We have many copies of the Bible in our house. Most are stamped with the addresses of the churches my mother took them from. She believed in blessing each room with one, open to her favorite passages. She was secretly hoping that with so many open bibles, I'd have to look down and start reading. Then I'd succumb to their holy power. When she was sick, I drove her to church every Sunday and would mouth the words to the songs, just to fit in. While I refused to get baptized, she was glad that I was under God's roof for a short time.
For a while she believed that blasting Christian radio sermons through the house would make it holy. I found it impossible to tune out the monologues about armageddon. It was a kind of sound torture, my mother must have known. We came to a truce. She then only listened to Chinese talk radio. I'm thankful that she never blasted the Bible on cassette tape and only littered the house with the books.