Salty Renewal: Reconnecting with Nature on the Beach

The wind howled, whipping my hair into a frenzy as I stood on the familiar shoreline of Sherwood Island State Park. It was one of the windiest days of the winter, yet there I was, drawn by an unseen force to this place of memories from my young adulthood, offering me once again a refuge I desperately needed.

Suddenly, tears welled up, hot and heavy. Tears for George, for the loss of a dear friend, for the fleeting nature of youth, and for the profound absence of my son, gone too soon just over four years ago. It were as if my defenses had crumbled, leaving me raw and exposed to the harsh winds of life.

The release of pent-up grief became a cleansing storm, mirroring the fury of the wind around me. And then, nearly an hour later, something shifted. Exhausted, but paradoxically refreshed, I looked around. The wind still raged, but the world seemed sharper, more vibrant and my senses heightened, my heart open to the raw beauty of life.

Sherwood Island State Park, Copyright © Stacy Lytwyn Maxwell 2024

In that moment, faith wasn’t about words or doctrines. It was about the wind in my hair, the sand beneath my sneakers, the immensity of the ocean stretching out before me. It was about feeling fully alive, without restraints or judgments, simply existing in the present moment.

Copyright © Stacy Lytwyn Maxwell 2024

As I returned to my car, three small, smooth, white stones caught my eye, each one whispering tales of the sea. They were like perfect replacements for the missing ones I’d left at my son’s gravesite – the ones inscribed with our family’s names, now likely swallowed by the earth. Clutching the newfound stones in my palm, I carried them back, already picturing them marked and repurposed. It felt like a symbolic victory, a reclaiming of strength after weathering the storm.

Sherwood Island State Park, Copyright © Stacy Lytwyn Maxwell 2024

I realized the wind still felt strong, however there was a lightness to it that intensified my sense of victory. I had faced my pain, embraced the rawness of life, and emerged feeling more connected, more alive than ever before. The beach buoyed me up as it always had and reminded me that even in the midst of grief, life persists, an ever-changing evolution, ever-renewing, just like the tide rolling in and out, forever constant, forever powerful.

Remember, your faith may not look like someone else’s, but it doesn’t make it any less valid. Trust your own journey, find solace in the unexpected, and know that you are never truly alone.

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Faith Muscle

In Honor of❤️Valentine’s Day: A Ballad of Shrapnel🥀and Roses🌹

Beyond whispered sweet nothings over candlelight dinners, chocolates and bouquets of roses and all the feel-good-stuff associated with Valentine’s Day, which is tomorrow, let’s delve deeper into love’s transformative power, particularly its ability to mend the shrapnel of trauma, as well as war’s brutal scars.

Two weeks ago I wrote a blog post about George, a combat marine veteran, and mentioned his dedication to fellow vets.

But what about his own wounds? Those battlefields that weren’t confined to Vietnam. PTSD, an unseen enemy, gnawed at him, and at another friend, Mike, a combat army vet, for decades. In fact, Mike supported my own brother, Mike, who passed away in 2002, for numerous years through his own PTSD from Vietnam. A community of brothers.

Anyway, George and Mike returned to Vietnam, not with weapons, but with open hearts, decades after their service in Vietnam. That trip, fueled by a desperate need for closure, turned into an unexpected journey of healing.

Mike paints the story, saying that during their stay, the two men had reserved two rooms at an upscale resort in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon. Unable to sleep during their first 24 hours there, it was four in the morning when they found themselves sitting outdoors in front of the resort.

“What the hell are we doing here?” As they looked at each other, the words ricocheted between them, each syllable a deafening shot.

Over the time span, the familiar sights, smells, sounds – initially triggers for nightmares – became catalysts for forgiveness. Four different trips, four chances to confront the ghosts of war, hand in hand, not as combatants, but as brothers bound by shared pain soaked in the balm of love.

Not to minimize the undeniable charm that exchanging Valentine’s Day greeting cards hold, but the most transformative power of love lies in venturing into the darkest corners of our own souls. Armed with nothing but self-compassion, we confront our demons, not with clenched fists, but with arms outstretched, ready to embrace every shadow, every scar. This is where forgiveness blooms for the wounded parts of ourselves. The process, as both George and Mike attested to, is far from painless, but we are able to emerge and, as a result, forgive. In the end, the metamorphosis of love does not contort us, but transforms us. Only then can our giving unconditional love become a routine sacrifice.

And faith? Faith isn’t only about blind belief in a distant deity. It’s the necessary starting point that jump started both men in their first journey: believing in the inherent goodness within us, even when buried beneath layers of pain. It’s about trusting that love, like sunlight, can penetrate even the most hardened hearts, coaxing forgiveness and healing to bloom.

This Valentine’s Day, let’s reimagine love’s battlefield. We needn’t travel 8,810 miles as these courageous men did on their return trips to Vietnam. Sometimes, the hardest acts of forgiveness lie not on distant horizons, but right under our own roofs. Those closest to us, navigating their own internal battles, might unknowingly leave emotional minefields in their wake. But remember, beneath the surface, they too might be hurting, carrying invisible wounds from their own experiences. In these moments, victory through dominance is impossible.

Let our weapons be kindness, our armor vulnerability, and our victory measured not in conquests, but in the quiet bonds of compassion forged. A listening ear, a gentle touch, a heart overflowing with love – these are the silent artillery we bring to bear against the residue of past hurts. Love becomes our exposure therapy, dissolving the scars and ushering in a future bathed in the golden light of reconciliation. Even if you’re the sole bearer of the white flag, remember, this isn’t about waging unwinnable wars; it’s about mending the tapestry of a wounded soul.

❤️Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️Whether you celebrate with loved ones, cherish quiet moments of self-love, or simply reflect on the power of connection, may this day remind you of love’s transformative power. May your heart be filled with gratitude, compassion, and the courage to share love in all its forms.

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Faith Muscle

In the Pause, All is Well

Life, isn’t it a curious thing? One moment, basking in the warm hum of sunlight, the next, trudging through knee-deep burdens and sorrows. Shoulders that once held dreams become stooped under the weight of worries, the ache in our hearts echoing the echo of unanswered prayers. We carry loved ones lost, dreams delayed, anxieties that whisper tensions into our ears.

That’s how I feel often, like a melody stuck on repeat, minor key and somber. Even the sunlight seems to carry a nameless weight that is all too familiar. Then, in the midst of that personal symphony of despair, on my way to George’s funeral mass, a song washed over me, unexpected and pure. “Only Passing Through,” it whispered, sung by voices I didn’t recognize, The Taylors, they called themselves.

Since I first heard it that morning on the radio, I’ve been listening to it, a gift of faith in the midst of mourning. I haven’t looked the group up, purposefully. This song, it carries no dogma, no sermons veiled in melody. Metaphorically, you can say that it simply sings of journeys and departures, of resting places beyond horizons. You can say that it speaks of life as a passing train, each stop a pause, a goodbye laced with the promise of a hello.

When the darkness presses in, the chorus of “Only passing through” rises, a gentle reminder that this isn’t all there is.

The song helps me to get through the noise, take a moment, close my eyes. Listen. I find peace in knowing that I am just at another bend in the track, leading me closer to that final, glorious station, bathed in the light of eternity.

P.S. Maybe one day I’ll look up The Taylors. But for now, I’ll pass. Clear mind, open heart, and a whispered ‘all is well’ at the moment.

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Faith Muscle

Redemptive Love: Remembering George

It’s not often a funeral mass leaves you with a heart full of warmth and a smile tugging at your lips. But then again, George wasn’t your average man. He lived a life etched in humble heroism, a canvas painted with the vibrant hues of love and duty.

A few weeks ago, we gathered to bid farewell to this gentle giant, a 75-year-old veteran who wore his service to his country and his fellow veterans not as a badge of honor, but as a thread woven into the fabric of his being. He fought as a marine in Vietnam, bearing the physical scars with a stoic grace that mirrored the silent depth of his compassion.

George wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t one for gossip or grand pronouncements. His eloquence resided in the steady gait of his helping hand, with a quiet resolve etched on his features, to assist in the best way he could when faced with another’s despair. The priest, delivering a homily that seemed spun from the very essence of George himself, reminded us that God asks only one question upon our arrival at the celestial gate: “How have we loved?”

And oh, how George loved! In his younger years, he loved his country, serving it with unyielding courage and an unwavering sense of duty. He loved his fellow veterans, dedicating his later years to easing their burdens and mending their shattered souls. In his later years he also embraced those lost to addiction, offering them a guiding hand and a glimmer of hope in the abyss, participating in a supply chain of love, passing on what he had been given.

His love wasn’t flamboyant, it wasn’t performative. It was a quiet river, carving its path through the hearts of those around him, nourishing them with its unwavering flow.

So after George’s funeral mass, I ran into many old friends. One of them was my friend Lisa and her husband, both of whom I haven’t seen for nearly a decade. After many shared memories, Lisa and I inked a future calender date for a get-together. The following is an excerpt from her text to me that I received later that evening:

Hi Stacy!!! I can’t stop thinking about the amazing day I’ve had saying a proper goodbye to George at that beautiful service and reuniting with YOU and seeing so many of my core group. I didn’t realize how much I miss you all!  I am so grateful for today   Even in death George carries the message.  

Reflecting on the tapestry of his life, it dawned on me: not on battlefields nor in fogs of self-importance are victories won, but in the heart’s quiet haven, where love’s embrace melts fear’s searing touch and doubt’s whispering shadows, a sanctuary of faith blossoms, a gentle rose amid the jungle’s harsh clasp.

Rest well, dear George. Your love echoes in a friend’s laugh, a soldier’s courage, and ripples of kindness, whispering your name in heaven on earth.

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Faith Muscle

Happy Birthday, Ethel: Ode to a Gutsy Gal

Today, my blogging community welcomes my little faith-based blog into their personal worlds, and what better way to celebrate than by singing the praises of a woman who shines brighter than any launch party sparkler – my dear friend, Camille (or Ethel, as I, the Lucy to her Ethel, know her!).

Photograph in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division

Camille, where do I even begin? Life has thrown you some hefty curveballs, the kind that would leave most people curled up, defeated. But that’s not you, Ethel. You’re the epitome of grit, a true warrior.

We connected after you lost your son, Robert, my son Marshall’s best friend in 2011. He was your sunshine, and you were his unwavering rock. And when the world tilted on its axis for me over eight years later after I lost Marsh, you, Ethel, were there with a steady hand and a fierce “Mamma Bear” spirit that chased away my shadows and ignited my faith.

I remember your kindness, the quiet gestures, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding that only two mothers who’ve walked through that fiery furnace can truly share.

But oh, Ethel, to me, you’re so much more than just sorrow-shared. You’re a firecracker, a laugh that spills just when you need it during a dry spell and an insight like no other; actually an insight that duplicate’s your intuitive son’s. You’re fiercely loyal, with a heart that could hold a universe of compassion. You’re the life of the party, even when all you want to do is crawl under a rock. You are who you are. You wear your scars like badges of honor, proof of battles fought and won and, yes, lost too.

And yes, Ethel, you can be a pain in the Lucy! We wouldn’t be Lucy and Ethel without our little spats and quirks. But even then, I know, deep down, that your fire comes from a place of love, a relentless desire to protect those in your orbit.

So, on this day, as our little community welcomes my little blog, I celebrate you, Ethel. I celebrate your birth, your life, your love, your unyielding spirit. You are an inspiration, a testament to the human capacity to not only endure, but connect deeply.

Photo by PhotoMIX Company on Pexels.com

May your birthday be filled with laughter, sunshine, and sweet cake. And may the year ahead be your brightest yet, paved with joy, renewed hope, and the unwavering knowledge that you, Ethel, are loved beyond measure. Happy birthday, my friend!

With endless love and a touch of Lucy sass,

Your Lucy xx

Faith Muscle

Gold in the Rubble: the Art of Kintsugi

Photo by Motoki Tonn on Unsplash

Imagine this: a cherished ceramic vase, shattered into a hundred pieces. Grief hangs heavy in the air, mirroring jagged shards scattered across the floor. However, instead of discarding the wreckage, you choose Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Using careful hands and a patient heart, you join the pieces, each gilded seam tracing the story of the vase’s fall and rebirth.

I mentioned the art form in last week’s blog. Kintsugi, meaning “golden joinery,” is more than just a repair technique; it’s a philosophy. It celebrates the idea that brokenness is not an ending, but rather a new beginning, infused with unity and strength. In the same vein that I wrote about last week, what if we applied this philosophy to our own lives, especially when they feel tragically broken and faith seems like a distant dream? Especially when we believe our brokenness defines us.

How do we apply kintsugi in our own lives? The first step is to stop pretending the cracks don’t exist. Ignoring them only prolongs the suffering. Let the tears flow, let the anger roar until it dissipates. Then, with courage, reach into the depths of your pain, your vulnerabilities, your struggles. Only then, through this act of bravery of facing what hurts the most, can the healing begin.

The next phase of the process is to embrace the imperfections. I get tripped up in the fact that our society often glorifies the “perfect,” airbrushed version of life. But Kintsugi reminds us that beauty lies in the authentic, in the unique imperfections that make us who we are. Embrace your scars, your stumbles, your quirks. They are the gold that makes your story shine.

From that vantage point, it’s easier to lift your head high and seek out the light. Do you not see it? I remember over 39 years ago, I could not see beyond the darkness, and the world around me seemed equally eclipsed. As fate would have it, my journey of crafting my own kintsugi began when I panned in the rubbish. It wasn’t the fear of judgmental stares that fueled my courage, but rather a community of open hearts, unjudging ears and warm embraces. People who saw my worth, not my cracks. Slowly, like moss finding purchase on a weathered rock, self-compassion aided me to recognize the shimmering parts of my life’s inventory, like gold dust on the wind. Accepting my fractures became the catalyst for healing. I gained a new set of eyes to see myself not as a broken vase, discarded and forgotten, but a work of art in progress.

My kintsugi journey is far from over, and, I’m guessing, neither is yours. As the new year unfolds, let us walk this path together and continue to share stories, tips and resources. Let’s kintsugi together, one shimmering piece at a time.

Faith Muscle

Dancing with Doubt, Painted in Red

The clickety-clack of red shoes against the pavement announced her arrival long before her presence did. Each step towards her therapist’s office echoed a question thrumming in her heart: “Do I still believe?”

January 2nd; the new year kicked off, but the same relentless storm of challenges remained: job lost, debt mounting, love departed, health fading, leaving her grappling for faith.

Then, her gaze snagged on the crimson glow of her shoes. A whimsical purchase, worn for the first time today. They felt like a spark, a whispered counterpoint to the storm. Even in the depths of despair, beauty clung on, defying the shadows.

The woman arrived at the office housing a number of therapists and took a seat in the quiet waiting room. She looked around and a mosaic of faces mirrored her own uncertainties. But instead of isolation, she felt a strange sense of solace. She wasn’t alone in this dance with doubt.

Her therapist called her name, and she went into the office. She sat down in a plush chair, and the therapist asked her how she was doing.

The therapist, with a gentle smile, listened as the woman poured out her story. The loss, the anger, the fear, oh, the fear, and the gnawing void where faith once resided.

“It’s okay,” the therapist finally said, her voice a soothing balm. “Finding faith isn’t always the answer. Maybe we don’t have to overthink it because maybe faith, like air, simply exists. We breathe it in without being fully aware that that is what sustains us.”

The surprised woman blinked with wet lashes. “But God?” she whispered.

The therapist shook her head. “I don’t know. But my faith in beauty remains. Even in the storm’s eye, even in the cracks of life, something shines. If I can’t see it then I must trust in the eyes of another who can. I must feel it in the warmth of a mug; hear it in the comfort of music; smell it in the emerald symphony outside. And that, for me, is enough.”

Silence stretched for a moment, then the doubting woman’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “What if I’m still oblivious to faith?”

The therapist’s eyes twinkled. “Dare to hope in a new tomorrow. Let the sunrise ignite your hope. Make a point to do the right actions, and share that radiance with others. A smile to a stranger, a surrendered parking space in a crowded lot. Remember always: the free-spirited audacity of red shoes dancing on marred gray sidewalks – these too are paths to beauty. Look at Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. The cracks, once wounds, become gilded threads, woven into the story of the piece. Like your shoes, every scar can be a flourish, a testament to resilience. Regardless of differing fortunes, we all walk paths riddled with cracks, yet they are still our steady ground.”

A wave of relief washed over the woman. She didn’t have all the answers but she had derived what she had needed: a seed of hope. She’d let up on the searching, but would continue to walk despite the brokenness, scarlet threads woven through her path, unseen but keenly felt.

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Faith Muscle

A New Year’s Toast: Not to Resolutions, but to Revolutions 🎇

Welcome 2024

As the clock flickers towards midnight, a familiar ritual unfolds. Champagne bubbles, confetti dances, and resolutions whisper into the starlit sky. This time, however, as the year draws to a close, let’s rewrite the script. Forget the forced resolutions, toss the tired expectations. Instead, let’s ignite a revolution within, breaking free from self-doubt and crafting a haven of self-acceptance.

And this revolution has already begun for me. It lives in the wise gifts you’ve shared: your words and kindness like vibrant brushstrokes painting light onto the canvas of my being. From your help, I’m learning to embrace vulnerability, letting my empathy shine like constellations while dancing to the rhythm of my own unfamiliar steps, waltzing with joy, tangoing with grief, and pirouetting through loss across the canvas of life.

Because of the many gifts you’ve given me, I raise my glass to you, my blogging community friends. May your untamed fires illuminate the path ahead, and may your brushstrokes of faith paint your personal masterpiece, abstract or otherwise, in the coming year. Happy New Year to you all!

Faith Muscle

Starry ⭐ Night Greetings

Photo by Sindre Fs on Pexels.com

Finding Faith and Empowerment in the December Night Sky

No matter where you live or what traditions you hold dear, I invite you to take a special moment this Monday, December 25th, when many celebrate Christmas, to simply observe the vastness of the night sky.

Above, twinkling like diamonds scattered on black velvet, are countless stars. Each one, a testament to the incredible power and mystery of the universe. Some, long extinguished and no longer with us, yet their light continues to shine. Their existence reminds us that even in the face of death, something beautiful and enduring can remain.

As you ponder the celestial dance above, allow your mind to wander beyond the limitations of our earthly existence. Imagine the countless galaxies and planets swirling through the cosmic void, each harboring untold stories and unfathomable wonders. In this vastness, we can find not only a sense of humility, but also an exhilarating sense of possibility.

So, under the watchful gaze of the night sky, take a moment to reflect, to marvel, and to find strength and inspiration for the journey ahead.

This Monday, let the stars inspire you to believe in the impossible, to dream bigger, and to reach for the light of faith.

Even when doubt whispers and darkness looms, remember your own light within you. The smallest spark can ignite a fire like the loneliest star that can guide a ship to shore. Dim or bright, unearth your light, and let it rise. Be the beacon that guides your own journey, and in doing so, illuminates the way for others lost in a starless night.

Faith Muscle

Let Go🌟Let Light

Our Artificial, Five-Foot Christmas Tree

Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.

The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down. This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer. Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.

As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.

My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.

But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.

This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.

Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.

And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.

The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.

In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.

“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.

Final Letting Go …

Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.

This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.

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Faith Muscle