Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: god

  • The Miracles I Can Hold

    The Miracles I Can Hold

    Feeling pretty amazing the other day, I was reading my Bible outside in the setting sun. It was an amazing late spring day. The weather was practically perfect for reading, for being outside, for just sitting still for a little while. I lit my small propane fire pit and took breaks from reading to look around.

    I watched the trees sway in the wind and thought about how absolutely beautiful any place on earth can be. My backyard is not perfectly manicured. There are oddball trees with diseases and vines, survivors of so many little storms. Some are hunched over in different directions from strong winds and microbursts. Yet it was still all beautiful. It still filled me with reverence and awe.

    I looked up to the sky, and it was even more beautiful. The clouds were spread across the sky as the wind rolled them forward, almost like an old television toy where the screen moved by turning a knob in the back. The moon was already present, adding another layer of wonder.

    Then, like Icarus, I asked for more.

    Feeling good, feeling grateful, I wanted something more. I asked God for a miracle in the clouds. I wanted to be able to see heaven, to see something beyond what was already in front of me. I wanted to see my parents, to know for certain that they were waiting for me. Just a little something. Something that should not be there.

    I stared for a long time, hoping and waiting for a sign, for an angel gleaming in the clouds, for some clear answer from above.

    And for a moment, I was disappointed when nothing happened. It almost tilted my faith on the scale, like an added weight that pulled my soul downward. I took a long, deep breath and returned to my reading.

    Then the next day, I was reminded of something that is never far from my mind. I already have so many amazing miracles. The health of my body. The health of my mind. My beautiful wife, our love, and my family. My children, my daughter and my son, who have my whole heart.

    After all the meandering, all the what ifs, all the wondering about which way life could have gone, I look at them and remember that this was always the right path. Somehow, God blessed me with more than I deserved. He placed these amazing souls in my care, and that alone is more miracle than I can fully understand.

    Maybe that is the grace of Jesus, being handed a life so beautiful that you know you could never have earned it on your own.

    Later that day, I put on YouTube and watched a video about Padre Pio, a blessed saint who had constant miracles happening to him and around him. When I saw what he had to endure, and the depth of faith that was required of him, I felt something I did not expect.

    I felt relieved that I did not see anything in the clouds.

    I was relieved that my journey is not his journey. I am not ready for those kinds of miracles. I am not ready for that kind of burden. And maybe that was the answer. God, in His mercy, gave me exactly what I needed by not giving me what I asked for.

    I asked to see heaven in the clouds, but maybe heaven was already there in the quiet. In the trees. In the fire. In the breeze. In the moon hanging above me before night had fully arrived. In my wife. In my children. In the ordinary life I sometimes forget is overflowing with mercy and love.

    So I am thankful. Thankful for the miracles I can hold. Thankful for the ones I can live with. Thankful for the quiet answers God gives, even when I am still learning how to see them clearly.

  • 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.