I've been a non-believer since 1960, when my best friend drowned in Sebago Lake. He was a good boy. No god would have let him die. My mother refused to believe any son of theirs was an atheist and prayed that the the nuns at Our Lady Of The Foothills would teach me religion.
They failed to resurrect my faith in their holy trinity, however my 6th grade teacher, Sister Mary Goretti, was more tolerant of my puerile apostasy.
"Just lower your head and say what ever you want, except when you're on the altar."
I was an altar boy at our local church. It made my mother proud. She dind't need to know that there was no changing how I felt.
Sister Mary Goretti was as ancient as dust. The old nun had taught school in Egypt. Her tales of children running over stalks of harvested crops without touching the jagged tips was a magic miracle. Her students loved her and she loved educating us.
One day she said that if any of us had a tattoo that we would never get into heaven.
Going to heaven meant worshiping the man in a dress and hell was a burning oven. I was more interested in purgatory. Nothing bad ever happened in Limbo.
After scoring straight As for the year, Sister Mary Goretti gave me a mother of pearl rosary and said, "I know you don't believe, but that doesn't make you a bad boy. God loves us all."
I was lucky to have her as my teacher and while I don't believe in either heaven or hell, I have refrained ever getting a tattoo.
Out of respect for an old nun.
And only a little bit the fear of hell.
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