I really don't

I've been thinking about Christianity and love and atheism and any religion, any faith, that I've learned of. I've been thinking about safety, and the dangerous activity that living is.
I've been thinking about the great mystery that existing is, that feeling anything is, and how faith is an effort to lay that to rest, to be a great snuggly blanket that anyone who wants to can snuggle up under. I distrust the rigidity of calmness and peace that I see in some that hold their religions so dearly. It is so often a painfully obvious bandaid, and I itch to peel it's sticky fabric back, and see what lies beneath the blanket.

Tonight, in reading Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, I came to a part just after a meeting between her and her young daughter, and an older woman teacher in Mrs. Dalloway's opulent home. The older woman is dirt poor and a recently converted Christian.
The older woman has taken the daughter into her confidence, and Mrs. Dalloway is distraught by this, as she holds a mutual disgust with the woman.
She is thinking of her life and her recent closeness to death, and the roses her husband brought her that day (he never brings her roses!). What is being Christian, in comparison to anything?

Afterward she sees a woman from her home's window in a neighboring house, a very old woman. Every day, for so long, she has been able to watch this old woman climb a set of stairs and sit in a chair to look out the window, never apparently catching Mrs. Dalloway watching her.
She watches the woman sit, and watches when the woman moves around her room, even as she loses sight, and she wonders, trying to see, but being unable and there is the great mystery so many religious folk claim to have solved:
"here was one room; there another. Did religion solve that..."

I don't understand a thing.