Greek-orthodox is one of the most refined and strictest religions out there, and my grandma is the most religious person I know; making it only natural for me to cause a disruption in her most sacred haven: church. My mother would bring my siblings and I a few minutes before Communion would start because she knew our limited capacity to behave ourselves there. I was feeling under the weather, but having no choice, I found myself at church that Sunday morning. I waited impatiently for the fifteen minutes before Communion, which felt like six excruciating hours. As we walked up to the alter, I could feel that something was going to happen, but ignored it, surely such a thing wouldn’t happen in church. I was barely able to tell the priest my name, or swallow the wine. Sensing that something was wrong, either through the holy spirit or common sense, the priest questioned my appearance, and patted me on the back, wishing that I would recover soon. Thus, the miracle happened only where miracles could. I felt it, and I couldn’t stop it. I turned to the audience and regurgitated our Savior in front and on the shoes of the first two rows. Ever seen the Exorcist and how the priest looked at the little girl when he realized she was possessed by the devil? Now just picture that face stricken upon the faces of around twenty churchgoers. I looked at what just happened and waited for some kind of divine retribution, but all that followed were mutters along with looks of disgust. I quickly headed out escorted by my mother and to the bathroom to wash up. The previous jokes about me being a demon child seemed to finally make sense.