Thanks, Ma.

My grandma tried to frighten me into the Faith. To be quite honest, she tried to scare me into every single virtue she’d thought worthy. When I would terrorize my little brother or shove clothing hangers into the piano, she would pretend to cry and say she’d soon die if I didn’t behave.

At bedtime, she would tell me grand tales of God’s omniscience and omnipotence. Every Sunday morning, I’d have to stare at the gory Stations of the Cross as Ma recounted each ugly part of the tale.

Like any sensible child, I found all of her stories absolutely terrifying. I took to walking warily past the portrait of Jesus Christ in the hallway. I imagined His reproachful eyes following me into the bathroom.

I began hiding under the kitchen table in hopes that His eyes would wander over me there. Ma never questioned why I would drag my blankets and books there each morning. She thought I was building a fort like any other kid.

So began my mission to hide from God. In the end, Ma won. I was well-behaved under that table.

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