Wheeling Gull Isle Revenge of the orchestra.

Dinah, firm believer, or so she thought; Dinah, a humble servant of Christ;
There were others. There was more to the story. The story of Christ was not the only one, for there were, apparently, many more. Dinah thought then of all the possibilities, of all the other deities there could be. And, as her face wrinkles in shock and then contorts to something like betrayal, they seem... fake.
There was no way anyone else could be right, right? Dinah was blessed, christened; her and her brothers and sisters, they had all been brought here by Him! Born of this soil, this sacred Isle, or brought to it by a vessel of Him. They were chosen by Him.
Her worship was all that was known, all that she had on those evenings where the stars were the beacon of His safety and His companionship; trust in Him, she'd been told, and that she did. Or so she thought. His word, His light, His presence was fact—
Her father's voice rings in the back of her head. Faith. What did it mean, to have faith? She had faith in God in the same way she had faith in her father, then, at that time;
And maybe up until now, she hadn't fully realized it, or at least had not admitted it to herself fully, but her faith was slipping slowly and yet violently like sand through a crevice in between crumbling rocks. In her parents, in her family, in—

God.

And to even think it, to question it, to wonder is God real was the most horrific thing Dinah could ever have conjured. Her breath catches deep in her lungs and she holds it there, and the tears come to a quaking halt; not for the lack of wanting to dispel them, but because the shock seems to be preventing it.
What if H-- what if He's, she can't say it. She can't, she can't; Gramma, what if He's not there?
The gates of Hell open wide for her; they creak, and they slam, and they await her arrival.