Hands

President Howard W. Hunter, in an October 1979 conference address called “Reading the Scriptures”, and quoted by Larry Barkdull in Meridian Magazine last August: “whatever Jesus lays his hands upon lives.”

I thought about the time that a friend and I were driving up a mountain road above Boise in her little VW, just tooling around, and we each perceived something black passing before our eyes, like somebody waving a hand in our faces, and we turned that car around immediately and drove back down the mountain singing “Put Your Hand in the Hand”, knowing we had just been saved from something awful.

I thought about how He had laid His hands upon me when I divorced FirstHubby and carried me into the fold of the Church and healed me. How He brought the children’s father into my life and blessed the early years of our marriage with more happiness than I could have imagined. How He sent those five lovely, choice spirits to join our family. How He sustained me while I was making the decision to divorce. Again.

I thought about the years of single blessedness since the divorce. Eleven years now, and mostly peaceful because most of the time I remember Whose hands I am in. And when I relax and trust Him, I am just fine, thank you very much. And when I think I am smart enough to call all the shots, He is kind enough to step back and watch me try, and even more kind when He steps back in ~ always at my invitation ~ to bandage me up.

I thought it was interesting, the point made in this article about how even our illness and suffering can be consecrated to our eternal good. I have experienced that in my life, many many times.

This has been, so far, a quiet Easter weekend. I am heading over to Arlington in a few hours, to attend church with Firstborn and her tribe. And then I will probably come home and take a nap. I had planned to make my first pavlova [two, actually] for dessert, but it’s raining outside, and the humidity would not be kind to meringue. We are having a tribal feast at her place this evening.

Can anybody tell me why or how ham became the traditional meat for Easter dinner?

At this writing, I am about halfway up the left front of BittyBit’s sweater. I have the right front cast on, on my larger needles, but its chart is on a different page from the left front and the back, and I was not inclined to flip back and forth, back and forth.

I picked up some lovely paper at the art supply store yesterday that should be perfect for printing photographs from the train trip last month. It’s made to look like canvas. This was my first visit to their Fort Worth location; I have done business at the Arlington store off and on since we moved back from the Hill Country in 1993, and at the Dallas store when we lived in Irving. The staff are all artistic and know their stuff, and they never make me feel like a dilettante.

I also bought a universal remote and resisted all the salesman’s up-selling blandishments. But I give him full points for trying.

I polished off the bread pudding last night while watching the commentary feature of You’ve Got Mail. I am torn between having half of the remaining chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes for breakfast [saving the rest for lunch at work tomorrow] or cooking up some cream of wheat.

I made shells and cheese for the missionaries last night. Or rather, shells in alfredo sauce, as nobody seems interested in bottling that good white cheddar sauce that I miss so much from the Kraft deluxe dinners.

I pulled two chorizos from the freezer and tossed in a box of chopped broccoli. When the chorizos were mostly cooked, I pulled them out and cut them into coins and tossed them back into the boiling water to flavor the pasta. I lucked into some of the larger shells, in a box, and used most of the box. I was afraid it would be bland, but those chorizos were *spicy*. I do not think I will buy them again. At least not intentionally.

I made a Waldorf-ish salad with a huge apple that was lurking in the fridge and some golden raisins and sliced almonds and the last of the pecan crumbs and spooned it into a ziploc bag. My goal when I feed the elders is that they don’t have to wash or return dishes to me. Not the most elegant presentation, this time around, but they got refueled with a minimum of fuss, and I had enough salad left for last night’s dinner and two or three meals’ worth of not-boring pasta.

Happy Easter, everybody! I am off to forage some breakfast and bite the ears off a chocolate bunny.