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Tamar Pollard’s story

“Suddenly a masked man smashed through the driver’s window with an iron bar and began beating Dad to death. There was nothing Dad could do — he was trapped in his own seat, receiving blow after blow. And it was there he died, suffocating on his own blood.”

Thirteen years ago the question of forgiveness became a very real one for me. Every summer my whole family (me, Mum, Dad and younger brother and sister), packed into a caravanette full of aid: food, clothes, medicine and Bibles and journeyed off to Eastern Europe, for six weeks. This particular year, when Mum and Dad approached the Romanian border, the lights failed on the vehicle. They stopped in a lay-by to wait for daylight, but were soon disturbed by a loud bangs. Dad clambered into the cab and put the key into the ignition. Suddenly a masked man smashed through the driver’s window with an iron bar and began beating Dad to death. There was nothing Dad could do — he was trapped in his own seat, receiving blow after blow. And it was there he died, suffocating on his own blood. Questions began to flood my mind. Questions like: “Do I really believe God exists and is in control?”, “Do I really believe God is good and his plans are perfect?”, “Do I really believe God sent his son, Jesus into the world?”, “Do I believe Jesus died in my place, to take the punishment I deserve?”. And as I answered yes to each and every one of them, I was then left with the question, “Well, how am I going to respond?”

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