About Me

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Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, July 17, 2017

An all-round good day.

All of the kids' appointments for the next two months are in my phone and on my calendar at work. The time off has been approved. I've made myself a couple of reminders for one thing and another.

The most recent order from FiniRibbon on Etsy arrived at the office today. It's gorgeous, as usual.

The vests continue to behave themselves. I'm 34 rows into the light green and 25 into the dark. I'm hoping to hit 37 or 40 before bedtime, but I am suddenly feeling very relaxed, and I may not make it that far. I'll play catch up on the dark half tomorrow.

I'm listening to 3 Nephi on my drive into work. I'm noticing how often the Savior repeats an idea three times to make sure that we get it. "How often would I gather you, how often have I gathered you, how often will I gather you." It reminded me that He called me at least three times before I cooperated.

When First Hubby and I had been married about a week, there was a knock on the door one Sunday morning. I was not exactly in a state to answer the door, so he did, and because he was raised to be polite, and to get the missionaries off our doorstep so we could return to the matter at hand, he said they could come back in a day or two and give us the first discussion.

I was mildly intrigued with their presentation, but he was not at all interested, and he told me I had to tell them not to come back. So I did.

The second time they showed up on our doorstep, we'd been married about a year and a half, and there was trouble in paradise. I'd gone back to school and picked up a nasty case of radical feminism. I think I was beginning to process the rape, which had happened a couple of years before, and I proceeded to inform the elders how misogynistic their church was, and I wanted none of it, and by the way, men stunk.

The third time was after my divorce from First Hubby. I was subsisting on morning coffee and evening alcohol, quitting a job that was the last thing a grieving divorcee should have been attempting (tax auditor trainee; those tax lawyers chewed me up and spit me out alive), and imploding emotionally. I made a plan and called my favorite professor to say goodbye. He was smart enough, or inspired enough, to realize that I wasn't contemplating a hike along the Appalachian Trail, and he quite literally saved my life.

The third time, I asked for the missionaries, and I was baptized by my professor, ten days after I'd called him to say goodbye. That was the summer Elton John's "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" was playing, and for me it means something entirely different than the story in the lyrics.

I thank Heaven, often, for sending the cavalry, for not giving up on me, and for helping me to make something of this life I've been given. My capacity to love has blossomed over the years. I have learned all sorts of neat things about how the world really works.

Still learning. Still loving. Still falling down and picking myself up. And hope to be doing so for many more years to come.

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