I told my Grandmother that I don't really believe in God anymore, and that maybe I never did. "No evidence either way," I explained. "Mythology. Stories that the ancients told to explain the unexplainable," I rationalized. "Agnostic," I concluded.
She said, "You sound just like your Grandfather."
My Grandmother believes. Maybe not as much as some, but enough. Maybe not as much as she once did, but still. Even in the face of people who tell her that believers only believe because they are scared of reality -- or worse -- that they are merely hedging their bets. She still believes despite all the tragedies that she has faced in her life -- poverty, wars, the loss of a spouse, the loss of a child. Her faith comforts her.
I, in turn, am comforted by that.