My grandma passed away last week. I was reflecting on my memories of her and realized that the person whose hand I held across the railing of a hospital bed just 10 days ago is not the same person I remember from my childhood.

I don’t just mean differences in memory and mobility. Of course 50-year-old Katy Crockett was not the same as 90-year-old Katy Crockett. She wasn’t swinging a bat at homemade piñatas or making Mickey Mouse pancakes anymore in her 80s. What I mean is that with each passing year, I witnessed her goodness increase until she had been molded into something angelic. She was slower to anger. Less concerned about herself. Patient in trouble.

She seems to have bridged that gap towards her best self so gracefully. I keep turning over what I know about her in my head, trying to figure out the secret sauce so I can replicate it.

After 30 years of knowing her, and all the stories shared by her community members and grandchildren over the past couple of weeks, the only “secret sauce” I can point to is service to God.

She raised six children, was incredibly dedicated to the art and job of homemaking, served two religious missions which required her to learn Spanish (which she became fluent in!), and taught elementary school for decades. Those things require you to give up an incredible amount of free time and self-interest. Some might think that type of service would erase your identity. “Self-care” has been marketed and monetized so effectively that losing yourself feels like a forgotten moral.

But what does the evidence show us? Look at the lives of the people you most admire. Why do you admire them? What makes them great? To me, I see evidence over and over in the people I know, especially my grandma, that service truly does help you find yourself—the most noble, unadulterated version of yourself.

When I was with her the day before she passed away she was very weak, but kept asking everyone if they'd had lunch yet. She kept trying to get up so she could offer them food. We’d lay her back in bed and then ask if she needed anything. “I’m fine, do you need anything?”, she’d ask as a machine kept her oxygen going. It was beautiful and humbling. Then she started rapidly speaking in Spanish, asking us all to remember our promises to God, and we knew she was getting ready for her next mission.

Grandma showed me “mortality works.” Meaning, this life has been designed to shape us into something more holy if we let it. So I don’t need to worry about bridging the gap between who I am and who I want to be. All I have to do is live life as fully as I can, choose the Savior every day, and serve my fellowman. The rest will come.

After laying the baby down I went out to the front porch to see where they’d headed. A mother with two little girls in coordinated outfits was coming down the sidewalk in my direction, having just passed my barefoot ragamuffins who I could see were in deep pretend play. The mother saw me and hurried over with a worried expression.

“Are those your boys? I thought you should know, one of them has a knife!”

I paused, preparing to run. “What kind of knife?”

“A butter knife!”

“Oh!” I laughed. “Thank heavens.”

A confused pause. I was waiting for her to share my relief. She was waiting for me to share her worry.

“Our butter knives are pretty dull,” I tried to add helpfully.

As I ran after the armed convicts I thought, “Lady, a butter knife is the least of my worries! That’s my knife of choice! It’s the knife I gave them. Today I have shut down operations involving kitchen scissors, steak knives, the toilet plunger, and roasting skewers. I refuse to be shamed over a butter knife!!”

This is one of the many internal battles I’ve had over the past five years of learning to mother the hairier sex. As one of six sisters, it’s completely new territory for me and I constantly feel like I’m doing it wrong.

I walked away from that interaction determined to not be embarrassed. It felt pretty good! I might try it more often.

“Hi Sister Steele, we have you on the calendar to teach Sunday school at the nursing home today at 10:00” —current time 10:02– “and we’re just wondering if you’re coming…”

The stuff of nightmares.

I call my husband. “Did you volunteer me to teach Sunday school?” Yes he did. He’s a block away. Pulls in to watch the kids, I hop in and drive two minutes to the nursing home. The lesson is supposed to be on an LDS conference talk. I park and open the list. My eye is drawn to “Prayers for Peace” by Henry B. Eyring. “Please let this be one I’ve got notes on.” I walk through the sliding doors and open it up. Not a single thing highlighted. Perfect. Mercifully, the opening hymn has three verses. I scan the talk and highlight anything that looks like a good excerpt.

The opening prayer is said. “We’ll now have a lesson from Whitney Steele.”

I know sky diving is a popular adrenaline source, but have you ever committed to speak for 20 minutes with absolutely no plan? Baby, I am flying high right now!! Sign me up for the next Thursday!

With that introduction, here’s my template* for speaking with little to no preparation beforehand.

One - Start with a story

It’s a classic for a reason. Neuroscientist Uri Hasson at Princeton found that when people are listening to a story, their brainwaves synchronize with the narrator’s. The degree of synchrony predicts how much the listeners trust and feel connected to the teller. You can watch his TED talk “This Is Your Brain on Communication.”

At the nursing home I picked the first humorous story I could think of. It involved my two little boys doing something naughty while a mother and daughter in coordinating outfits spectated (I may post that story tomorrow!). You better believe I took my sweet time telling it! Took up the first 20% of my time while my brain ran in the background figuring out what came next.

Two - Segue to topic

I knew I was supposed to be connecting it to “Prayers for Peace,” so I said something like “that story illustrates how crazy my average day can be, but I know each of us have our own version of chaos and worry. Some days it makes for a funny story but other days it can be heavy!” Quick and simple.

Three - Pull something from the source material

I crossed my fingers and picked one of the random quotes I had found during the opening song. Within the quote was Matthew 7:7. “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

That happened to be one of my mission president’s favorite verses. He liked to point out that the Lord does not put conditions on this verse. He doesn’t say “If you’ve been super righteous today ye shall find,” or “Get 100% attendance at church and it shall be opened!” I shared his thoughts on it and then my own.

Four - Repeat steps 1–3

Depending on the time you’re trying to fill! Another story, another segue, another quote or verse. I wasn’t sure where I was going with mine, but I told them about how my oldest son copies our prayer posture. He presses his forehead to the ground and sticks his little bum in the air. No matter if I tell him to sit up nice and tall, he’ll do what he sees me doing. This reminded me of a favorite C.S. Lewis quote where the devil Screwtape teaches his apprentice that whatever we do with our body affects our souls. I added in another excerpt from Eyring. Nearly done!

Five - Conclude

You’ve done it! In a religious setting I like to read the closing testimony from the source material before sharing my own. I feel that when I read theirs it puts my heart in the right place to share my own. If not in a religious setting, take a couple sentences to review the main points and then leave them with the one thing you want them to remember. Easy!

Speaking on the fly isn’t a skill most people think they have, but it can be learned. Once you’ve got it, you can show up for people in moments that matter.

Just make sure you put it on your calendar!

*I know the best lessons usually invite discussion. I was hoping I could ask questions and let other people fill the time, but the nurses indicated that residents listen through their headphones and my mic was the only voice that would transmit.

On the average day of my youth I was annoyed that we lived quite so far into the middle of nowhere, but on the rare rainy days, our piece of dirt was transformed into something new. The collective scent of a thousand creosotes perfumes the dry air. You only have to roll down your car windows or step out on the porch to participate in it. I’ve always felt it’s the desert being so happy to get water that it wants to give something in return. The quiet moments on my family's back porch right after it rains, enjoying the smell of creosote and damp earth, are some of my favorite memories.

I think that's why I've always loved the primary song, "When I Am Baptized." I could always relate to the line, "and ponder on the beauty of an earth made clean again." Pondering is lingering, and it’s a joy for me to mentally linger in that place.

The next line of the song says: "I want my life to be as clean as earth right after rain." I feel like people don't often publicly express the sentiment of wanting to be "clean." Maybe that's because by expressing a desire to be clean, we are in the same moment admitting that we make mistakes. We get worried we’ll come off as a hypocrite to those who have known us in our worst moments.

More and more often we see people claiming “empowerment” with an attitude of “perfect as-is” and “what you see is what you get.” But I’ve never felt more empowered than when I remember I can change. I like pondering “on the beauty of an earth made clean again” as I trudge along the Christian path of becoming a new creature.

I want my life to be as clean as earth right after rain. That doesn't mean it always is. But every Sunday when I take the sacrament 900 miles away from the Larson homestead, I imagine there’s a faint tint of creosote in the air and I thank God for clean earth and clean souls.

I run until the heat on my bare feet is too much to bear, then pull over in a patch of mesquite shade. Mesquites line both sides of the road between mine and Becca’s house but only offer a thin line of shade at this time of day. The far side of the road also has a ditch with a small amount of water I could walk in, but I know if I cross it will be too tempting to linger. And I’ve got important news to share. 

After my feet have cooled off I fix my eye on the next largest piece of shade and start running again. Travel by barefoot in southern Arizona is a run, rest, run, rest affair. Otherwise your feet would fry off. Mom has often commented that it would be easier to just wear sneakers. But I hate the feeling of sandy feet in a shoe. That means I have to be all in on shoes or all in on barefeet, and I can't bring myself to make the commitment yet.

At the next clump of shade I spare a brief thought for the whereabouts of my sisters. Maybe I should’ve brought Jean with me. I feel a small pang of guilt but brush it aside. Anne wouldn’t have come even if I offered. Marie would have enjoyed the run but would want to turn around as soon as we arrived.

I hear the repetitive crunch on dirt again, but this time it’s not mine. I turn to see Jean starting down the road behind me. When she gets close enough she shouts.

“Nora! Mom says you were supposed to do the dishes with me and if you don’t come back right now you’re going to be in trouble!” 

Aye yi yi. I should’ve run faster. The sun shines through Jean’s white blond hair, forming a halo on my personal angel of doom. 

“Come ooooon, Nora! My feet are burning!”

“Then go back, you toad! I’ll come in a second!”

She sticks her tongue out at me and turns around, blonde, shiny curls bouncing in rebellion against the dusty landscape. She pauses right before turning into the driveway around the corner of the goat pen, and turns back with her hands cupped around her mouth. 

“I made cookies!” 

The sound travels far and I feel sure the Powell kids on the other side of the cotton field are now all on their way to get a taste of Mom and Jean’s treats. She dashes off again and I smile in spite of myself, then pause to calculate. Ignoring the summons probably wasn’t worth Mom’s fury. I adjust my glasses and turn my back on Becca’s. My news would have to wait. 

In the Bryce household, baked goods trump any other dessert. Even in the middle of the afternoon on a June day at 97 degrees, we still opt for a warm chocolate chip pecan cookie fresh out of the oven. Mom gives us two each and we settle outside on the cracked concrete slab that makes up the front porch. Perched youngest to oldest we look like Russian nesting dolls with chapped lips, two-day old braids, and chocolate chip cheeks.

Marie smacks her lips in a silly way and we all look at her smiling. Our baby sister somehow finds indulgence in the barest places. Life’s savor comes easy to Marie. Good things are drawn to her, like hummingbirds to honeysuckle. 

“I think I need some milk with my next cookie,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. She dusts the cookie crumbs from her hands and stands up, still under the shade of the front porch. Her eyes match the rest of her warm person. Golden eyes, golden hair, golden skin, golden heart. Marie is loved by everyone. 

“Bring me some too.” Jean says, looking over her messy fingers with cornflower-blue eyes. I push my glasses back up and wonder if people would like me more if I had blue eyes like Jean. 

“I want some milk too,” I say, “but not the goat milk. Is there any regular left?”

“No, there’s just goat milk in the pitcher.” Anne says. She pops her last bite in her mouth and we collectively grimace at the thought of goat milk. There’s truly nothing that bad about the taste, it’s more the principle of the thing. We are emotionally at war with the goats ever since one took a bite out of Marie’s favorite shirt. 

I take the moment to study Anne. I can never tell what she’s thinking. She has fair skin like Jean, but with a thick maze of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair is an autumn brown. To me she has always seemed regal and untouchable, holding private court in her mind and unable or unwilling to share what’s happening there.

“I hate those stupid goats,” I throw out. Jean is instantly aghast and leaps up to go tell Mom I’ve sinned, while Marie purses her lips slightly. She might have stood for one swear word, but hate and stupid in the same sentence was crossing a line. She heads in to look for milk. But I watch Anne. I’ve thrown the smallest pebble into the moat, hoping to get a ripple. But none appear. Her eyes show nothing, mouth does nothing. She just stands up and follows the girls inside. 

I pick up a stick and start drawing paths in the dirt. I regret driving them away. But there are puffy cottonwood seeds in the air and I know it’ll only be a few minutes before Marie comes back out to enjoy the whimsy of it. I could wait for her.

I stand up and my eyes drift down the dirt road towards Becca’s. 

The screen door creaks and I’m pulled back to see Jean wearing mismatched chanclas and holding a plate of scraps for the goats. 

“Mom said to take this.” 

“Why me? You’re already holding it.”

“She just wants you to.”

“The pen is like 10 seconds away, I can see them from here.”

Jean stamped a foot in frustration. “Just take it!”

The screen squeaks again and Marie is here. “I want to come,” she says. “I want to check on the barn kitties.”

Under the magic of Marie’s goodness, Jean and I form our second truce of the day and fall into step. My news will have to wait.