When I was 6 years old, my family moved across the county. We had our belongings shipped and we drove to our new home. Along the way, we very nearly got into an accident. Someone had crossed the center line and it looked like a head-on collision was inevitable. At the very last second, my father somehow managed to swerve out of the way as we careened into the shoulder of the road and eventually came to a safe stop.

As soon as the car was still, my parents both made the sign of the cross and began to pray. I'd never seen them do this before. I don't think I'd ever been to church at age 6, nor had I ever seen anyone make the sign of the cross or pray.

When I saw this formalistic event, I remember feeling  uncomfortable and a little scared. I didn't fully understand what it was that they were doing, but I knew they were communicating (or attempting to communicate) with something unseen.

I suddenly realized that I had been born into the wrong family.

I then remember thinking that I was too young to have had such a thought. But it was too late. I'd been rudely awakened. 

I didn't have a word for it then, but later, I realized that I was a non-theist. I had a vague sense of aloneness after that, but I also felt as though I'd somehow dodged a bullet.