Heather Dean with Leah Gebber

At 14, I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Well, the luckiest girl in Shaker Heights, Ohio. I’d landed a coveted interview on behalf of the school newspaper at the local television news station. I lounged in the guest chair, ready for the interview that would soon be captured live, and the show’s hostess told me about her training and experience, and what it was like to work on a daily show.

Then she took me backstage.

“That,” she said, pointing to a handsome grid, around the size of a car door, suspended from the ceiling of the newsroom, “is a fake ceiling.”

“Yeah?” I said, then kicked myself for my unintelligent reaction.

“When we’re rolling, it looks just like the ceiling of our set.”

I nodded. Safer than opening my mouth.

“It’s an illusion. Just a little thing, but it looks like a ceiling that covers the whole news room.”

I craned my neck until I heard a painful click.

“It stops viewers seeing all the lights hanging from the real ceiling.”

“Right.” I couldn’t nod this time, my neck needed physiotherapy.

“Just a little introduction to the world of television,” she said, then she went to beam her smile at millions of viewers about to tune in.

It was more than an introduction. That interview cemented my determination to make it — and make it big.

It also taught me a lesson that only sunk in two decades later, when I’d all but desiccated myself on my climb to the top of television production, only to discover that on top of the mountain, there was no fake ceiling. And without it, the view was filled with ugly lights and frayed wires.

I was playing a game of jacks when I stopped believing in G-d.

Until that fateful day, on the random but numerous occasions when I pondered the Divine, I imagined a kind old man with a beard looking down from a Heavenly perch. Until I was eight, I thought He was kind, and I felt bad that we littered His planet and poked holes in the ozone layer. Poor G-d, I thought.

I loved playing jacks. I practiced on my bedroom floor for hours. One practice session, I was advancing through increasingly difficult rounds until I hit a snag. I couldn’t grasp the rubber ball fast enough. And I wasn’t scooping up enough jacks. I turned my eyes heavenward. “G-d, help me,” I said, sincere as any Bible-thumping minister.

I tried again. And messed up.

Again.

And again.

“G-d! You better help me!”

No pretty pleases now. This was a demand.

I tossed the ball.

And bungled it.

Again, I turned my eyes heavenward. “G-d! That’s it! You bungled it. No way I’m believing in You anymore.”

And so, from the age of eight I was an atheist.

A catastrophic game of jacks may seem like an overly dramatic and childish reason to stop believing in G-d. But the groundwork for my religious rebellion had been laid long before.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 592)