Sigh....

So in the midst of trying to follow the Prophet and continue to find gratitude in each day, some rain has fallen on my parade. It started on Sunday. I was filling in on the organ - again - and forgot to take some ibuprofen for my arthritic hands before heading to church. Yes, my hands are a tad painful. Time to shift from the organ bench to my seat for the talks and banged my knee against the sharp wood corner of the organ. Bruise, scrape (it actually bled a teensy bit) and my already hurting knee was yelling at me to quit being clumsy. Time for the closing hymn and he announced the hymn number and "what?" Is that the right number. Yes it was. But it wasn't the one I'd practiced. I had been practicing the wrong song all week. Fortunately it was a familiar one and I didn't slaughter it too badly. That was Sunday. 

Monday morning first thing we had to go in for our follow-up bloodwork - six weeks after our physical. (I'm expecting a call from the doctor telling me that he wants me to take a statin for my cholesterol. hhhmmmm.) Anyway, we both went in fasting, like you're supposed. I thought I had drunk enough water. The gal doing the blood draw was new and when she started on me, she was shaking. Now, I've a pretty decent vein in my elbow, there's never been any trouble with it in the past. I've a quarter size bruise that is also a lump. Not pretty. Then on to The Husband. After poking the inside arm, and the backs of both hands, the two of them said, go drink a bunch of water and come back in an hour. When we returned they put the very most experienced phlebotomist to work, in nothing flat he was done. He also has a decent size bruise on his arm, but I'm the winner for size. 

On to today, Tuesday. I ran a quick errand this morning. Meant to be a quick errand. Rounding the corner coming home was a couple-friend of ours. They were on a walk. I was so starved for someone to be nice to me that I had to pull over (only partially, the car's back end was really quite out in the street) and chat with them (about the dangvirus mostly, of course) for 20 minutes. Put me too late home to watch the noon news. So I felt behind. Something possessed me to think I could make some fudge to take to the sisters I minister to and our other couple-friends. What was I thinking? After cooking, cooling and beating till my arm was like to fall off, it was clear the fudge wasn't going to set. So back on the burner it went for a re-do. Easy peasy, right? It's worked before. This time when I took it off the stove to stir it was like 30 seconds and a large solid lump. Nothing pretty to put in the pan and cut. Just a big ugly lump of fudge. (I refuse to even take a picture.) Tasty - absolutely. Grainy? Not a speck. Fit to share with people I care about? Not remotely. I make this so rarely that I mostly forget in between times the little tricks that help make it good. I should make it more often. And here I sit, with a big old bandage on my knuckle which is missing all of the skin. I know, you're supposed to scrape out the pan with the utensils, not the knuckle. 

So, am I still able to be grateful? Find things to give thanks for? Yup. It's just not - right now - the organ, the phlebotomist, or the fudge. I'm afraid to get out of bed tomorrow. :^)