One hour every week. One dollar donation every week.

At age sixteen, I’m at the point in life where I don’t know where I fit into the plethora of religion and labels. I do know that I don’t feel the obligation to go to church like I once did, that its necessity has faded from my life. During a time plagued with rigorous schoolwork, extracurriculars, and standardized testing, every hour counts — if I can’t add it to my resume, what’s the point?

That one hour could be an hour of productivity or a brief respite amid a sea of stress. Instead, I spend it hearing sermons (that tend to disagree with me) and hymns (that I’ve heard many, many times). 

Despite my dislike of anything being forced upon me — piano lessons, dance class — this is something I can’t fight, regardless of my own beliefs. My grandmother’s son doesn’t go to church. Her daughter in law doesn’t go to church. Her grandson doesn’t go to church. So, there’s only one person left she can save. With every person that steps out of this weekly observance, her heart breaks little by little. When I once mentioned the idea of not going, of not believing, her face crumbled. How could another one of her family miss out on eternal peace? How could they leave her behind? Her reasoning for us attending church is that it's a small sacrifice in comparison to the sacrifice Jesus Christ paid on the cross. But my grandma sacrificed so much to give my father a good life, and she continues to sacrifice her time every day to sustain this family.

And so, despite my qualms against organized religion, despite my need for freedom, I go – not out of devotion for a higher being, but loyalty for blood ties. My grandma, my bà nội, wants to protect me, to save my soul. In a way, it’s how she shows love. Flawed, inconvenient, but caring. In the end, this weekly payment is a small price to pay for her peace of mind.