Author Archives: Tobi Goff

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About Tobi Goff

I am a writer, impertinent Christian, and recovering perfectionist. I (mostly) enjoy life in the Pacific Northwest with my husband and two daughters. Sleep is my drug of choice, and I like books, hugs, and piña colada milkshakes.

How to Be a Mother

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Breathe. And not just
during the contractions.
You must be well-oxygenated
to care for another human being.

Give up. And not just
once. Keep at it.
You must release your grasp
before your muscles cramp.

Laugh. And not just
when it’s funny.
You must include sadness and shock
and exhaustion in your mirth.

Tell the truth. And not just
to yourself.
You must tell the other moms,
and listen to their tellings.

Accept your new self. And not just
the nurturing and brave parts.
You must accept the anger,
the desperation, the invisibility.

And remember to breathe.

Substance Use or Pain?

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I know next to nothing about substance use. Other than tales of “the alcoholic” family members I never met, the “sinners” in the prodigal-returns books the church fed me, and the guy who beat the tar out of a piñata at his daughter’s birthday party, I live in a substance-use-free bubble. Although, I was offered a drink last week by two guys about my age who came upon me at a local park, where I had stationed myself to watch for beaver activity. I hoped to catch the crepuscular creatures near one end of their habitat, where they had recently felled a large tree.

It became apparent these two fellows had been drinking when they repeatedly complimented my purple outfit, introduced themselves, offered to move my chair for me, asked me to show them the beaver lodge, and kept up a constant stream of friendly banter. Sober people walk by silently and you’re lucky to get a nod.

“If you’re gonna take beer from a stranger, we’re the right people to take it from,” the talkative fellow offered. He went on to explain the virtues of the beer he had in the cooler bag over his shoulder, but it all went over my head. IPA and other alcohol-related terms are Greek to me.

As a child, I was taught to fear alcohol, with the admonition that because alcohol addiction runs in our family, I could become addicted with a single drink. Is there truth to that? I don’t know. Now that I’m an adult it seems beside the point.

Last November, I attended a community education event—“Hidden In Plain Sight,” or HIPS. This event multiplied my slight knowledge of substances by at least ten times. For example, I thought “doing pot” 40 years ago was essentially the same as “doing pot” today. I was wrong. But before I get to that … The whole experience hit me odd—attending a 1.5-hour community event in which I felt the main takeaway was “just say no” (although those words were not used). I thought people who didn’t rely on religious/moral reasons for abstinence just didn’t abstain. Or at the very least, didn’t tell others to abstain. But apparently, given data on brain development and facts about the effects of drugs and alcohol, a whole slough of people agree that—at least for kids and teens—“no” is the appropriate attitude toward substances. And this isn’t about illegal drugs; it’s about nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol.

When I talk to my kids about alcohol and drug use, I notice they are acutely—vehemently—aware that it is “bad”—so much so that it’s easy for them to assume a person who uses is not a “good” person. For that reason, my conversations with them, more often than not, focus on the aspect of numbing pain. I tell them people drink because it makes them feel better. It’s relief from anxiety, loneliness, trauma, and intense emotional pain. And isn’t every human being worthy of relief from pain?

I didn’t know what to expect going to the HIPS event—other than free pizza and a lesson on the paraphernalia of risky teen behavior. But when I left after the event I had a distinct feeling that something was missing—we didn’t talk about the pain these kids are trying to numb. Or the pain their parents are trying to numb. And parental influence means—like it or not—when we as parents use substances to numb our pain, it’s hard to tell our kids not to, and even harder for them to respect and respond to us.

In the state of Washington, where I live, it is legal for a parent to give alcohol to their child at any age, in their home1. And although it’s illegal to give tobacco or marijuana products to your own children, the data in our local community indicates that parents are supplying these items to their children in middle school and high school2—or at least turning a blind eye. Additionally, many websites that sell vapes and other nicotine products simply have a textbox to type in one’s age, making it easier to buy substances than it is to log into your bank account.

Products that were originally marketed as smoking cessation products, such as vapes,3 may deliver more nicotine to users than cigarettes, depending on the product and frequency of use. They’re also cheaper. A carton of cigarettes is $120, and the roughly-equivalent 7,000-puff rechargeable fume vape—which comes in more than a dozen flavors and fits easily in a closed hand—costs only $15. It also conveniently flies under the radar of the Clean Indoor Air Act, since the nicotine is delivered without a cloud of smoke. As you might imagine, these changes rewrite the landscape of nicotine use.

And alcohol is not exempt from the changing landscape. With a disposable water bottle, a wine cork, and a bike pump, a curious teen can vaporize alcohol, conveniently bypassing their digestive system and taking the full impact of a shot of hard liquor directly to their bloodstream.4

Now back to the changes around “doing pot”. Before the turn of the century, marijuana products delivered about 4% THC, or tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive compound found in cannabis. In the 2010s, that number jumped to nearly 20% with the medicalization of marijuana. Today there are products containing up to 90% THC5. This ain’t your grandpa’s weed. Yet in Walla Walla County the Healthy Youth Survey in 2023 reported that 56% of 10th-grade respondents thought trying cannabis/marijuana held no risk or low risk, and 30% thought regular use had little or no risk.6 Are these students thinking of grandpa’s weed, or the expanding menu of available products? There’s rosin, crumble, distillate, bubble hash, dry sift, crystalline, and the list goes on.7

Youth who experiment with substance use are often unaware—now more than ever—of the actual amount of alcohol, nicotine, or THC they are taking in through various products or processes, resulting in an uptake of accidental overdoses.8 Parents seem to be checked out of their kids’ lives, and capitalism is taking advantage of the changing topography of products that deliver substances.

2023 Health Use Survey (askhys.net)
Walla Walla County data

20% of 10th graders reported using marijuana at least once in their life.

50.9% of 10th graders reported using alcohol at least once in their life.

16% of 8th graders had ridden, during the previous 30 days, in a vehicle driven by someone who had been drinking alcohol.

2.7% of 6th graders (my 12-year-old daughter’s grade) reported alcohol use in the past 30 days, as did 3.9% of 8th graders and 13.1% of 10th graders.

19.5% of 8th graders and 33.6% of 10th graders indicated it would be “sort of or very easy” to get marijuana.

In case you got lost in the grade numbers,
all of these statistics are for youth approximately 11-15 years of age.

Not long after attending the HIPS events, my husband Michael and I walked by a smoke shop as we were finishing a pizza-and-ice-cream date night. “Ooh,” I said spontaneously, “let’s go in!” Michael didn’t share my enthusiasm, but he followed me inside the shop. The young man behind the counter welcomed us in and asked if we were after anything particular. I volunteered that neither of us had ever had anything. “If there’s something you want to try, let me know,” he offered.

To the left, behind a long counter, packaged products lined the wall. To the right, blown-glass paraphernalia caught my eye. I didn’t know what any of it was called. “Pipe” and “bong” seemed like terms that probably applied to some of the stuff, but I wasn’t sure. It reminded me of visiting the glass-blowing shops in Oregon’s coastal towns. Rows of shelves showcased the beautiful colors and shapes, and at the back of the store two more large displays highlighted artful drug paraphernalia.

The shop also had knives, samurai swords, rings for body-piercings, incense, an impressive display of fancy cigars, sex paraphernalia, and—based on my newly-acquired knowledge—several items I assumed were for hiding drugs. Michael and I circled the store a few times, commenting quietly to each other. Wanting to be a good customer, I bought a small vaping device.

Just kidding. I bought a pair of cheap earrings.

“Drugs and alcohol” are not the static story I imagined. And my interpretations are one tiny perspective on an issue that is complex beyond any one person’s understanding. Advertising, social influences9, the complex science of the over-400 components of cannabis10, the biology of addiction, stigma, family structure, mental health, and countless other factors impact our youth and their decisions around substances.

Mental health professionals and others, including the renowned Brené Brown, say it isn’t possible to selectively numb emotion. If we numb pain, anxiety, and sadness, we also numb joy, contentment, and gratitude. How will a generation unable to feel things—let alone name those feelings—live whole lives, experience belonging, and effectively walk through the tragedy and triumph of life?

And how will they teach resilience to the next generation?

I am left with more questions than answers. Why did I know nothing of the breadth and depth of new and evolving products and packaging around substance use? Why did only about 20 people attend this HIPS event that was marketed across the Walla Walla Valley? Why does it seem like social workers and law enforcement are the only people looking at this data?

About 10% of 8th graders and 14% of 10th graders surveyed had considered suicide. Over a third indicated a struggle with depression.11 Why are our children in so much pain? And how are we offering relief?

Endnotes:
1 RCW 66.44.270, subsection (4), viewed here.
2 The Healthy Youth Survey fact sheet for Walla Walla County in 2023 reports that 29% of youth in 8th and 12th grades, and 27% of youth in 10th grade reported getting alcohol from home, with permission, in the past 30 days. Additionally, only 5% of youth drink alcohol if their parents think it’s wrong, while 28% drink if their parents don’t think it’s wrong. This data is from a fact sheet created here.
3 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10880776/
4 https://www.vumc.org/poison-control/toxicology-question-week/jan-29-2020-alcohol-vaping-friend-or-foe
3 https://medicine.yale.edu/news-article/not-your-grandmothers-marijuana-rising-thc-concentrations-in-cannabis-can-pose-devastating-health-risks/
6 This data is from a fact sheet created here.
7 https://vivosun.com/growing_guide/what-is-crumble-crystalline-sugar/
8 This was covered in the live presentation. I’m still looking for a data source to cite here.
9 https://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/e-cigarettes/why-youth-vape.html
10 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4188645/
11 This data is from a fact sheet created here.

Latte and Lover

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Latte and Lover

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for this cardamom-orange latte,
moment of perfection
in a fretful day,
soothing my lips,
hospice for my tongue,
comfort in my throat.

Blessed are You
for the beans and the heat and the hands—
makers of this,
and for the joy You feel seeing me
sit and sip and sate,
and for the peace I ingest
seeing You seeing me.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for the zest of orange,
the comfort of cardamom,
the sensuality of taste,
the weightiness of being held,
always held
by You my Lover.

Two New Holes

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Shortly after my May birthday last spring, I acquired two new holes in my body. I had my ears pierced.

One aspect of the conservative Christianity I grew up in is an aversion to body piercings. And tattoos, lipstick, and clothing that reveals feminine curves. When I left home as a I teen, I bought a padded bra, colored my hair with a box of dye from Walmart, and called it good for my rebellion. As a young adult I said I didn’t want to pierce my ears or get a tattoo because I have a low pain tolerance. Also, I faint for vaccinations, blood draws, and if I hit my knee or elbow too hard. (I fainted at the dentist once, and I fainted when I went to the college clinic to get a wart removed from my foot. The nurse sent me to Walmart to buy the kind of wart remover you paint on yourself.)

Why this sudden body piercing urge, you might ask, as I’m nearing the age of 40?

Last year, my nine-year-old daughter Kyli decided she wanted to get her ears pierced. “Why don’t you have your ears pierced, Mom?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like pain.”

“Well, if you really wanted them pierced you would do it,” she countered.

Point taken. So I thought about it. I hoped quiet reflection might reveal something profound, but my reasons were a grab-bag—it hurts, most of my friends don’t wear earrings, it feels weird to do it now that I’m middle-aged, it seems unnatural to poke a hole in my body (morality aside), my parents won’t like it, and so on. Like I said, random, blah, blah, blah.

So I decided to give it a shot, get my ears pierced with Kyli, and see if I like wearing earrings. Rather than take the lead because of lived experience—my usual role as mother—I had the same questions, concerns and curiosities as Kyli. We’d be figuring this one out together.

We waited for the school year to finish since the kids attend a Christian school that doesn’t allow earrings (or colored nail polish—go figure). Kyli wanted to get earrings the moment school let out, so we made appointments at Ulta Beauty for 1pm on May 31st—one hour after school dismissal on the last day of the school year. We snagged Kyli’s bestie, got a bite to eat, and drove to the salon. Inside, past the rows of creams and powders and scents, we found a plump young lady ready to pierce our ears.

I signed the thing they handed me—a waiver?—while Kyli picked out studs. Her bestie pinched her arm hard to show her how much it would hurt. The plump lady drew dots on Kyli’s earlobes, asked us to examine them and approve the placement, then inserted a stud in a white hand-gun. Punch!—right ear done. Kyli’s eyes were wide, a combination of curiosity and alarm, as she took in the experience and tried to categorize it. Painful? Scary? No big deal? Before she could settle an answer, punch!—left ear done.

For the next minute, Kyli’s hands hovered around her ears, her instinct to squeeze them through the discomfort, at odds with her determination not to touch. I watched, ready to comfort. But I wasn’t needed. Bestie dragged her around the store, applying makeup until Kyli’s face was caked with several shades of foundation and blush and her fears forgotten.

Meanwhile, I warned the employee holding the ear-piercing gun that I’m a fainter. Judging by her look of alarm, I guessed she didn’t have a lot of experience with people fainting—either that or she had a memorably bad experience. “I’ll know if I’m going to faint, and I’ll tell you,” I assured her. She proceeded to draw dots on my ears, punch, punch, voilà! Little silver hearts rested on my earlobes. During those thirty seconds, I felt the same wide-eyed, uncertain curiosity Kyli’s face had conveyed, but when it was all over, decided the pain wasn’t worth mentioning. We took pictures, documenting this mother-daughter experience trying something new together.

All summer we cleaned around our earrings, front and back—twice a day at first, then less often. We cleaned them after showers, after swimming, after getting dirty in the yard. We twisted them around in the holes as we had been instructed, and left them in 24/7.

At first, earrings were more unnerving than I expected. It felt wrong to intentionally punch a hole in my body and take special care of it to keep it that way. Usually when I cut through my skin and flesh, I tend it carefully to facilitate healing. This was different. Also, for the first month or two, I felt slightly anxious about having something attached to my body that I couldn’t take off. When I went to bed and took off my watch and glasses, I wanted to put the earrings on my nightstand too. I wanted to take them out so my body could be just my body. During the night, I tried different positions with my pillow to put the least pressure on my earlobes.

After the prescribed six weeks, I hesitated to remove my earrings since they still oozed or bled occasionally. Kyli, tired of waiting to wear a favorite pair of earrings, took out the original studs and sported cute, sparkly flowers for a day. This joyous occasion deteriorated when I couldn’t find the right hole to get the original studs back in her ear. I had erroneously thought a hole was a hole, but the tip of the earring took it’s own course through the fleshy part of Kyli’s earlobe and came out the back in a different place!

Blood, tears, and parental concern and confusion ensued. We survived this try-to-find-the-right-hole circus two or three times over the next week, and eventually Kyli’s left ear was so unhappy she let it heal shut. When school began again in August, she wore a tiny clear stud in her right ear—which still oozed and bled sometimes. She didn’t want to remove that one, but also refused to get her left ear pierced again. We were deadlocked in pirate mode.

The first pair of earrings I bought came from a rock-and-mineral shop in a falling-apart historic building we stumbled across during a bathroom break on a road trip. They’re tiger’s-eye stones. I nearly passed out when I first put them in, but after lying on the bathroom floor and breathing deeply for a minute—usually an effective method to maintain consciousness—I returned to normal.

At this point, I’ve probably had as much fun buying earrings as wearing them. For more than six months, I didn’t leave my earrings out any longer than an hour—the holes still appeared tenuous. Either the original studs or one of my half-dozen new pairs of earrings stayed in my ears at all times. At last, a month or two ago, I slept truly naked for the first time. It felt good as good as I imagined.

In a few months, it will be a year since we pierced our ears. During that time, Kyli’s right ear developed big scabs and pus came out when I cleaned it, over and over, so a few weeks ago she took out the clear stud. It’s healing now, and she’s done with earrings for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m growing into the fun of it. My sister gave me a beautiful pair of iridescent hummingbird earrings for Christmas. Michael gave me a pair of book earrings for Valentines Day—I’d been looking and found surprisingly few options, and these are adorable tiny blue books with real pages. I wore them to the library this week, and felt that same satisfaction I get when my bra and underwear match—a covert sense of matching.

So, friend, if you’re forty-ish and thinking about earrings, here’s what I’ve learned: It’s a small adventure, and hey, maybe that’s what makes it fun. These years lean low on adventure—outside of parenting. And come to think of it, this adventure was tangentially brought to me by parenting—two new holes, the result of a question from my daughter.

How about you—any new holes in your life? Or body?

Extremely Sacred

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While running errands and trying to decide whether to even make time to contemplate a “word of the year” for 2025, a word found me. “Sacred.” This word is an invitation to presence, or mindfulness, or prayer without ceasing—whatever you call that awareness of life in oneself and in every bit of everything. Inside this wealth of aliveness is soul-rest, humility, compassion, and curiosity.

In her book The Artist’s Rule, Christine Valters Paintner repeatedly explores sacredness, suggesting that we consider our “life story as a sacred text,” and life as an invitation to “discover the sacred in all things, all persons, all experiences.” It is much easier for me to let stained glass be sacred and catching up on emails be secular. Let Jesus love me, but let me appropriately dislike my neighbor.

“Sacred” requires that I hold space for what is difficult or repulsive. It demands that I return to myself over and over, to the wholeness of belonging. Worst of all, it is an invitation to relinquish judgment—of myself first, and of everyone and everything else.

But if all ground is holy ground, what then? Paintner writes, “growth happens in any context and … any situation in which we find ourselves can offer the fullness of grace.” Any situation. God everywhere. Kitchen sink, coffee shop, marital discord, frosty grass, leftovers for lunch, heart disease. I think sacred awe is quiet. Or maybe innocent like a child, un-brittle, open.

Although “sacred” is gentle, it is not soft. It knows God’s upside-down kingdom, and is relentless about including “outsiders” until none are left. This radical inclusion happens at every level—inside me, where I try to sort out the acceptable and unacceptable parts; in my family, where it’s easy to reward whoever has the best behavior; in my community, where I gravitate toward people who agree with how I do life; in my country, where the shared umbrella of freedom is torn to shreds by those of us who can’t bear to take refuge beside our enemies; in the world, where shared humanity is forgotten in the quest for survival, or seniority, or security.

“Sacred” also includes a call for me to know who I am and what I’m about. Paintner quotes Richard Rohr, speaking about a sacred “yes” and “no,” by which he means “that affirmation or negation that comes from a deep place of wisdom and courage, even if it creates conflict or disagreement.” I do not like this. But the longer I live, the more apparent it becomes that living in harmony with what is life-giving will result in dis-harmony with the tall and manicured stack of what-life-was-supposed-to-be. Curiosity holds all things lightly.

Rohr continues, “The sacred yes is not willful or egocentric, but rather is willing and surrendered. The sacred no is not rebellion or refusal, but always the necessary protecting of boundaries.” A willful yes and a rebellious no—these are familiar. “Surrender” is bitter herbs. I predict this beauty of sacred walls and doors will take a lifetime to assimilate.

Trump’s inauguration was emotional. I didn’t watch it. I don’t know anything about it. By emotional, I mean it brought out powerful emotions in millions of Americans. Inauguration day didn’t feel like just another day. It felt momentous. There is space for this, too, in the sacredness of 2025. Politics cannot escape the inclusive expanse of God’s sacred breath.

Personally, I worry more about loving my mother than I do about executive orders. Yes, that is my privilege speaking, and also my choice. It would be simple to apply “sacred” in broad strokes and avoid attending to whether I treat my children’s experiences with reverence, and my spouse’s foibles with kindness. Must I see the sacred in cat hair and dust, codependence, kids sick at home? Yes, yes, let it be so. I will be a woman of extreme sacredness, surrendered (not always willingly) to the eye surgery that tunes my eyes to see an extremely sacred world.

Here’s to reverent attention in 2025.

Postscript: These songs by JJ Heller have a way of returning me to sacred vision. Big Love, Small Moments and The Best Thing

Books I Read In 2024

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I read 26 books last year. Let’s look at the boring category first: SELF HELP. (I won’t tell if you skip down the page)

Two of these books were suggested by friends, who read them with me. I’ve copied a favorite quote from each book.

“People who don’t know what they find satisfying generally struggle to know who they really are. Our identity and our passions are intimately connected.” (page 168)
The 4 Habits of Joy-Filled People, Marcus Warner and Chris M. Coursey, 179

“… if we are to stay connected with our soul, we will need to have the capacity to sometimes be dreadful, objectionable, or offensive.” (pages 64-65)
The Vital Spark: Reclaim Your Outlaw Energies and Find Your Feminine Fire, Lisa Marchiano, LCSW, 249

“Other people’s frustrations won’t kill you. Their opinions can’t take you out. You can indeed choose a new yes, or a continued yes. You can keep at the thing you love, even if it isn’t producing results yet. You can say yes to what you want to say yes to. … Are you just into it? That is reason enough.” (page 129)
Fierce, Free, and Full of Fire: The Guide to Being Glorious You, Jen Hatmaker, 221

“There is a season between deliverance and dominion that is called dependence.” (page 193)
She Is Free: Learning the Truth About the Lies That Hold You Captive, Andi Andrew, 203

FICTION. In 2023 I read only one work of fiction—I edited it for a friend. I determined to read more fiction in 2024, and I did! I enjoyed, but didn’t love, these reads. Maybe 2025 will be the year I find a fiction book to love.

The Innocents at Home: Children of the 1940’s, Mary Stone, 241

Facing the Dawn, Cynthia Ruchti, 310

Love, Jacaranda, Alex Flinn, 356

All Other Nights, Dara Horn, 363

One Corpse Too Many, Ellis Peters, 275

The Minister’s Restoration, George MacDonald, edited by Michael R. Phillips, 207

POETRY. I had the privilege of joining the book launch team for Marla Taviano’s book whole: poems on reclaiming the pieces of ourselves and creating something new (268 pp.). It’s a quick, fun read, and Marla’s authenticity creates space for a whole range of questions and “questionable thoughts” about Christianity/religion.

Made of Rivers by Emory Hall (68 pp.) is fabulous. It was recently re-released with thirty additional poems. Go buy it.

OR, if you can only buy one book of poetry today, you might consider All Along You Were Blooming: Thoughts for Boundless Living, by Morgan Harper Nichols (182 pp.). My dream as a writer is to create spaces with my words that allow folks to breathe, allow their souls to sit down in peace. This collection of poems did those exact things for me. It’s a wonderful read for a quiet hour on the weekend, or a way to rest your spirit when you climb in bed at night.

CREATIVITY AND WRITING. I’ve read some pretty amazing books by writers, about writing. Lots of people write about things they know about, and the books are good, but reading the words of a skilled writer is always more fun. Maybe I’m biased, but I think the best how-to books are about writing, because writers wrote them. Am I making any sense?

Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity (235 pp.), would fall in the category of excellent-book-about-writing, written by an excellent writer. And if you like The Artist’s Way, she has perhaps a dozen more books with related content. Take a deep dive.

The Artist’s Rule: Nurturing Your Creative Soul With Monastic Wisdom, by Christine Valters Paintner (162 pp.), is an invitation to embrace the intersection of the spiritual and the creative—or, in her words, your inner monk and inner artist. I loved every page, had a lot of fun with the writing prompts, and tried some new things, like wabi-sabi photography.

Mark Yaconelli’s book, Between the Listening and the Telling: How Stories Can Save Us (183 pp.), is a compelling showcase for the power of story. It reignited my passion for storytelling and story-listening as community activities.

STORIES. All good. Of course the one about Gregory Boyle (G-dog) was a favorite, along with What My Bones Know. My daughter picked up The Invisible Thread at a used book fair. It’s the memoir of a young second-generation Japanese American who lived in a U.S. concentration camp during World War II. I read it because I knew nothing about the experience of Japanese Americans during the war, and to see if it was appropriate for an 11-year-old to read (in my opinion, it is).

G-Dog and the Homeboys: Father Greg Boyle and the Gangs of East Los Angeles, Celeste Fremon, 314

Happy Trails: The Story of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, with Carlton Stowers, 207

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou, 289

Surviving the White Gaze: A Memoir, Rebecca Carroll, 318

A Beautiful Mind: The Life of Mathematical Genius and Nobel Laureate John Nash, Sylvia Nasar, 390

What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma, Stephanie Foo, 321

The Invisible Thread, Yoshiko Uchida, 133

SOUL FOOD, my favorite! The books in the CREATIVITY AND WRITING category would fit here as well.

Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert (331 pp.)—it’s popular for a reason. The blend of delectable writing with deep insight and the permission to be human made it a special occasion each time I sat down to read. I celebrated these good feelings by taking the book to a coffee shop a few times, to revel in the experience.

Here’s a favorite passage from Somehow: Thoughts on Love, by Anne Lamott (191 pp.). I don’t know how I got by with reading only one Lamott book in 2024, and I plan to partake of at least a few this year.
“When we screw up … it is never the final word. The fact that this happens to all of us allows us to have a tenderness about the broken places. … hope is believing this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us. And I believe. Also, my experience is that grace bats last.” (pages 85-86)

And, without planning it, the first book I read in 2024 is last on the list: Running to the Mountain: A Midlife Adventure, by Jon Katz (242 pp). Here’s a quote.
“Spirituality is usually presented in terms of the Big Payoff—Merton finds faith sitting in a church one day. I’d expected something similarly dramatic. It took me weeks to grasp that this was going to be painstaking and meticulous work, hand-to-hand combat of the most intensely personal sort—with myself. Day by day, chore by chore, I’d know more in six months or a year—if I were lucky—than I did now.” (page 83)

And that concludes my reading for last year.

Studio of Beginnings

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Studio of Beginnings

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for beginnings,
the admission of something new,
like a chia seed—tiny and shiny,
like childbirth—messy and excruciating,
or silent, like the first pink of a sunset.

Blessed are You
for perpetual newness.
Always You are
making
breathing
speaking beginnings,
and perhaps Your favorite studio
is a human being,
multiplicity of newness.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the never-stale freshness of beginnings.
Like yeast You expand us,
and we become fragrant.
The bread of You gives us life
for yet another beginning.

What Version of Me Belongs?

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I have chosen between attachment and authenticity a thousand times at least.

What do I mean by this?

I’ll loosely define attachment as a healthy sense of relational connection and belonging. And let’s think of authenticity as the ability to know ourselves and show up in the fullness of who we are, including the little quirks and details.

The choice between attachment and authenticity occurs when we must—or perceive we must—choose one of the two. For example, let’s say you’ve made a new acquaintance and you’re arriving at her house for the first time, with a plan to chat over a cup of tea. You might feel a little anxious, not knowing whether this will be awkward, and wondering about the future of your friendship. When you step in the door, your friend offers to take your coat. You’d rather leave it on until you warm up a bit, but instead you take it off and she whisks it away to a side room. Then she offers you scones, which are obviously hot from the oven and smell delicious. You accept and then notice there are raisins in them. You don’t like raisins. But rather than pick them out, you decide to eat them. In these moments, you are choosing attachment over authenticity. Sharing your preferences feels risky for the relationship, so you keep them to yourself.

Often, as in the above examples, we base our decision not on reality (you have no idea whether your friend would be offended by you picking out the raisins), but on a perception of what would best maintain your attachment—your relational connection—in the moment.

Let’s think about scenarios where the stakes are higher. A teen might have to choose between the authenticity of letting their parents know they’re transgender, or preserving attachment by not sharing that information. A pastor may have to choose between authentically and vulnerably requesting help for an addiction, or maintaining his position and his church relationships—his connection and belonging—because he knows he cannot have both. A person may choose to have sex with their partner because it’s easier to do what they don’t really want to do than it is to say the vulnerable truth and deal with the possible fallout of disconnection.

As children, and even as infants, when presented with a choice between authenticity and attachment, we choose attachment. Our survival depends on it. As we become adults, our circle of resources widens, and our options become more diverse. We don’t have to choose attachment over authenticity every time. Still, there is an element of risk to authenticity, and we weigh this consciously or subconsciously every day.

One of the most challenging environments to navigate this dynamic is religious circles—which in my case extend to my children’s private education, friends past and present, my readers, and even neighbors. Church seems a strange place to make a choice between belonging or being myself, yet I have felt it often there. Christians say, “Come as you are.” But I don’t think we meant it. Or, we mean it with a tag-on—“Come as you are, when you’re ready to change that to be like us.”

I have believed I can’t be me, because whatever improved version of me God has in mind is better than the current version of me—“sinful and selfish” me. Somehow being myself means heresy. I can’t be true to myself and to God at the same time. You know, something about “a house divided,” or how man’s thoughts are “evil continually.”

These days, I’m not sure I belong in church. But it doesn’t matter like it used to. I belong in myself, and that is sweet relief. I belong in the living room of God, who has become both mother and father to me. I am bonded spiritually, and it’s the safest place I’ve found yet to excavate and inhabit my authentic self.

God doesn’t ask Her children to choose between attachment and authenticity. Belonging is a foregone conclusion, and God’s favorite pastime might be holding your hand as you get acquainted with your authentic self. I think God emits joy-sparkles when He gets to witness you noticing yourself and connecting with the fun, complex, messed up, whole and holy person that you are.

Wherever attachment and authenticity occur together is sacred. These holy spaces may be inside us, in marriage or friendship, in nature or a good book. I’ve discovered that in settling into my own self, I can hold the paradox that I am okay and I am not okay. And it turns out God is way bigger than they said She was.

My understanding of these concepts leans heavily on Gabor Maté and Krispin Mayfield. Many thanks to them both for acquainting me with my own inner safety.

P.S. I posted an update today about trauma-informed writing groups. Check it out here.

On My Drive Today

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I saw a tractor throwing dark earth, and
A field of cosmos—pink, purple, white.
I saw a hedge, large and tall and perfectly green, notched at the top like a castle,
And a grave with balloons on it.
I saw a small, black travel bus with the words “my party bus”
In chunky white letters across one end.

Rows of perfectly spaced deciduous trees at a nursery wore fall colors, and
Weeds decorated the aisles between.
Neon-green skeletons perched on a wire fence,
And a navy-blue Tesla followed me for miles.
I crossed a mirror-still river,
And passed under two branches, touching
Like outstretched fingertips above me.

I saw tractor-crossing signs, deer-crossing signs, political signs, and
Line after line of baby trees and shrubs, only a foot tall,
Every shadow in perfect formation across groomed dirt rows.
I saw horses swishing their tails,
And clouds, dressed for a slumber party.

I saw metal buildings, colored by rust, and
Old, wooden farm buildings painted rust-red.
I saw a stream in an overgrown meadow,
Water profuse with delicate, floating plants.
I saw pumpkins combed into rows—no vines, just orange fruit for acres,
And the long shadows of a fall afternoon.

Alternative to Prayer Requests

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This morning I wanted to pray for friends, but instead I circled unsettling questions—questions I’ve returned to many times.

Why would I ask God to do something She’s already doing (i.e. Please be with this suffering person)?

Why does the Bible say Jesus will do anything we ask in His name?

Why should I have a say in God’s agenda for today? Especially when I’m pretty sure God doesn’t even have an agenda.

I want to pray for my friends—the text messages of prayer requests are waiting—but every way I know feels like useless chatter. I know countless book have been written and sermons preached to “answer” these questions, but I don’t really want answers. I want to acknowledge the awkwardness of prayer.

Talking to God about my frustrations—like this frustration with prayer—feels natural. She’s not offended when I call Her a liar for saying I’ll receive anything I ask in Jesus’ name. But today I’m annoyed because I don’t know how to bridge the gap between sharing my inner world with God and talking/asking/supplicating/mentioning my friends and their lives.

Our two tiger-striped cats sit at the window, attending to squirrels and whatever else moves outside the glass.

The sky lights slowly, cool gray clouds warming to creamy white.

I think about God and I sitting on the couch in His house, an image I return to often, always an invitation to relax into the overlap between us—His breath, my body. And it occurs to me that I could invite my friends to this couch.

I scoot over and invite Anna to the open spot between us. Her mother is dying in another country and she doesn’t know if she’ll make it in time to say goodbye. As she sits between us, something flows from her body, releasing her, and the three of us witness it together.

Next I think of Jen and her heaviness, hovering just under the surface of her pleasant and positive demeanor. Sitting with her creates space for the heaviness to stay or to go.

Then the couch shapes into a large, comfortable circle to make room for the family of a young man who passed away suddenly. His wife and children, his brothers and their families, all squeeze in to witness the grief in silent togetherness. Who knew coziness and pain could hold hands like this?

So God and I stand witness (or rather, sit witness) to each of my friends and family who come to the couch. No words are exchanged, no requests made, no answers given. We honor God with our presence as She honors us with Hers. We remember we are not alone. We see the depravity of our circumstances and the beauty of love, together.

When I finish praying, I know I will do this again. And I am touched and awed by the ease with which God converses with me in Her living room, whether in words or silence—the ease with which He engages my frustration and discomfort, and invites me to forego awkward requests in favor of sitting together.

Thank You, Papa.