Thirty Year Anniversary of the Revelation on the Priesthood

Like many people, I remember where I was when I first heard the good news. I was sitting in an office where I was temping, shortly before Firstborn arrived, and one of the [permanent] secretaries burst into the room, her eyes big as saucers. “Lynn, oh Lynn, the Prophet has had a revelation.”

It’s been thirty years. I don’t remember her name. We will call her Sally. “Umm, Sally, that’s his job.”

“Oh, but it’s a big one! Blacks can now hold the priesthood!” A pause as pregnant as my own belly. “My husband and I need to get our act together and come back to church, because these are obviously the last days.” And out she went, to call him and let him know. I have no idea if she and her husband started attending church again or if they are still doing so. I hope so; she was a nice kid, a little wild but good-hearted.

I have heard that there were bigots who left the church because of this announcement. And that’s sad. I’m so thankful that my folks were about as free from bigotry as I think it’s possible to be in this fallen world, and I’m thankful that they raised my sister and me to look for the best in others, and to look beyond skin color and culture and language to see the person within.

[I think there was much woohoo’ing in Heaven when my parents crossed over. I think all the people they were just-plain-nice-to were waiting to greet them, along with the loved ones who predeceased them. Who were many, and I really need to get cracking on my family history, but that’s another blog post.]

I’m glad that the Savior told His disciples, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.” And I’m glad that he also told us that we each need to be as meek and as humble as little children. [I’m wondering if kids were innately more meek and humble back when He walked the earth, than they seem to be now.] Each of us is a child of Deity and entitled to the opportunity of hearing and living the gospel [or declining to do so, though I do tend to forget that small point, particularly as it pertains to some of my loved ones].

So, I’m glad that my kids have never had to explain to their friends that yes, they can join the church, but no, they can’t have the blessings of the priesthood. I was never able to give my [non-LDS] mother an explanation that satisfied her, and when the announcement was made thirty years ago, she firmly believed that it was expedience and not inspiration. I trust that in the ten years she’s been out of mortality, she has gotten an answer that tasted good to her mind and heart.

And I’m glad that my friend S. is our Relief Society president and was our Gospel Doctrine teacher a couple of years ago. Thirty-one years ago that wouldn’t have been possible. And can you imagine the church without Sister Gladys Knight and her Saints Unified Voices choir? All those nice middle-aged white boys who have gotten the opportunity to learn gospel harmonizing?

Change of topic: Pistachios as Comic Relief

I was a little groggy after lunch, which consisted of two small chicken soft tacos from Fuel City Tacos, courtesy of the boss. I had awakened at 3:15 yesterday morning and eaten my breakfast at 5:00 and inhaled a big snack after getting to work, so I wasn’t very hungry when lunchtime rolled around. I should have snapped a photo of the tacos; they’re not much to look at, but they are some of the best that I’ve eaten.

[Visualize tacos *here*.]

I washed them down with the pint of milk that I’d brought from home. And that’s when I got drowsy. So I went downstairs to clear my tab at the deli, and I picked up a small bag of lightly salted pistachios, and I kept myself happily busy and deliciously awake while clearing my inbox of scanning jobs.

I separate them carefully like some folks do their Oreos, suck all the salt off one shell and pitch it, suck all the salt off the other shell and pitch that, and then enjoy the nutmeat. [Except when I miss my mouth, and a shell or a nut ricochets off my shirt and onto the floor. That would be the “comic relief” part, except that I’m sad to waste food.]

I’m not all that nuts about nuts, but for some inexplicable reason I do like pistachios.

What I did on Friday night in lieu of the dance.

Drove from the park and ride to the duplex and photographed the front of it. I will save that photo as “Duplex ~ Do not Delete” so that when people ask me what my new address will be, I can tell them “XXXX or XXYY [Mumble] Street”. I did a great job of deleting the numbers from an earlier photograph of the front porch, for a future post. And then I deleted the original photo and didn’t feel like asking my friend for the address. Besides which, I had to go to Fort Worth to take tickets for graduation to Secondborn and her tribe. So I stopped at the duplex on my way there.

Delivered said tickets and hugged the Bitties after family prayer and scripture study. Sat and visited with Secondborn, who is hobbling around with a brace on her ankle but has been able to set aside her crutches.

Stopped at Panda Express on the way to Firstborn’s house and picked up some orange chicken, spring rolls, and rice. Brother Sushi called while I was driving to Firstborn’s from the restaurant and patiently put up with me while I was trying to decide if I wanted to go to the dance, or not. I finally, finally decided Not. Yes, I wanted to see my friends and dance a little. But mostly I wanted to put on my jammies and just go to bed. At that point it was almost 9:00, and I still hadn’t eaten dinner, and I’d been up since 3:15 and not eaten since noon. So I was tired, hungry, and verging on weepy. Even on the off-chance that Brother Right had been at the dance, I would not have been Sister Right, not last night.

Poor Firstborn. First I scared the daylights out of her by just walking in the front door without knocking. She and 1BDH were sitting on the floor, watching TV. And I was so bone-weary that I forgot my manners. Then she asked me a sewing question, something that ordinarily I could have answered quickly and easily, and she might as well have been speaking Swahili.

So, this morning, after six hours of sleep and a tall glass of milk, here’s your answer, honey: Yes, you can insert a piece that will make your project fit better. It will look a little funny, but they are pajama bottoms, and you ought to be used to 1BDH laughing at you after eight years, right? Figure out where your knee is on that pattern you drafted, and cut a rectangle that is as long from that point to your waist and as wide as the ease you need to add PLUS SEAM ALLOWANCES. Then turn that rectangle into a long, skinny kayak-shaped piece, remembering to keep your seam allowances at the top and bottom, and insert it in the side seams. You will end up with something that looks vaguely like riding breeches, but again this is something you will be sleeping in, and you will have saved the project.

Something to remember: you will only ever have to alter your seams after you have just sewn the best ones of your life, with perfect tiny stitches and lots of backstitching at both ends of the seam. That’s the Murphy’s Law of Sewing.

OK, it’s almost 5:00am on the day that LittleBit graduates from high school, and I am out of packing tape. Time to find my jeans and shoes that fit my over-salted feet and dash to the store. I want to see how many boxes I can pack before I start getting ready for this afternoon. And I need to make sure that my backup camera batteries are charged.

I finished another repeat on the Flared Lace Smoke Ring yesterday, so I’m about half done.

What will I do after graduation this evening? Come home and sleep. There will be a family celebration, and soon, but I’m not in charge, and I most devoutly hope it’s not tonight.