I remember visiting my “well to do” grandparents in California when I was about 14 years old. My Grandmother had been raised in an LDS home, but had gone inactive under pressure from her first husband. Her second husband was a self-proclaimed atheist who believed in his own two hands, hard work and common sense. I think he felt that believing God would be like believing in a “free lunch.” He was also the most lively, generous, motivating force in my life second only to my own mother. My grandparents had flown me to California for four days where they took me out to dinner, shopping, to the movies, and sight seeing. Coming from a family of six children all haggling for our parents’ attention; I was in heaven. One evening as we were sitting in front of a crackling fire, and their dalmatian, Abby, had finally stopped thump, thumping the arm chair with his happy tail, and had lain his head on his paws to sleep, they asked me a question. The conversation went something like this:
Grandma Dorothy: What is it that you really believe in, Michelle? I mean, why do you go to church every week?