A Come to Jesus meeting

How do you tell your grandmother that you're going to hell? Or better yet, tell her that you seriously doubt there is a hell?
I woke up this morning with a "Come to Jesus" meeting in my inbox. (Not literally, you understand. I'm using a metaphor, kids.) The recent changes in my family in Texas seem to have shaken my grandmother a bit, and now she's worried about my soul. Okay, wait, let's back up. Let's give you some more pieces of the story. (Note: this has turned out much, much longer than I expected. For those patient enough to read it all, I apologize and thank you. For those not patient, well... that's okay too.)

It takes a village to raise a child? Well, it certainly takes grandparents. In my case, a great-grandparent. My parents were both in school and working full-time jobs from the beginning of my memory until about 10 years old. My great-grandmother, Mamaw, lived near us, and would keep an eye on me. Twice a week, she'd pick me up from school, and she took me to church every Sunday. Church of Christ, mind you. My father was a failed Church of Christ-er, and my mother was an ex-Catholic. Neither of them went to church regularly, though my mother made the effort for Easter Sunday, and to see me sing in the Christmas pageants.
When I was 8 or so, my grandfather died. (Note: these are all my paternal relations. My maternal grandparents are strict Catholic and live in Iowa and I talk to them 3 or 4 times a year. Nuff said.) Nana moved from Pennsylvania to live with Mamaw. As Mamaw got older, Nana began to take over the "get some church in the grandchild" campaign. I did bible class. I did church camp over the summers. My best friend was a member of our church. (She also conveniently lived a few doors down from Mamaw and Nana's house.)
But come on, church was never my thing. Sure, dressing up once a week was fun. And I loved the singing. But I don't remember ever talking about religion beyond asking my parents why they didn't go. (The answer varied depending on my age.) I do remember trying to be a good Christian. Or at least a good girl. I had bibles coming out my ears - at one point, I owned at least five, all given to me as gifts. I remember trying to be diligent and read the whole thing. A chapter every morning. I gave up before I got through Matthew. (And I started in the New Testament.)
When we moved to Texas, sans grandparents, and my mom got pregnant, she started attending. Nana had used her contacts and found us a nice "church home" in Texas, and we went pretty regularly. Mom got baptized within the year, and it really was a great church. But it was always awkward to me. I did not like attending bible class there - maybe because it was so sporadic. Mom is habitually late for things, and we probably got to service late more often than on time.
When I was about 17, I remember sitting down and telling my parents I didn't want to go anymore. I felt like I'd experienced enough for now, and I wasn't going to start believing any time soon. (At least I wasn't hypocritical enough to have gotten baptized. I had a little more morals than that.) Mom told me that as long as I lived there, I needed to attend church, "for the social aspects, even if not for the religion." Probably the absolute wrong thing to say, now that I think about it. But I did.
Nana moved to our town when I was 19, and started attending with us. Which, honestly, surprised me a little. She'd always struck me as not particularly religious, but she was going because she was expected, and because it was how she was raised.
When I was 20, I married an agnostic. His family was Jehovah's Witnesses, and there was no WAY in hell (or earth) that either one of us was joining the JW's. And if he went to church with my family, he was at risk for getting shunned from his family. Not exactly a bad thing, but... it was a reason not to attend a church. I went occasionally with my family, but it was to appease them, not for my soul.
When we moved for me to attend graduate school, it just so happened that some of Nana's friends lived in our new town. Old friends from her old church. And yes, we went to church with them a few times. They were nice old people, and they bought us lunch. And it was a nice church. But it was just nice. We probably went 4 or 5 times (just enough to do our duty/get Nana's hopes up,) and stopped going.
And when we moved here, I thought we were free. No one asked if we'd found a church home. No one asked if we were looking. It was a relief, honestly. And yes, I happen to work (as a contractor) in a religiously affiliated hospital. Not by choice, but because that's who hired my company.
So now we come back to the present. My parents and siblings are moving to Georgia in a month, leaving Nana in Texas. Both of my siblings got baptized this summer. And during my visit home a few weeks ago, I've apparently become "rougher in my language," though I'm not quite making the connection between that and my flagrant non-Christian-ness.
So she'll pray for my soul, and hope that I'll find my way back to Jesus. Because she and Mamaw and Mom spent a lot of time instilling that faith in me. And maybe my conversion will help Dad see the light and he'll go back to church and stop drinking...
To be completely honest, people of the Christian faith bother me a bit. The ones who profess themselves loudly, and offer to pray for your soul. They not only turn me off to them as people, but they turn me off to the religion.
Even if I had faith, it would be quiet. I have to balance all things in life with the rationality and scientific logic that was instilled at my dinner table. Yes, there may be a God. Or two. Or three. But I don't think he would appreciate his believers forcibly proselytizing their fellow men. If I had belief in a God, it would be an accepting, loving God. One who can appreciate how people choose to live their life, and doesn't care how much you swear as long as it's not in His name.
I don't really know how to end this, except maybe with an apology to my family for failing to be religious and the realization that I probably will go to Hell, if it exists. And the sincere hope that when I die, my body will cease and there will be no more.