robbed of a childhood

When I was a little boy, I had no idea what the term, Soul Confessions, meant. I enjoyed my life; it was as good as any boy could ever hope to have. My parents doted on me, but they didn't spoil me. When we went into a store, I didn't get everything I asked for, but I was rich in the time they spent with me, in the values they instilled in me from an early age.

Mom spent more time with me than Dad, though, because she stayed home to look after me and, a few years later, my brother. Dad was a judge and it kept him busy, but his love for us was absolute no matter how much time he spent away from his family.

I remember Dad and I going on fishing trips with one of his friends. My brother didn't come because he was too young so I got Dad to myself during those occasions. I was also the one helping Dad cook when we would have barbecues. I helped him drag the Christmas tree into the house and went to the garage with him when the car needed to be repaired. Sometimes it would be the two of us who went grocery shopping just to give Mom a break.

Dad would be the one to sit me on his knee and read the Children's Bible, whereas Mom read me nursery rhymes. Dad was the one who taught me to talk to God, said I could tell Him about anything. He said I could share happy feelings with God as well as feelings and thoughts that made me sad. I still didn't know what Soul Confessions were, at this point in my life, but I knew what love in action was; I saw it every day in the relationship between my parents.

I loved my dad. In my mind, he was the perfect example of what a father should be. He was my hero. Imagine how I felt when we were at the park one morning and he was shot and killed in front of me from a sniper's bullet. I still remember the scream that rose from me, still remember the blood. It was the last image I had of my father and, sadly, the image remains with me no matter how hard I try to remember how he looked before that fatal moment.

I know Mom was grieving from her heart, even her soul. I must confess it was made more difficult because she was worried about me. She took me to many counsellors but it was pointless. Nothing could penetrate the sorrow I felt, could eradicate the horrific memory of the last morning spent with my father. I'd wake from nightmares each night, without exception. I blamed God; He shouldn't have let me see my dad get killed and, because I did, it was something that scarred me forever.

As I grew, Mom tried her hardest to convince me not to let anger control my life, but it didn't matter. I swore I would find the man who killed my father, who robbed me of my childhood. I didn't know what I would do when I found him, but I was determined that even God wouldn't stand in my way. I knew what Soul Confessions were, at this point, but rest assured none would arise from me. I didn't even feel I had a soul left for a confession to come from because I had grown so bitter and angry. Knowing Dad would be so disappointed in the way my attitude toward God had shifted, that I had forsaken everything he tried to teach me as I sat upon his knee, didn't even penetrate the hardness which had settled inside of me.

Yeah, you could say I had a chip on my shoulder - as big a chip as anyone could have, I suppose. The strangest thing happened to me, though - something I didn't expect and it changed my life forever. I'd like to think Dad might be prouder of me now.

If you would like to learn the rest of my story, come over to Soul Confessions' page on Amazon; it's the third book of Norma Budden's Freedom in Love series, but I'd be remiss in not inviting you to check out the preceding titles, An Affair to Remember and When Love Abides.

Anyway, thanks for listening as I shared a little with you about my life. Who knows? I may be back to share a little more with you at a later date.

All the best!
Tyler Washington

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