Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: faith

  • Coffee is for Closers

    Coffee is for Closers

    “Put that coffee down. Coffee is for closers.”

    One of the many lines my father and I used to repeat to each other from Glengarry Glen Ross while we sold insurance together for eighteen years.

    As I sit here doing my accounting on this spring like day, March 10, working through QuickBooks, I am still entering revenue from our old health insurance business. I started in insurance with my father right after my glorious quitting at GE. I burned those bridges well and good. Quickly and abruptly. I had my fill of the long hours in accounting. When I figured out how to get ten hours of work done in eight, they simply tried to give me ten hours again. I was done with that.

    All these years later, five years after my father stopped working and two years after he passed away, I am still receiving these small commission payments from our health insurance carriers.

    They were my father’s commissions. Our agreement was that I would give him half, a deal we renegotiated and argued about more times than I can count. Too many fights, too many battles.

    Because of that experience, I am adamant that my kids will never work for me or with me. I can only work for them, so they can fire me anytime they no longer need me. That seems like the fairest way to protect the relationship.

    As time passes, the rose colored glasses grow even rosier. I remember the good times more than the arguments. It is a cautionary tale, but it was also my life, and it was good. There is far more to appreciate and be thankful for than there is to regret.

    We had big personalities, which meant strong opinions and strong fights. Now, with the perspective that time and death bring, I can see more clearly. My father might have understood my perspective, and I know I was not always right no matter how many times I retell the story in my own head. I was not wrong, but neither was he.

    If we could achieve perfect understanding, we could have perfect forgiveness. I know that truth intellectually, but it is hard to feel completely in this life.

    I cared deeply for my father and I loved him. I wanted to take care of him, and I did. In truth, I gave more than the half we agreed on in commissions to both my father and my mother. I was happy to do it. They were my parents and I loved them.

    Eventually I surpassed them, which is always the plan. Children are supposed to find their own way.

    But I still think back to those moments when things were good. When we would joke with each other and throw out lines from the movies. “Kibbits,” he would say to other people. Many of his expressions are etched into the ridges of my mind. They are part of my makeup now, even though I rarely say them aloud. Sometimes I say them quietly to myself and smile.

    The inner ghosts of the people who shaped us.

    I was proud to work with my father. I was impressed by him. He had gone through so many things and tried so many different businesses before finally finding insurance at around fifty five years old. His previous business had been hollowed out underneath him by his trust in the wrong people.

    That experience left its mark. The trust he struggled with after that was always a point of tension between us. I had never betrayed that trust, but I still felt the weight of it. It cut deeper than I ever admitted at the time.

    In the end, after all the arguments and the Greek word he loved to use, fouskaries, the nonsense and the noise, I find myself remembering the good days.

    The days when it was fun.

    When we were selling and laughing and shouting our lines at each other across the office.

    So in the end, all I really want to say is this.

    I miss you, Dad. I love you.

    That is what matters in the end.

    And I still smile when I think of you.

  • The Phantom Limb of Love

    The Phantom Limb of Love

    We are coming up on the anniversary of my mom’s passing, two years ago. It is less about the day itself and more about the slow remembering of her life as the date approaches. The weight grows a little heavier each day. The gravity of it becomes more present.

    I still miss her every day. There are moments when I forget she is gone. I will think of something and instinctively reach for my phone to call her and share it, only to remember a second later that I cannot.

    It is a strange feeling, like the phantom limb phenomenon. Except the missing piece is a large part of my heart, and sometimes my brain forgets to tell the rest of me that it is gone.

    Today I cashed in my Barnes and Noble rewards. Buying books with my mom was something special we shared growing up. Early on I was a terrible reader because of a hearing issue that had been missed. Later, when that was resolved and I committed to getting better, I fell in love with reading.

    My mother, as all good mothers do, fueled that fire.

    We would go to bookstores and pick out fantasy novels together. A father might say, “Why are you reading that nonsense?” But a mother knows better. My son was reading. Whatever he was reading was wonderful. She was proud of me.

    Those trips were usually part of a larger kind of day. The kind where we would run errands together, grab lunch, and she would buy me a small gift somewhere along the way. Simple days. Nothing extraordinary on the surface. Yet those memories remain etched deeply in my mind. I hold them now with a deep sense of gratitude.

    In the end we are still little children at heart. I can buy almost anything now, any material object I want. But none of it fills this space. The tears come from the heart and from a beautiful love remembered.

    Sometimes I think about the movie AI. The robot who just wanted one last perfect day with his mother. One day of being loved unconditionally by the only person who could give him that love. The quiet perfection of peace in a mother’s arms. The way she would look down at you with that expression of pure love.

    That joy.

    I think of the words of Jesus: so that you may have joy, and that your joy may be complete.

    Jesus promised that we would not be left alone. He said that when he left, he would send the Holy Spirit, described as the Comforter, the Advocate, and the Spirit of truth. That presence has always felt a little like a mother to me.

    All is not lost. Even though I am fully here in this world, I can also feel the almost imperceptible release of weight being removed from the scale of life. And yet I trust that death is not the end.

    I look forward to seeing her again someday.

    And to that embrace.

  • The Last Holiday Show

    The Last Holiday Show

    Sunday came and I found myself getting ready, excited to attend our final Christmas show recital. It was Olivia’s last holiday performance as a senior, and it struck me all at once that seventeen years have passed in a blink. Where did all this time go? The days feel long while you’re living them, yet the years slip by before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

    All those seasons of gathering our family for the holiday show came back to me. The performance has always been something special, a bright spot that lifts my mood just as the weather turns cold and dreary. It marks the beginning of Christmas, with all its magic, love, and giving.

    She looked beautiful on that stage. I felt like the proudest father in the audience. Every routine showed how much she’s grown, how hard she’s worked, and how steadily she has become her own person. I remembered those early performances when she was small and nervous, and how each year she stepped out there with more confidence and talent. All the practices, the patience, the late nights, the dedication were visible in every movement.

    I’m grateful to my wife for the countless hours she devoted to making it all possible—practices, recitals, overnight trips—staying steady through the friendship drama, cliques, breakups, and reunions that came with growing up.

    My pride in Olivia is beyond words. I always admired the seniors who stayed committed long enough to reach that moment when they received their flowers. Watching her become one of them felt surreal. Life moves quickly, and moments like this reveal everything that mattered along the way.

    I think about how many things I never finished myself, which makes me even more grateful that my children have their own sense of follow-through. They see things through to the end. They carry a strength that feels like its own kind of blessing. Every day I feel lucky to be their father, and especially blessed to have a daughter as talented, determined, and beautiful as Olivia.

    When the show reached the March of the Wooden Soldiers, my thoughts drifted to my parents. I felt the ache of knowing they weren’t physically with us after all the years they sat in those seats cheering her on, and sometimes dozing off. They didn’t get to see her big senior moment. That ache lasted only a heartbeat before a sense of comfort settled in. I knew they were with us in their own way, watching from a place we couldn’t see, feeling pride and joy beyond anything we could imagine.

    Sitting beside my brother reminded me how grateful I am for him. He has been steady through every chapter of our lives, carrying memories only the two of us share and bringing a sense of grounding and humor that makes our family feel whole. We were still very much the little boys who grew up wrestling, laughing, and knocking into one another. He is the last piece of our original tribe, and having him there made the night feel complete.

    Our extended family filled the row around us, in-laws who have become as real and true as any blood relative. Their presence added warmth to the evening and reminded me how lucky and blessed we are to have such a circle.

    By the end of the night, I felt refilled with love. The kind that settles deep inside you long after the lights fade, quietly reminding you that every step, every year, and every moment is a beautiful mystery worth living.

  • Death of Charlie Kirk

    Death of Charlie Kirk

    In American History X, Edward Furlong’s character says, “It’s always good to end a paper with a quote. He says someone else has already said it best. So if you can’t top it, steal from them and go out strong.”

    That line led me to think of Michael Scott in The Office when he says, “Well, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker.”

    The visceral feel of a deep hurt encapsulated my entire being. I wasn’t able to do much yesterday after I heard the initial news. I had to go to a meeting and when I returned home, I learned that he had succumbed to his injuries and died.

    I saw the actual shot, which a reporter described as something you would see if they had created a movie about an assassination—the textbook image of a kill shot.

    And just like the uncontrolled flow of blood from his neck, my body lost its ability to cope and I wept. Tears poured gently down my face.

    My family was understanding, but not completely. They couldn’t fully grasp why their father was so deeply hurt, affected, and cut by this tragedy.

    I’ve had to sit down and think about why this death has shaken me so greatly. I was a fan of Charlie Kirk. I appreciated his viewpoint, his faith, his fortitude, and his courage to debate. How many of us, when we hold a viewpoint, say nothing? How many of us cower in fear of the mob, of loss, of financial blowback that could threaten our livelihoods?

    He was a real-life Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties: the young upstart who believed in Ronald Reagan, freedom, capitalism, American greatness, and a great big beautiful tomorrow.

    When I went on social media, I saw another side: people who were happy, joyous, even celebrating. The chickens coming home to roost. The gleeful nods of those who felt that a cosmic wave of justice had delivered its just desserts.

    It reminded me of another quote from Goodfellas. Before Joe Pesci’s character shoots Spider, he’s mocked and someone asks, “What is the world coming to?” After shooting him dead, he answers chillingly, “That’s what the fuck the world is coming to.”

    That’s where we are now. We are not able to communicate. We are tribal. We are animals. We objectify, dehumanize, and then kill one another.

    Charlie knew how dangerous a lack of dialogue could be. He once said, “When people stop talking, really bad stuff starts. When marriages stop talking, divorce happens. When civilization stops talking, civil war ensues.”

    He made his life about speaking up and speaking out. Going to campuses and engaging the youth of America in dialogue and debate.

    He had a viewpoint and an opinion.

    It’s not just that he was killed—that cut deeply enough. It was the absolute joy people expressed in his death. The frenzied glee of those salivating at the demise of a human being, of a husband and father.

    Social media is filled with one-line justifications for any heinous act. The excuses for their jubilation were absurd: Didn’t he say this? Didn’t he support that? And the most damning, his statement:

    “I think it’s worth to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights.”

    Yes, he did say that freedom has a cost—a cost that he ironically had to pay himself.

    But where is the humanity? Where is the empathy? Why can’t we accept that people can hold different opinions? Why not ask why they believe what they believe instead of screaming at them, hitting them, or murdering them?

    I am angry. Angry because I can’t fully articulate. I am tired of being reasonable and level-headed. Inside there is just a monster of pure emotion, rage searching for release. Take a breath, you know better.

    Justice? There is no justice. Not because someone won’t be caught, punished, or even executed. There is no justice because you cannot undo what has been done. You cannot bring this young man back. His wife and kids will never see their father or feel his embrace again. He cannot be replaced with like kind or quality. He was special, unique, one of a kind. President Trump called him “even Legendary, Charlie Kirk.” And we know that legends never die.

    When asked on a podcast how he wanted to be remembered, Charlie responded:

    “I wanna be remembered for courage, for my faith. That would be the most important thing. The most important thing is my faith in my life.”

    So now, as a new day begins, we still feel the loss. The tears still come. But I also feel the weight of his words. In the final scene of Spartacus, as the hero is silenced on the cross, his men stand and shout, “I’m Spartacus!” They refuse to let his mission die with him.

    Maybe the way forward is not just to grieve his death, but to take up that mission. If Charlie’s voice is silenced, then ours must grow louder.

    I am Charlie Kirk.