by Raydia Osborne

Created on: July 01, 2008

I was 14 the first time I got down on my knees in front of the altar at New Life Christian Church in Detroit and vowed to give my life to Jesus. My grandmother made me do it. She woke up every morning convinced that I was going straight to hell because of my bad attitude. I woke up every morning hoping she would die. It was about her time anyway. She was one of those old religious women, with dark prune-like skin and black, glassy eyes who smelled like talc powder and moth balls. I would swallow and cringe every time she came near me and her hoarse scratchy voice made me shiver. But the thing I hated about her the most was the way she would shove the Bible down my throat until I felt that I wanted to vomit. Every morning at breakfast she would go in the pantry and pull out her black leather Bible from its cozy spot on the top shelf and slap it down on the table in front of me.

"You can't eat until you read me a few verses," she whispered. Her face was close to my ear. I could feel her scowling. Now I've always been argumentative, but when it came to my food, I never played around. So at breakfast, I never argued. I rolled my eyes.

"What book?"

"Pick one." I chose Deuteronomy because it started with "D" like my first name. I don't know why I ever bothered asking her what book to read. She always told me to pick one. I always chose Deuteronomy. I'd probably read every verse in that book dozens of times. I read the first verse that I saw.

"The Lord will smite thee..."

"Ah! It's a sign from God that you started reading that verse!" she shouted. "That's exactly what he's gonna do to you for killing your mother! She poked me in the chest with her long bony index finger as she spoke. I glared at her, but I never cried. That wasn't the first time she had accused me of killing my mother. She had even gone so far as to call me a murderer. And I believed her. I had lived my whole life carrying the tremendous guilt that came along with thinking that I was responsible for my mother's death. I could feel the guilt in my chest. It was like a pressure that pressed up against my heart and throbbed whenever I tried to breath. It didn't matter whether I was happy or sad, it was always there. And it never went away. But I didn't believe that I would drop dead at any moment because of God's wrath. I figured if he was going to kill me, he would have done it already. My life with my grandmother was the ultimate punishment. I continued to read.

"The Lord will smite thee with madness and

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