One of my earliest memories is of me, eyes closed, kneeling by my bed, silently telling God everything that I was thankful for. I had seen an actor do it in a movie, and it convinced my easily influenced, very unfledged, young self to try it, hopefully resulting in the start of a long relationship with God. I tried praying a few more times over the years, and, each time, it felt like I had called Heaven, and was sent straight to voicemail. Eight days after my birth, I had my bris, or circumcision ceremony. From that day on, in accordance to my Jewish mother’s will, I practiced Judaism. Every Sunday, I went to the only temple in San Antonio, and learned about Jewish beliefs, traditions, values, and practices. When class ended, I would get into the backseat of my recovering Catholic, born again Atheist father’s navy blue Forerunner, to be greeted by the question that has resulted in more bloodshed than any other question that has ever been asked: “Is there a God?” I went along with learning Hebrew, going to Sunday school, and all other things that were required by the temple, until there was more and more talk about my confirmation ceremony. In Judaism, getting confirmed means that one makes the vow to practice the religion for the remainder of their life. Because I had been a relatively devout follower for all of my pre-pubescent life, getting confirmed was thought of as something that was definite. But, in all fourteen years, I had never found any meaning in the texts, felt any bond with the Jewish community, or developed any sort of connection with God. I asked myself, “Just because my own flesh and blood, and millions of others, believe something, does that make it undoubtedly true?” This question evoked many, many thoughts and started in an inner battle, the participants being two vastly different ways of thought. In the end, I decided that I did not believe in any type of God, spurring my decision to not get confirmed