“I want you to know,” my mother used to say when I was a little girl, “God saw what you just did.”
The declaration that God saw my every wicked move was the most frequent phrase uttered by my mother when my family lived in Iran, even more ubiquitous than “Eat your meat” or, “If anyone asks, don’t tell them we’re going to America.”
My mother didn’t mean to frighten me. She loved me deeply but her mother had issued the same warning to her. Generations of mothers believed if their children didn’t listen to them, maybe they’d listen to God.
But in Iran, God seemed more vengeful than merciful, and many mothers didn’t realize weaponizing God could irreparably harm a child.
Any actions my mother deemed defiant prompted her to invoke the name of God, and He always seemed to take her side because there’s a cult of motherhood in Persian culture that demands veneration — to the point of submission — because a mother’s love and unspeakable sacrifices render her perfect. And there’s no arguing with perfection.
In fact, a Persian mother’s seeming perfection is what gives her clout to speak on behalf of a perfect God.
My skewed understanding of God as a punitive private eye who was just waiting for the chance to strike me down only worsened in the United States, where my mother saw the morally corrupt jungle of uncontrollable teenagers, whether in popular culture or real life, as ultimate proof that she relentlessly needed to drag God into parenting.
“When you’re certain your name is on some sort of celestial hit list, a nightmarish pandemic that seems to ravage the whole world is your personal arrest warrant.”
Our family was not religious and we never delved into the nature of God, so I didn’t have anyone with whom to process my fears that I was a constant disappointment.
I was a miserable teenager, and it didn’t help that every time I yelled at my mother, God showed up. More precisely, my mother insisted on His presence. Sometimes, I wondered if God was in our home against His will.
I never was told that He saw any of my good deeds, so I grew up feeling wretched, unloved and, worst of all, irredeemable in His eyes.
“God heard what you just said to me, and He remembers everything,” my mother would say. That was the anthem of my teenage years. I knew I’d hurt my mother and that she felt overwhelmed and compelled to resort to a higher power.
As an adult, I developed a clear sense of identity: My name was Tabby. I prioritized family, education and community. I tried to be kind, but God knew I wasn’t a good person.
I believed it was just a matter of time before the shoe dropped and punishment was enacted, swiftly and justly.
And then, 2020 arrived.
When you’re certain your name is on some sort of celestial hit list, a nightmarish pandemic that seems to ravage the whole world is your personal arrest warrant.
After the threat of COVID-19 became terrifyingly real, I imagined my comeuppance for every one of my wrongdoings finally had arrived. It was childish and narcissistic thinking, but then again, so was my understanding of God.
Because my children recently have been forced to stay home day and night, there’s been no end to the highs and especially the lows of raising toddlers: the screams, defiance and complete disregard of their parents’ requests. But amazingly, after a month of watching our children’s every move and listening to their every word, I felt more compassion for them, because I’ve witnessed directly their struggles with listening and attempts to do better. As it turns out, it’s easier to love a work-in-progress than someone who’s already perfect.
That doesn’t mean God doesn’t judge. Any good parent knows to hold a child (who’s old enough to understand) accountable for bad choices, but such a parent also ensures the child knows he or she is still deeply loved, even in the face of wrongdoing.
I’ve never spoken to my children about God’s surveillance. Thanks to home quarantine, they’re already burdened with trying to make better choices in the constant presence of their parents.
Quarantine with our kids made me realize maybe God doesn’t see me as wretched and undeserving of forgiveness, but as a frightened, hopeful work-in-progress. I had exiled God to a place of unforgiving darkness, but maybe God is more kind than vengeful; more loving than withdrawn. Maybe He sees me as I see my children.
The recent Passover holiday beseeched us, as it does each year, to find ways to set ourselves free. This year, on the last night of Passover, I took a short walk. Beneath a tree, I removed my face mask, wiped the tears from my cheeks in gratitude, and after three decades, finally set God free.
Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and activist.
