"Is he dead?" I asked, holding my breath, hoping it wasn’t true. I couldn’t cry. But the pain left an empty hole in me because I didn’t know him. When the answer came back "Yes," I sat down to absorb what had happened.

A flood of memories came back. It seemed like a rerun of one of those unbelievable, yet true, stories. My own mother had faced my father’s rage one weekend—at the business end of a gun. She finally talked him into putting the weapon down. After he went to work, she packed our bags and moved us out. My brother was 7 and I was only 4, but I vividly remember being in that motel room where we hid for a week. I had on my cowboy outfit that day, and Mom was crying.

The only thing I could do to make things better was to pull out my little gun and say, "Don’t cry, Mama. Me shoot Daddy."

Maybe that’s one reason why I stayed angry all those years. I was angry at my father for trying to hurt Mom. Later, I was angry because he died before I could get to know him.

Nothing ever went right for me after my dad died. I couldn’t concentrate or learn. I finally quit school in the 10th grade. I went to work as a roofer, carpet cleaner, or anything to earn money.

My anger grew. There were days I made life miserable for Mom and Jim by drinking. But the alcohol brought on more anger, which caused me to lose my temper a lot. I would put my fist through the living room wall or kick in the bathroom door. I was arrested several times for driving under the influence.

One day, I became angry because the bike I’d bought with my hard-earned money wouldn’t work right. I picked the 10-speed cycle up over my head and began screaming obscenities. I slammed it repeatedly into the ground until it lay in a crumbled heap.

Mom and Jim became alarmed at my uncontrollable rage and took me to see a counselor, but I didn’t want to talk with him. I just sat there and waited for him to quit speaking. After the third session, he gave up and told Mom he couldn’t help me if I wouldn’t communicate, which suited me just fine.

My drinking worsened and I had bouts with depression, staying in bed for days. I also started hanging out with bad company, and earned myself some dangerous enemies. One day a bullet hit my car as I drove down the highway. I think it was some kids from a rival school. When someone kicked down the basement door where my bedroom was, I too became alarmed. I guess that’s why I took the gun from my parents’ closet that day. I never kept it loaded but its presence made me feel safe.

The next evening I drove to the hotel where my brother worked. After parking my car, I went straight toward the bar.

Inside, a strong, burly man said, "Son, I need to see your ID." Because I didn’t have one, I tried to muscle my way past the guy. He became angry and shoved me. I shoved back. The next thing I knew he smacked me in the jaw and I hit the floor. I jumped up waving the gun in his face. Someone had already called the police and in a split second I heard, "Freeze!" I turned to my left where three policemen stood in a firing stance, their guns drawn and aimed directly at me. To my right, I looked down the barrel of another officer’s pistol. The scene was chaotic. The police were shouting, "Drop your weapon! Get your hands up on the wall!" I stood frozen in time. Then an inner voice gently prompted me to go to the wall. I did and was handcuffed and taken to jail.

So for the fourth or fifth time, I sat in the county jail with the stench of bodily fluids and sweaty men surrounding me. I didn’t worry. Whenever I was caught driving under the influence of alcohol, my parents always posted bail for me. I was shocked when I called for them to get me out and Mom said no.

I didn’t realize at the time that they had been on their knees in prayer for me. Finally, they let go and entrusted me to God. Meanwhile, all I could see was the bars on that jail cell and no way out. I knew I was in trouble, and I said a simple prayer, "God, please help me. All I want is a decent life."

A few days later, a friend and his father posted bail for me. Angrily, I went home and packed my things, never once speaking to my parents. Then I moved in with my friend. One night another friend from church dropped by and through our conversation, I ended up asking Christ into my heart.

Within a year, I met a beautiful young woman named Jennifer at the package store where I worked. We later married and now have two great children. In fact, I have spent many evenings witnessing to men in state prisons in Alabama—where I easily could have ended up.

I still regret all the pain I’ve caused my parents. One recent Christmas, Jim and I went to the grocery store for my mother. While in the cab of the truck with music softly playing in the background, I said, "Jim, can you ever forgive me for all the pain I put you through?"