A knock at the door sounded. My family waited with baited breath as Nana, my grandmother, opened the door.

A sheet-clad figure stood outside, shivering in the cold New Year's drizzle. He wore a black hat, gloves and sunglasses over the sheet.

Father Time lived at the top of Mt. Hood. Every year on New Year's Day, when the Porter family assembled to exchange gifts, Father Time would hike down to my grandparents' house on 55th Avenue in Northeast Portland.

He spent 15 minutes at the house, giving us small gifts and having his picture taken with us. After hugs and thank yous, he trudged home.

One year, Father Time didn't come "because of a blizzard." He never came back again.

My brother Nate and I had killed Father Time. Whenever Father Time had come for a visit, a family member disappeared. Nate and I started pointing out the missing person; sometimes it was Granddad, other times an uncle. Once we started questioning who Father Time was, he never came back; we killed him.

For years I felt guilty.

Recently, I told Nana about how Nate and I ruined New Year's for my younger cousins. Nana smiled and told me that it wasn't my fault, that the adults just became tired of the game.

After living so long with the guilt of killing Father Time, learning I didn't ruin New Year's for my younger cousins still feels strange.

As a Christian, I have done the same thing.

After having lived with the guilt of sin for so long, giving up the guilt is a difficult process I am still working through.

Only with God's help can I overcome the guilt of 20 years of sin, including the guilt of destroying New Year's for my younger cousins.