“I’m praying for you. I know you don’t believe, but I still think it will help.”

How many times have we, as nontheists, as Humanists, as Naturalists, been told this? To this day, I admit I bristle inside, smile outside, and end up believing the chasm is far too wide to bridge. So, what to do, especially now that I live among strongly devoted Christians?

I should begin with my own personal journey. Born in 1949 to an ultra-devout Roman Catholic mother and an atheist, alcoholic and abusive father, as well as an abused and thus abusive sibling, my childhood was never easy. I went to Catholic schools for 13 years, and, hook, line and sinker, I believed it all until I was 14. We moved frequently, and I was shy and geeky, so I had few friends and experienced a fair amount of bullying. My escape from my home and school life was through drawing and reading, and I devoured everything I could get my hands on. I was the kid with a flashlight and book under the covers. Thankfully, my parents encouraged reading, but they didn't get me books, so I read anything available — the European classics, mostly, and then the Russians. I learned my father was not the only one who didn’t believe — there were many who questioned, some who rejected, and it wasn’t just Catholics versus Protestants, but many different beliefs and religions around the world. All of whom disagreed with one another.

I started my own doubting with simple questions of dogma. We were taught that doubts came from Satan so, as instructed, I went to my high school’s chaplain-priest. He told me I wasn’t smart enough to have thought of those questions on my own, and he summarily dismissed me with an admonition to stop dating Protestant theology students and stick only with Catholics. I was 14 years old at the time, and had never been on a date. I was confused by his non-answer. It soon began to dawn to me that if he, a priest, didn’t have answers to my questions, trying to find those answers on my own seemed like a good idea for me to pursue.

Along the way I stopped believing in Catholic dogma, I rejected Protestant dogma, and yet I still thought there was “something” out there. Perhaps not a god, but “something” tying all of existence together. I went through a mumbo-jumbo phase, astrology, Kabala, and the like, eventually recognizing the futility of seeking any supernatural answers. I’d always been fascinated by science and that is where I found something “real.” Back then, evolution was taught in Catholic schools, and I found it simply brilliant. It also drove a dagger into the heart of Adam and Eve, as well as destroyed the idea of everything simply being created just as we see it today.

But short of my mostly absent father, I knew no one who did not believe wholeheartedly in “God.” When I finally escaped my very abusive home in the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania suburbs, I headed west— first to college in San Antonio, Texas, and eventually landing in Haight-Ashbury in 1968. I went there because the hippie story was about “love” and I wanted some of that! I literally dove in head first. Took many drugs, many trips, and somehow managed to continue thinking about the question of a god, while becoming politically aware in the way the 1960s produced. Interestingly, while I did have my own “oneness with the universe” experiences, it was simply the universe, involving nothing unnatural. Even during my mumbo-jumbo stage, I expected that whatever “worked” would have to ultimately be proven by scientific methods.

I still knew no other atheists. My first husband was agnostic, which helped, but I didn't see the point of his “no one can ever know.” I felt that we certainly can know - just as we know leprechauns don’t exist, we can know gods don’t, either. Why would we comfortably assert no little green men in Ireland, but not old bearded ones in the sky? Why does religion, and only religion, get a pass on full-blown denial?

Despite virtually no other friends to discuss my ideas with, my understanding of religion and my thoughts about existence continued to evolve. Eventually, I met one other atheist, and he and his wife became good friends. I was in my thirties when I found out that someone else thought as I did. That felt good, but it wasn’t enough. Before my first computer, I had no way of even knowing where to look for like-minded folks. I had no problems telling my kids what I believed to be true, and encouraged them to come to their own conclusions. I am pleased to report that they have agreed with me.

When I was 42, in 1992, I got my first computer. I was overjoyed, and discovered other atheists, on Prodigy and then CompuServe. There were so many! Before her disappearance, I was friends with Robin O’Hair and others in the battle for atheist equality and the separation of church and state. Best of all, so many of them loved science. That’s around the time I put away my fear of numbers and became fascinated with physics. Scientific American had an article about “Bubble Universes,” and I was hooked. There were many physicists online who loved to talk about the ideas being entertained by some of our greatest thinkers. My education continued. And just about all the scientists I came to know were nontheists.

My life continued online and off, as I raised two children, divorced, remarried in my late forties and spent 13 years as the senior sysop on CompuServe's Religion Forum, (monitoring, interpreting/administering rules of behavior, and managing staff on a paid-access discussion forum). I had my own conversationalist available 24/7, and I was in secular heaven. I became active with the Freethought Society, and hung out with Margaret Downey and many other skeptics. I wrote two columns for the now defunct Examiner online; Philadelphia Freethought and Philadelphia Science, while running my photo restoration business from home.

More years passed, and my husband became very ill. I cared for him for ten years until he died in 2014. His illnesses cost me my home, all my savings, even my own health; everything. Lots of people prayed for me, but not a penny appeared, save help from some atheist friends. I did write some damn good angst poetry, though.

I had to find a way to live on my meager Social Security benefits. There was no family to take me in. And I did think about suicide. I was pretty sure my life was over. There was nothing I could afford in the area, but the idea of leaving my kids and grandsons was devastating. I knew that I didn’t want to leave them with the emotional scar of a grandmom who killed herself, so with the help of my amazing friends, I cleaned out my house and searched online for a place to start over. I’d have to let Facebook and Facetime keep me in touch with family. I realized that I was in a unique moment in my life, a place from which I could create a new life for myself, or I could let fear destroy me. I chose life.

I always loved the southwest, and after many months of research, I decided to move to Alamogordo, New Mexico. I’d lived in Texas for a year, and visited Arizona, Nevada, Utah and Colorado, but somehow missed New Mexico. It is a poor state, but multicultural and far more liberal than the surrounding states.

And it is also very religious. Intensely so. That scared me, as I had become very comfortable having lots of nontheist friends, locally and online. But I figured, I will still have my online friends, and hopefully wouldn’t get shot for being an infidel!

By this time, I was sixty-five. I was going to start my life over, alone, in a state I’d never visited. In a trailer park. But, my monthly Social Security check would cover rent, utilities, and food. I had lived so long knowing I was losing my home that knowing I could do this on my own was a great comfort. It was a relief, and I’d be fine. Not once did it occur to me to pray, in nearly 40 years, and it didn’t occur to me to bother with that now. I had way too many practical things to do.

I arrived in Alamogordo on March 1, 2015. Somehow, I managed to pick a retirement trailer and recreational vehicle park with a strong manager. It’s a very nice place, with a community center, a pool, our own laundromat and even a hair salon. Lots of retirees and military live here. The staff had saved a particularly nice trailer for me, with a double, gorgeously landscaped lot. Still, just about everyone I saw sported a crucifix necklace.

I am a hermit, and had been for many years, and I hadn’t gone swimming in ages. One day I decided to go to the pool. A tall guy, with the obligatory cross, introduced himself and his two lady friends. They were nice, but I figured once they discovered my atheism, that would be the end of it.

However, they invited me over for dinner, and I had a great time. When it came up, and believe me, it always comes up, I told them I am an atheist. To my surprise, they were fine with it. And, they actually liked me. Pretty much everyone I met out here was Christian, and yet respected and accepted that I was not. The more New Mexicans I met, the more pleased I was that they did not try to get me to their church, or corner me with the old “Just come and talk to us about Jesus.”

It was the way it should be. I was flabbergasted. I started dating the tall guy from the pool, and it turned out he was a retired professional chef. Still, he was a Christian. Actually, he used to preach, and I could see no future there for me. But other than his theism, we were amazingly compatible.

I had written numerous columns about tolerance and respect over the years. I got called a Christian troll by some atheists online, because I disagreed with them about challenging all theists, no matter whom, no matter when. Atheism had grown exponentially, and ethical, moral, kind and gentle people were being swallowed whole by a new breed of atheists preaching the very same intolerance to believers that we had fought so hard to eliminate when directed towards us.

I understood the frustration that led to this stance, but I personally have always felt that one’s religion is a private thing, and only when “they” try to enact legislation for everyone based on their religions, would I choose to fight them. I was tolerant, but only to a point. I did not want to be romantically involved with a theist. I was as wary of them as they are of us.

I have learned, however, that my preconceived bias against a relationship with anyone except another atheist was wrong. We are all individuals and judging others because of their faith is subject to many errors— no different than judging people by color, class or gender. I have always believed that, but didn’t always practice it.

I am the only atheist most of the people out here have ever met. I’m back to where I began.

My thinking has changed over the years. For a while, when I first connected online with other non-believers, I wanted to teach the world about the freedom one finds after abandoning religious beliefs. My columns spoke of the myriad things atheists believe and, more importantly, I wanted to educate those people who believed that atheists were bad. Evil. Satan’s pawns. That we would murder if given half a chance.

I still want to show Christians and other theists the alternative philosophies available after abandoning religious indoctrination. That there is no empty hole where faith used to be. That we choose to be moral and ethical because it is the right thing to do. Some spooky reward after death driving our lives was no genuine reason to be “good.” That “Good without God” was far more preferable than “good or you’ll burn!” But - and this is a huge “but” - only if they are interested.

I have learned to embrace a live and let live attitude. As long as religious people are not trying to force others to accept and follow legislation based on their faith, I won't stick my beliefs in their faces. I’d go crazy if I responded negatively to every “God bless you!” or “I am praying for you!” or “God is magnificent” or “We will see our dead loved ones again!” and the many other sayings I encounter daily. I let it all go with a nod and a little smile, but I can’t – and I won't - ever pretend to agree with them. I’ve not encountered this much sincere religiosity since leaving home 50 years ago, yet it is coupled with kindness and acceptance.

I do manage to throw in as much science as I can, whenever I can, and I feel like an ambassador for clear--headed humanist thinking. After all, I do want them to see how unfrightening we really are. So, perhaps I haven't changed all that much.

Oh, and I married that Christian chef one year ago. It’s been wonderful.