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I remember when I realized there was no God. I was around 15 or so, and came from a strong family of Baptist believers, with lots of preachers in the family. I sat on it for a couple of years, and then when the "age of enlightenment" came around, I could no longer keep it to myself. I had to tell everyone around me how "There is no God!"

My grandmother was one of the nicest people you would have ever known. She was the only one who seemed sincerely concerned about my declarations of atheism. I loved her as much as I've ever loved another human, but I felt it was my duty to make sure she understood "the Truth."

Now that she's no longer around and not that I'm quite a bit older, I carry a lot of guilt about that episode of youthful stupidity. I hurt her badly and made her worry over something that could and should have been left unsaid.

She's been dead for several years now, and there's nothing I can do to undo what I did. So what's the point?

I guess it's just that there's no need to hurt the ones you love with your revelations about something that none of us can really know anything about anyway. Hell, you don't even know where in outer space you are, let alone how you got here. . . . Do you?