glass of wine, of course), and calling my friend Danielle.  Who immediately stopped her life without hesitation, then saved my ass and took over.   Had it not been for Danielle, I am pretty sure I would still be on my closet floor… I was just too overwhelmed to move.

Oh, little moments like these…

As potent as these situations can be, I’d say the majority of our “I don’t give a $@!#” moments are brought to us by an emotional factor.   I can think of several times in my life when the emotional component of a situation has left me paralyzed…  the death of a loved one, the loss of a significant relationship, or having to process major life changes.

Levity & relationships are both important grounding forces in my life.  It is a gift to have the ability to not take myself or my first world trials and tribulations too seriously. Who knew flippant humor could be so valuable and such a helpful tool for re-centering?  Likewise I feel fortunate to be surrounded by people who love me enough to grab my ankles before I completely float up into space.   There are times in my life when I have had those seasons where I really did need someone else to remind me of what I know to be true, to remind me of the big picture, and to help my feet not lose their footing.  We all need to have people in our lives that will love us through our most unreasonable and ugly moments.

Despite my reflexive teenage recoiling, being grounded can actually be a good thing.

Barcelona & Girona

Spent a few great days in Barcelona and Girona with my girl, Hannah!  Here are a few highlights from our adventure.   

 

Even though we almost froze to death, ran out of gas, and came inches from a crash that would have cost us our security deposit... scooters were definitely the best way to see the city.

     

    

 
Güell, situated on hill of El Carmel in the Gràcia district was one of my favorite places to visit.  Not only was the architecture and design fascinating, but the view all the way to ocean was breathtaking.  We arrived as the sun was starting to set.

 

We definitely had tons of fun people watching along Las Ramblas

 

Beautiful beaches, sunshine, and food!

Walking the old fortress wall in Girona was definitely worth the trouble of taking the Ryan Air flight out of Girona instead of Barcelona proper.  This town is charming and really interesting and worth taking the time to explore.

The Faithfulness of a Friend - The Story of a Dooooog

There are dog people and then there is everyone else.   So, if you are not a dog person, you might as well stop reading right now because I will probably sound like a lunatic (perhaps you should go shop Amazon for a soul instead).

Growing up, my family had a golden retriever named Paws, who lived to be 17 years old.  Paws literally saw my brothers and I through our entire childhood. In fact, we believe he didn’t let go of life until we were grown and he knew his job was done.  Today, there are two more golden retrievers in our family.  Legolas, who goes by Lego to close friends and family, who is 11 years old and belongs to my brother, Nathan.   And then there is my boy, Riley, who is 9-years old. 

After Nathan graduated from college, he and Lego made the thousand or so mile move from the rainy Pacific Northwest to the land of fake tans, Pinkberry, smog, beaches, and eating disorders (also known as Los Angeles).  Lego adjusted nicely to life in So Cal and is somewhat of a local celebrity.  He goes everywhere with my brother, and is therefore known at restaurants, stores, gyms, local businesses, and all the studios my brother frequents.   Lego goes to work with my brother and is happy to take in sprawling Los Angeles with his head out the backseat window.  One of his many endearing qualities is that he walks by your side, not ever needing a leash, but always with a ball or his favorite stuffed duck in his mouth.  Lego never leaves home without one of these precious toys.   Whenever I visit, and take Lego with me on errands or for a walk, people actually run up to him, get on their knees and greet him by name, then raise an eyebrow at me and muster-up a pleasant, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing with Nate’s dog?”  Lego will extend a paw to shake with these fans, and then slump at their feet demanding that their adoration take the form of a belly rub.

Lego has an amazing personality; he is a human heart & soul trapped in a furry body with four legs and a tail.  Were you to ask my brother, without a doubt he would tell you that Lego is his best friend, and has been his constant companion through the good times and the bad.   Likewise, it would take you all of five minutes to realize that for Lego as well, the sun rises and sets by my brother… it is unconditional love.  

Recently however, Lego has suffered from seizures, caused by a brain tumor, that we didn’t know existed until just a couple months ago.  I’ve achingly watched my brother tenderly care for Lego, and help him with memory problems, bladder problems, and learning the basics all over again.   They had so many little inside secrets, habits, and tricks between the two of them that Lego has slowly tried to relearn.  While medicine works for a time, sadly the seizures have become cyclical and he will be better for a bit, only for the cycle to repeat itself.   The brain tumor isn’t going away.  Nathan knows at some point in the not-so-distant future, the symptoms and discomfort will no longer be able to be masked by medicine, and that he will have to make a painful decision.

When you pick out a puppy for the first time, and that precious face melts your heart, and their unique personality enraptures you, you can’t fathom the idea that at some point in your future, and definitely before you are ready, you will have to say goodbye- and that your heart will break in a way you never thought possible.    It takes a tremendous amount of courage to love, when you know you will lose.

Doing right by them…

Dogs selflessly love us, in a way that defies human ability.    They never judge our bad behavior or think the worst about us.   The times when my heart was so heavy that I couldn’t get out of bed, Riley never left my side.  The playful times at the park, my running companion, swimming at the beach, road trips, and literally traveling the world, playing so many games and fetch, cuddling and naps, or all the times when he is content to just be with me.  Even when I’m ugly, fat, wearing bad clothes, and have zits on my face, that dog has never once been anything but ecstatic to see me, the excitement that sweeps through his body like a hurricane at the moment I acknowledge him, or the panic and depression that hits him the moment he sees a suitcase or thinks he’s being left behind… it puts you in touch with the depths of your own humanity.

This is why it is so hard to know when to say goodbye.  But because they have always selflessly loved you, they deserve to be selflessly loved back.   I don’t know how I’ll do this when Riley's twilight knocks on my door- so what advice could I ever offer my brother?  I guess, when that moment comes, I will cuddle that precious pup in my lap, stroke his sweet grey face, and tell him, “For all the times you protected me, for all the times you comforted me, for all the times you were aware of my need, for all the times you were courageous for me, for all the times you didn’t consider your own well being, but mine.  I will make this choice.  And I will see this as my moment to love you, in the same way you have always loved me… Selflessly.”

Lego, you are my first and very favorite nephew! 

Christmas Market Adventures - Germany & France

If you are ever afforded the opportunity to visit Germany during the Christmas season, you are fortunate!    I have always wanted to experience the Christmas markets and villages in Germany, and I was able to do so this past December.   It was completely magical and an amazing time!!  Here are some pictures of a few different towns we visited.

  

Cologne

Cologne is located on the Rhine and has 6 different markets, the largest being the Kölner Dom.

 

The market is located in front of the impressive backdrop of Cologne's landmark, the Cathedral

 

 There was an amazing choir that performed on this twinkling stage.

These potato cakes and applesauce became one of my favorite snacks.

Düsseldorf 

Düsseldorf's Christmas Market was nice too and not to far from Cologne.   There is also tons of pubs and restaurants in this area as well.

Cochem 
Reichsburg Cochem/Castle 

The Moselle River

Beilstein
Tiny streets, castle ruins, ancient wine cellars all make this a charming place to stop... to pee.

Bernkastel-Keus

Bernkastel-Kues is well known wine growing region in the Middle Moselle.

Trier

The Trier Christmas Market has the backdrop of the cathedral

Wood-fired goodness!

The Porta Nigra

Saarbrücken

located in historical St. Johanner Market square

 

Strasbourg, France

"The Capital of Noel"