But, before I could bow my stubborn knees at the feet of Christ, I had a lot of issues with Him to work out. I was still a bitter, angry creature. I was in excruciating spiritual and mental pain, which translated into physical pain too. Not only was I grieving the loss of my grandpa, but I was still dealing with a slew of health issues. I kept getting nasty lung infections, and my digestive system was all screwed up from being on antibiotics and a soup diet for months. I was also writing the first draft of my memoir with help from my teacher and a few friends he introduced me to, which forced me to reflect back on my life thus far. What I dredged up from my memory was incredibly fucked up for the most part, which made me even more anti-theistic. 

Not wanting to upset the firm Christians in my family, I kept my unbelief to myself, and did my best to distract myself from these tough questions.  I pretended I enjoyed going to church with Mom on Saturday nights, when in reality it really sucked for me. Even though that church was very different from the conservative church my private Christian school was modeled after, it still brought up memories that gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and to be told over and over again that God loved me and wanted the best for me, was almost worse than listening to ten hours of nails on a chalkboard. Whenever I visited my Christian grandparents, I felt the same way whenever they brought up their faith or took me to their very conservative churches. Again, I kept my atheism well-hidden from everyone. Even in my writings, I wrote like I still believed in God, just in case someone close to me stumbled upon them. 

But, one day, I could no longer keep up this Christian facade. One night, just before church, I lied about feeling nauseous and wanted to stay home. My mom knew it was bullshit, for I'd just finished a big dinner and was sitting upright playing World of Warcraft at my desk. Instead, she asked why I didn't want to go to church. Startled, I stared at her speechless. But, I knew she knew the truth before I told her. I finally looked down at my lap in shame, and mumbled, "I... I no longer believe in God." 

"That's okay. I still love you." Mom smiled, "We all become atheists at one point or another in our lives. You can stay home for now, but you're always welcome to come to church with me."

Again, I was stunned. Normally, unless I was practically dying, my mom would've told me to stop being ridiculous and get my ass in the car. But, that time, she just shrugged her shoulders and told me I was free to stay home and play video games. 

Before she left, I told her, "Please, don't tell grandpa or grandma that I no longer believe. I don't want them to hurt." 

"Ok." Mom nodded, "I won't. Love ya! Do the dishes while I'm gone, and make sure Hunter has food and water. I'll be back with dinner." 

Once again, I was stunned by just how apathetic, for lack of a better term, my mom was towards my admission of atheism. It's not that she didn't care about me. My mom has always loved me more than anyone else. She just wasn't bothered by the fact that I no longer believed. I later found out that she prayed for me every night, asking God to guide, protect, and love me even if I didn't think He was there. One day, she thought, that I'd come crawling back to God, even if I remained an atheist until my soul left my body. Indeed, her prayers were answered.