Tag Archives: daughter

Every Step of the Way

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“Mama, are you gonna be with me every step of the way?” Her faced warped in sorrow, and in her teary eyes I saw she needed an answer, needed to know she would not be alone. 

Three months earlier, our family made an excursion to the locally-owned pet shop across town, where a hay-like smell and the sound of chirping birds accompanied us to the corner of the store where for-sale rodents ran on exercise wheels and nosed around in paper bedding. Kyli, eleven years old, wanted a hamster. Soon one of the employees was carefully scooping through a small aquarium nearly full of paper bedding, searching for the elusive, white dwarf hamster Kyli had selected. Kyli’s aquarium, identically full of bedding, sat nearby on the floor, ready to receive her pet. It seemed a long time before the rodent handler came up with a wiggling clump of bedding and transferred it to its new glass home.

Lucy, as Kyli named her, liked life buried in bedding. But we’d close the bedroom door, shove a blanket in the gap between the door and the floor, and scoop Lucy out to run around in a supervised corner and hide under our crossed legs. Kyli had incredible patience and insisted on gaining Lucy’s trust slow and gentle. One evening Lucy got into Kyli’s closet, which at that time contained an amorphous heap of items on the floor. Determined not to hurt or scare Lucy, Kyli waited patiently outside the closet for her pet, and asked me to stay with her. Lucy scooted into the folds of a Home Depot tote bag, then back out to disappear behind a crumpled sheet. We listened as she poked plastic toys with her nose and scrambled into a cardboard box. I mentally tapped my toe, Let’s get this hamster put away so I can brush my teeth and get in bed with a book.

Then Lucy came, with the barely perceptible tap of tiny claws on the floor, out to the open area. I held my breath as Kyli slowly extended a hand toward her; Lucy scurried back into the tote bag. I suggested we carefully start pulling things out of the closet. Kyli said no, that would scare her and might hurt her. I suggested clamping something down over her fast when she came out. Kyli said no. Lucy scampered out of the closet and almost crawled under Kyli’s dresser. Kyli shooed her away from the under-dresser “cave,” and I jumped in to scoop her up . . . she shot back in the closet.

I suggested blocking some of the open areas into the closet, so when she came out we could quickly block the rest and prevent her from going back in. We tried this, but Lucy easily eluded us. She must have come out in the open area a dozen times, as I sat on a pillow on the bedroom floor, making pointed suggestions about how to speed things along. Kyli talked me through being patient. “Mama, I don’t want her to be scared. We have to wait until she comes out. You’re gonna be okay.” 

“We could be here all night,” I grumbled. But eventually we corralled her and successfully lifted her back into her cage. Nearly an hour had elapsed.

Since Lucy had a way of scuttling into hard-to-reach hiding places in the bedroom, we took to sitting with her in the bathroom. With a blanket tucked into the gap under the door, she could run around without disappearing. Although not excited about being held, she warmed up to it, and seemed to enjoy exploring our hands and laps. 

One day, as she explored on and under the blanket by the door, she squeezed into the hallway. Before we knew what was happening, one of the cats seized her and carried her under sister’s bed. Papa dove under, scraping his back on the bed frame, frantically reaching for the cat, who dropped Lucy. Kyli screamed in fear throughout the ordeal, and although Lucy looked fine, her mannerisms over the next couple of days shed some doubt on her wellbeing. We monitored her, unsure what she needed, but she ate and drank and had no visible wound, so we were hopeful she would be okay—until the morning we found her lifeless in the cage.

On Thanksgiving Day we dressed in black and Papa dug a hole beside the shrubs along the back fence. Kyli settled Lucy in a sturdy wooden casket about six inches long, made by her wood-shop teacher, and added dried flowers, the toilet-paper roll Lucy loved to run through, and a smaller box containing her tiny body. We shared memories of Lucy and buried her. 

Kyli felt all the things common to loss. Frustration with herself. Disappointment in how things turned out. Anger at the cat. She blamed herself for not being a good enough mama to Lucy. She often felt sad in the evenings, and with tears in her eyes would say, “I want her to know how much I loved her. I don’t know if she knew. What if she didn’t know?”

The grief softened over time, as grief often does. By January Kyli started talking about getting a new pet. In the meantime, her aquarium had served as home to a snake she and some classmates found in the schoolyard, and although they released it after a few weeks, it molted while in captivity, leaving Kyli a snakeskin souvenir. We washed and disinfected the aquarium. On the day of parent-teacher conferences, we once again traveled as a family to the pet store—only to find the cages in the rodent corner mostly empty. One contained an aging gerbil. Another, a white hamster that bit the pet-store lady assisting us, and drew blood. There were no dwarf hamsters, just Jumbo Biter. There was, however, one tan-and-white gerbil that seemed like an option. Kyli went into the back room with the pet-store lady to get a closer look, and before we knew it we were back on the highway home with Miss Gerbil in the aquarium. A bag of cat food balanced atop the cage to secure the screen lid.

Kyli named her new pet Tophee—Toph for short (like “trough” without the “r” sound)—and we stationed her in the dining room where we could see her often and get to know her. She was more active than Lucy had been, and more apt to scamper around on top of her bedding where we could see her. One day when Papa picked her up so Kyli could hold her, she shot off his hand to the floor, where she and we frantically scampered around until I grabbed her tight in my hand to lift her to safety. She did not appreciate this and bit me hard, leaving a bloody cut at the tip of my middle finger. Kyli again decided to take a gentle approach, reaching into her cage so Toph could get acquainted with her hand, talking softly to her and giving her treats, not taking her out of the cage to be held.

After a couple weeks, Kyli noticed Toph didn’t seem to want to open her eyes. Were they crusted shut? We couldn’t tell. Sometimes they were open, sometimes not. And she seemed to burrow less. We also questioned if she was drinking water. The hand-me-down water bottle she used sometimes required a bit of prodding to produce water. After some deliberation, and Kyli desperately wanting to take Toph to the vet, we took her to the pet store for an unofficial assessment. The pet-store lady who’d helped us purchase Toph, put on a long leather glove and reached in to hold and assess the little critter. She thought Toph might be dehydrated, asked about the warmth of our house, and suggested we try a new water bottle and watch to see if the eye situation worsened—if so, it could be a respiratory infection.

We moved Toph to a quiet corner of the living room, hoping she could rest more and get well. Over the next several days, she drank from her new water bottle, ate celery slices and Romaine lettuce, and seemed more active. Until she didn’t. Soon we realized we’d hardly seen her at all, as she seemed to be sleeping most of the time. We hauled a six-foot-long cardboard box from the basement to the dining room so we could hold and observe her outside of her cage. I scooped her up and placed her in the box. My heart sank as I watched her walk. She teetered to one side, getting in a few steady steps and then struggling again to maintain balance. Kyli watched tensely, and began to panic as I expressed my concern. We’d had rats who behaved that way, and they had to be put down for neurological problems.

I sat in the box with Toph; Kyli cried, “Why me? You had a hamster that lived for a long time, and you threw it against a wall! Why can’t I have a pet that doesn’t have all these problems?” I lifted Toph to my lap, sleeves pulled over my hands to protect against bites. She sat on my leg, barely moving, thin and lethargic. This was more than Kyli could bear and she paced around the living room crying, not wanting to look at Toph, feeling guilty for not being able to keep her healthy, desperate to do anything we could for her. As I sat in the box with Toph, Kyli approached me, tears on her cheeks, her face twisted in fear and sorrow. It was too much. Too much not-knowing. Too much angst at the thought of an innocent animal suffering. Too much powerlessness and insufficiency and fear. Kyli reached out her hand to me—“Mama, are you gonna be with me every step of the way?”

I, too, felt powerless, insufficient, and fearful. How could I be present to Kyli’s grief? How could I make a decision about taking a $30 rodent to a vet who would certainly charge more than $100? Kyli’s question handed me a lifeline. In asking me to be with her, she gave me something to hold onto. “Yes. Of course. I will.” I will be with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. We will question together. We will cry together. We will make difficult choices together. You are not alone in your fear and grief. Together we will watch and worry and wait. Together we will make decisions. Together we will hold our insecurities and unanswerable questions. Together.

The next day I called the pet store for more advice. They wondered if Toph was warm enough, so we moved her in front of a heater vent, put a blanket over half her aquarium, and decided to offer her water on a spoon two or three times a day, buy new food, and give her some jarred baby food as well—pureed pumpkin. Toph again seemed to perk up, had an enormous appetite for sunflower seeds, and began rummaging around her cage more often.

But after a week, she returned to excessive sleeping and her sides still caved in a bit where she should be plump and round. We didn’t know what she needed. We consulted the internet, the pet store, and artificial intelligence. We didn’t know if she’d make it or not. I echoed Kyli’s sentiment—why can’t it just be simple? And I was grateful, knowing we would be together, every step of the way.

Mothers Are Stalkers

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Every mother is a stalker—stealthy as a fox, or loud and proud as a heckler. 

She may try on other hats—friend, playmate, shopping buddy, or cook. But she will always return to the well-worn stalker cap. 

No one knows exactly why. Perhaps all those years of sleep deprivation affected her brain. Or maybe her partner has become boring and she needs to trail someone interesting. Or her dream of being a paparazzo never panned out and she’s done repressing her hunger for juicy stories.

Could it be revenge—on her own mother, or on her child—for needing her when she didn’t want to be needed? Is it fear, masquerading as care? Control masquerading as curiosity? Perhaps sheer boredom is the culprit. 

Or it could be force of habit—one that began while watching an infant’s chest rise and fall, then following a toddler through play structures, teaching a child how to use a toothbrush, then how to handle a kitchen knife. A long stint as chauffeur cements the habit, and by the time a kid has wheels of their own, stalking is like a nervous mother-twitch that can’t be medicated.

Whatever the case, mothers are stalkers, and children are their prey. They follow, but never shoot. They scribble notes and report to their partner in bed at night. They buy new camo when the old is detected, and they keep on stalking even when the tap-tap of their walkers is a dead giveaway.

And, depending on your religious beliefs, upon death they have the best of all—that birds-eye view they always wanted, the ability to hover without being detected, and maybe even a direct line to put in a few suggestions to God about how their child’s life should go.

God’s Idea

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God’s Idea

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for having Your own ideas,
different than mine—
puzzling, maddening, beautiful ideas.

Blessed are You for inviting me
from predictable to profound,
always reaching for a new surprise
from Your pocket or bookshelf,
Your eyes twinkling.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for surprising me with joy and patience,
witnessing my jaw drop—
I stare at myself in wonder.
I watch myself be Your daughter,
and I glow with gratitude.
Your idea of me is so much better
than mine ever was.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-woman-looking-at-the-mirror-774866/

On Being Dead (Part 3)

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I remember a moment when I strongly identified with the phrase, “sinner saved by grace.” Yes, I thought, this is the most accurate description of me. I am a sinner. I am also saved by grace. Simultaneously.

Now I’m not so sure.

In the post-gospel New Testament (Acts-Revelation), the words “sinner” or “sinners” are found 13 times. The word “sin” appears 90 times. Perhaps sin is more of a condition than an identity. More of an act than an actuality.

Nearly half (43) of those 90 occurrences of the word “sin” are in Romans, and 39 are in chapters five through eight. The words “dead” or “death” occur 37 times in those same four chapters. Is there a correlation between sin and death? As I read and re-read, highlight, and scratch my head, I notice two distinct connections, one with which I am very familiar, and the other which I have noticed only recently.

The first connection I see between sin and death is that sin leads to, or results in, death. All four chapters (Romans 5-8) speak to this dynamic, including the well-known verse, “For the wages of sin is death …” (Romans 6:23a).

The second connection I notice between sin and death is that death disconnects a person from sin. Dying quite literally makes it impossible to sin. Chapter 6 most fully addresses this:

“How shall we who died to sin live any longer in it?” (v. 2)
“… our old man was crucified with Him, that the body of sin might be done away with …” (v. 6)
“For he who has died has been freed from sin.” (v. 7)
“For the death that He died, He died to sin once for all … Likewise you also, consider yourselves to be dead indeed to sin …” (v. 10, 11)
“For sin shall not have dominion over you …” (v. 14)
“And having been set free from sin, you became slaves of righteousness.” (v. 18)
“But now having been set free from sin …” (v. 22)

What I’m hearing is that Jesus died for me, but not in the traditional sense that he had to “pay.” Rather, death is the only way to conclude sin, and Jesus died to gift me that decisive, deadly conclusion.

I died. I can no longer sin. Therefore my identity is not “sinner.” I am not a sinner. I am dead to sin and free from sin. The only purpose of having an awareness of sin was that it showed me I was turning gray, showed me the morbid path I travelled. Jesus stepped in to my lifeless pallor and saw it through to its end, death. In receiving His death as a gift, I claim my identity of righteous daughter.

Paul suggests I am now a slave of righteousness. I’m not entirely comfortable with such strong language. But I am intrigued by the possibility that the power that sinful behavior previously had in my life has been replaced by the power righteousness now has in my life. I am free—to do what is loving and holy and true. I am free—to not do what is selfish and common, empty and false. I am empowered by the mind and spirit of Christ in me. Righteousness is my impulse, my instinct, the way I am compelled to act.

Christians have a great following with the “you are a sinner” gospel because it is true to human experience, to our flesh. But flesh is really just all the lies we have believed about who we are. Rather than giving life, this gospel affirms that I am what I feared—a broken person who can’t stop behaving hurtfully.

I never once wondered if I was going to heaven when I died, but I wondered every day what the hell was wrong with me. As a “sinner saved by grace,” heaven was the only good I could see coming out of the gospel. Not very many people—and especially not me—seemed truly alive.

Death was my promised certificate of achievement, the consummation of my life lived in lies. But God took my death certificate and tore it up. “Forget that,” He said, “in my house we deal in life. Here is your life certificate.” Beneath “Life Certificate,” written in a glowing script, the paper reads, This is to certify that Tobi Danielle Goff is 100% alive, and her state of being is characterized by abundance, growth, righteousness, and luminescence.

Paul says my lied-to mind was “enmity against God; for it [was] not subject to the law of God, nor indeed [could] be.” (Romans 8:7, emphasis added) I could not remain as I was and be fully alive. I was stuck, wondering how to die to self, not realizing it was already done. As Dan Mohler observed, “Preacher’ll say, ‘This’ll cost you everything.’ Everything you were never created to be! … Why not activate faith and let go of the lie and test out truth? You’ll be wondering why you didn’t die a long time ago, ‘cause living without that is like being dead already.”1

Paul wrote, “… if Christ is in you, the body is dead because of sin, but the Spirit is life because of righteousness.” (Romans 8:10) At this point I get a little confused. Am I dead or alive? Did I need to die, or was I already dead? Or was I already alive and I just didn’t know it? Take your pick. My process seems to have roughly happened this way: 1) I noticed my spirit and life were dead-ish, 2) I realized I was thinking and acting in ways that produce death, 3) I wanted to die but I didn’t know how, 4) God invited me into death and the quietness of the tomb with Him, 5) I realized I didn’t need to do or not do anything—life, death, and resurrection were already accomplished for me, 6) I agreed with God—and continue to agree, over and over— that I am His righteous daughter.

I’ve heard “dying to self” described as a continual, painful process. Maybe it is, but I find that wildly intimidating. Especially if I’m supposed to come up with the courage to die every day. But if, in Jesus, my death was already accomplished, then “dying daily” is simply agreeing with what is already done. It is acknowledgement of a new state of affairs. It is acceptance of a gift.

I often say, “God does the heavy lifting.” If I’m carrying a heavy load, chances are I misunderstand. If the burden isn’t light, chances are I’ve put on my work jeans and pulled the wheelbarrow out for some unnecessary hauling. As Matthew Pierce aptly noted, “Jesus and I can’t both pay the price for my mistakes.”2

“Living in the Spirit” is another way of saying I agree with God. When I agree with God my old view of me (broken, sinner) dies, and I get a new view: righteous daughter. I am meant to be alive in a greater sense than my physical aliveness, and there’s something about wholeness that’s invigorating. Something about finding my God-created spirit buried under lies, dusting it off, and rejoicing because I have found treasure. This treasure doesn’t sustain me from the outside, like money or sunshine or my favorite sweater; it sustains me from the inside, like being chosen first when I’m not the best, like holding hands, like finding out I belong.

Endnotes:
1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngfEH7_8FGY&ab_channel=CityCenterChurch
2 https://mpierce.substack.com/p/all-of-my-sins-are-because-of-elon

Just A Daughter

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I write assuming a familiarity with the story of the “Prodigal Son.” If you are not familiar with this story, or would like to refresh your memory, it is found in the Bible, Luke 15:11-31. All quotes below are from the New Living Translation.

My sense of identity has wreaked havoc over much of my life. For my first thirty years I had an identity much like the older brother in the story of the “Prodigal Son”:

All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!

I was good at being good. I excelled in work and school, often receiving certificates, awards, and promotions. I was valedictorian of my class in high school. In college I received the Washington State Student Employee of the Year Award, and graduated summa cum laude. I always went to bed on time and ate lots of vegetables. I was honest, hard-working, and kind. I married the first man I dated. We read the whole Bible together as well as several dating/marriage books within the first few years of our relationship. I volunteered in dozens of capacities at church and led a women’s small group for ten years. I suppose I was a poster child for “good Christian daughter.”

I don’t recall being angry—as the older brother in the story—but I did feel like the rebellious-turned-religious people always had the better testimonies. They seemed to be alive, to experience God in a way that I didn’t. I was jealous of their stories. For me, the fatted calf was the vibrant life of the converted person. I wanted to be filled with the Holy Spirit, bountiful in His fruit, and though I begged God for this I saw no changes.

The year I turned 30, two things happened: my daughters turned one and three years old, and our family decided to join another family in starting a house church. The combination of navigating the emotional minefield of parenting toddlers, while beginning a ministry that called on me to simply love the people in front of me, called my “goodness” into question. It quickly became apparent that I was short-tempered, controlling, emotionally fragile, and judgmental. As I watched myself fail every day, I quickly took on the identity of the younger brother:

Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son.

I spent nearly six years with this as my constant narrative. I didn’t use those words exactly, but every day I felt worthless and ugly-hearted. Whenever I took a moment to feel my inner world, I invariably cried. All I could see was failure, after failure, after failure. Though I was still the older brother, staying home and working hard, I didn’t hear the voice of the Father:

You are always with me, and all that I have is yours.

Instead I rehearsed the speech of the younger brother: “I am no longer worthy.” This is the identity I received for myself. It is an identity rooted in lies from a foreign land where I am not a citizen. I felt bankrupt, lonely, and no longer good at being good.

There is no joy living in the mansion if in my head I am still reciting the speech of repentance. The younger son in this story was not literally dead or lost. He was breathing and he knew the way home. He was dead and lost because he didn’t know who he was. And while I lived in the Father’s house but didn’t know who I was, I, too, was dead and lost.

It is excruciating to have the identity of the prodigal while living in the Father’s house. I was dead, knowing I “should” be alive; lost, knowing I “should” be found. I felt like a zombie, walking dead in the land of the living. So although I never left home, I needed to look my Father in the face, admit my belief that I was unworthy and had squandered His inheritance, and hear His response (gender changed):

Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on her. Get a ring for her finger and sandals for her feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this daughter of mine was dead and has now returned to life. She was lost, but now she is found.

My identity here in my Father’s house is this: a daughter who is alive, found, celebrated, and given authority. I do not slowly earn these things. They are mine yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Dead daughters say, “Thanks for the nice room, dad. I know I don’t deserve it. I’m still really sorry I wasted your money and disappointed you. I’m gonna work hard to become better today.” What a slap in the Father’s face! When He completely ignored my “I’m not worthy” speech and started a riotous party, that was my clue He’s not expecting recovery before relationship. If I’m still working hard and apologizing a lot, it’s because I didn’t hear what the Father said to me.

Maybe it’s time to realize that between me and God, nothing is lost by my bad behavior. There is nothing to be “made up” to God. When I am with Him, my identity is always that of an unblemished daughter.

I have been the older brother (self-righteous), the younger brother (self-loathing); now it’s time to be just a daughter.