cinnamon tradition

So in retrospect I can hardly remember being sick on the day of Grant's birthday. Actually I woke up feeling like I was sure to be the host of the next pandemic, my comeuppance for having a morbid fascination with Contagion. I was grateful for Grandma Martha's help. We had a happy day despite the fact that I had that respiratory system misery and muscle aching, sure that your white blood cells are going to be the death of you before the day is over feeling. Judith and Granddad brought chicken soup, crab apple bread, and Theraflu over in the evening. I slept very well Saturday. Sunday I felt resurrected. We made cinnamon rolls, homemade even. Always a sign that we are on track, life is going to be okay, stability, productivity, cycles, tradition, all that, even though they weren't the best I've made. I need to dig my cookbooks out of those boxes...They look odd don't they?  I had the mistaken idea that we should cut them thinner to make more.

I was grateful to listen to General Conference. I appreciated President Monson's testimony about personal revelation. I know that God is eager to guide our steps through quiet promptings. I've felt that myself. I've felt how He works with us, even as we accomplish mundane or just simple tasks. He makes them easier. That help adds up to what we recognize as real accomplishments.  After the first session Sunday, a man from the ward stopped by with a big bowl of pasta salad.  His wife had sent it over.  I'm sure that she didn't know how sick I had been Saturday. When someone does something like that for me, I feel like God knows who I am.  We had the salad for dinner.  I was grateful that it gave me more time to study for my finals.

I like to find my camera (my phone these days) and see the pictures that the kids have taken.  These were Bethany's.  She is my nature lover.

 William watch.