For years, I believed in a cosmic vending machine. You put in your prayers, your good deeds, your unwavering faith, and out popped the desired outcome: a healed loved one, a landed dream job, a world free from strife. It felt logical, a system I could control. But then, the universe asserted its power until I gasped for air.
The loss of my 26-year-old son shattered the illusion of the cosmic vending machine, a wish dispenser. Grief, in its crushing honesty, revealed the illusion of my control. My desperate prayers richocheted off the heavens and went unanswered. My cosmic vending machine turned totally defective and inoperable.
My beautiful friend, Michelle, ever the optimist, saw things differently. A solid Christian woman, every morning, she told me after she became a sudden widow, she now prayed for one very important thing, actually a number of them, dozens, in fact: donuts. She prays for donuts! Not a grand plea. Small enough to grasp in your hand – and in your mind. The more I thought about it, the more I saw how the simple request symbolized something profound.
It took loss to understand the fundamental truth my friend embodied. I didn’t have to give up on my faith, only realize I wasn’t the one responsible for the weather that I had no control over from the get-go – but I could pack an umbrella – maybe one big enough that I could even sweetly share.
Just like the twelve steps of recovery teach, I learned to let go and let God (or the universe, a higher power, whatever resonates with you). In this way, the stress alleviated. I didn’t have to demand, only release myself to the mystery of life and surrender to the flow, whether it meant a gentle current of a river or a maelstrom in an ocean or sea.
Don’t get me wrong. My cosmic vending machine is still a very cool-looking device that is a fun fantasy. It’s a healthy escape, but not a blueprint of a reality. It’s different now. My words form donut prayers, always asking at the end for the strength to pick up the scattered crumbs on the counter.
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Growing up, I idolized my older brother Paul. Between his army years, he was the fearless chef, whipping up magic at a fancy seafood restaurant while I fumbled plates as an underage waitress serving alcohol (those were the days when labor laws weren’t always scrutinized!).
My vivid memories not only include him teaching me the restaurant trade, but the laughter of summer afternoons spent on the water fishing with the daredevil captain in his motorboat, and his joyous yell – “Look at me, I look like a lobster!” – as he emerged back on the boat after a spontaneous dip in Long Island Sound, his skin flushed from the sun.
Years flew by. One year, we cleared out some of our excess in our parents’ house for a weekend garage sale before I left for college. Our family had decided that all proceeds would go towards my college fund. It was while hammering a garage sale sign onto a utility pole that my irritation with Brother Paul, chain-smoking beside me, reached a boiling point.
“You can’t do anything without lighting a cigarette, can you?” I lashed out, a cigarette smoker myself at the time, but come on, you could take a breath in between!
Brother Paul, ever the chain smoker, lit another cigarette in reply to my remark. (Little did I know this would be one of his last packs and he would quit soon enough, cold turkey.) The point is that this dynamic happened to be part of a familiar pattern. When something about him rubbed me the wrong way, I’d lash out. The cycle would then repeat, with the roles occasionally reversed. Repeat.
In my youthful naivety and fierce independence, I took family for granted, assuming it was an unchanging fixture in the ever-shifting world. We think we have endless time in the world to say sorry, to mend fences. But life offers no such guarantees. That mindset, needless to say, wasn’t a recipe for a strong relationship with Brother Paul. My early twenties were a whirlwind, and while I eventually made significant amends to him and his wife, Diane, the harsh words exchanged left lingering scars. Let’s face it, neither of us were perfect back then.
Certainly through the years, we took each other for granted, assuming “lobster skin” resilience. We forgot about the fragility woven beneath the shell. This fragility, often ignored by our “get-up-and-go” culture.
This truth hit home recently when Brother Paul faced some health challenges. While the details are private, it was a wake-up call that I actually experienced in slumber. Recently, I had a dream where I tried to comfort him with empty promises of “everything will be alright.” Yet, a chilling voice whispered the truth: “No, it won’t.”
I brushed off the dream, hoping it wasn’t a portent of something terrible. However, it did serve as a stark reminder of life’s impermanence. The truth is, even for the most devout and faith-filled, the finality of death can be a difficult pill to swallow. We crave a pause button, a chance to hold onto forever. But the reality is, life is finite.
At the moment, everything has simmered down. However, Brother Paul’s recent health struggles unleashed a wave of guilt and regret for some of our past words and actions. We also found ourselves acutely missing my son Marshall. His absence magnified the emptiness in our already dwindling family circle. Yet, amidst the pain and turmoil, the experience also ignited a spark of hope. Hope that we would have more time to rebuild a stronger bond, filled with shared laughter that once turned us both lobster-red.
So, here’s my two cents’ worth after being zapped by this most recent wake-up call. Take a deep breath, reach out to those you love, and truly listen where judgment has no place. There are stories waiting to be told, adventures waiting to be had, and sun-kissed swims yet to be taken.
Don’t wait. Embrace the present moment. Yell, “Now is all we have!” Dive into the vast ocean of life now, because even its seemingly endless depths have their limits.
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Sometimes life’s curveballs land right between you and the people who once mattered the most. When you are young, navigating the complexities of life and friendships, your emotions can get tangled up in arguments and hurt feelings. Distance may create walls that seem impossible to climb. But the aging process has helped create a shift in some of my most difficult relationships. I believe this change is because we are beginning to view the world through a different lens, one etched with the wisdom of time and the stark reality of life’s impermanence.
A few weeks ago, for instance, a group of us had gathered for a brunch at my house that reminded me of the incredible power of time and forgiveness.
The atmosphere was electric – in the best way possible. We reminisced about old times, poked fun at each other with gentle jabs. We listened to stories, to dreams simmered and unshaped, the paths we’d taken as a result. What struck me most was the overwhelming sense of love. In spite of all the tough times, we were still here, still connected by a shared history. Everyone left that brunch feeling lighter, closer, and reminded that even the most strained relationships can be nurtured back to health, like a wilted flower receiving a much-needed shower.
A friend once shared a truth that stayed with me: in the kitchen, surrounded by the murmur of conversation, a home finds its heart.
A week after the brunch, I received a thank-you note from one of the group. It was a simple gesture, a few heartfelt lines, but one sentence struck a chord deep within me: “Your house is so warm.”
It might sound simple, but those words meant the world to me. Throughout my life, I’ve always dreamed of having a “warm house.” The warmth I’d craved wasn’t about square footage or architectural style. My desire resided in a place that radiated not just heat, but feelings of belonging, comfort and love.
And here I was, feeling as if I was living the dream. The recent brunch served as a sweet confirmation of our 23-year journey, filled with joyous celebrations and moments of shared sorrow. An important reminder of the enduring connection that fills every corner of my house.
The world around us might change, relationships might evolve, but some things remain constant: the fragility of life, the power of forgiveness, and the enduring warmth of a welcoming home. A place that reflects the camaraderie shared not just in meals to feed the stomach, but in the nourishment of “soul” food exchanged and savored.
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Not much different from today, the 70s boomed with a culture of body shaming, fueled by a relentless push to sell magic formulas for a beauty standard that was as warped as the false eyelashes and diet pills I clung to. The “miracle pills” whittled me down to a frail 102 pounds, a desperate attempt to mold myself into something peer-approved pretty.
You, on the other hand, Mike, were the pragmatist. Your words were few, but each one landed with the weight of your well-worn cowboy boots sinking into the good earth. I can still picture the glint in your eyes, even then, as a young man, when you asked me as I batted my extended lashes, “What ever happened to natural?”
Natural? The concept flew over my bleached-blonde hair.
Turns out, dear bro (and maybe you knew this all along), I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It took me five whole decades to finally grasp the meaning of “natural.” It wasn’t just about rejecting the miracle products and noise from greedy marketers, but also the well-meaning (but often misguided) voices of family and friends anchored by their faith (or traditions), trying to mold me into their own images.
Finally following your lead, I, at last, retreated inwards, finding solace in the quiet and contentment in the slow burn of a candle. This newfound space helped free me from external manipulation, my decisions stemmed from the deepest well of my being – my soul, (sadly, a missed opportunity for my son). In this way, a new understanding of myself blossomed within me, carried on the wings of redemption, faith, and the quiet hum of grief. It was a womb-like homecoming – a return to the essence of who I was always meant to be. Like the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinth that pushed through the warmed earth, bold and bright as jewels. In the process, I embraced myself. Judgment and distortions disappeared. A sense of liberation bloomed – a feeling as light and airy as the warm breeze that chased away the last of winter’s chill.
This personal freedom extended to giving others space. I let go of my ego. Of “fixing” prayers and forced agendas. Life, I found, often worked in mysterious ways, guided by a hand far more divine than mine and impossible to understand fully.
So, dear brother, thank you for planting the seed of the concept of natural in my heart. These last two years, in particular, are showing me that the overdue path for my true self is now under construction. Looking back, I see the past woven intricately together, not by chance, but by a divine hand that holds mine with compassion.
Specifically, since January 2023, I have lost over 35 pounds, all on my own without any drugs or shaming or a doctor’s fearful words. Out of the blue, I “happened” to have fallen upon the program NOOM (disclaimer: I’m not affiliated with them), and it has changed my life.
It wasn’t about quick fixes – NOOM focuses on behavior change and mental well-being, which resonates with me. NOOM’s app uses science and personalization to track food and lifestyle choices, promoting healthy weight loss and long-term habits, which I’ve incorporated into my life.
Sharing my initial progress with only one person backfired when they dismissed my one-pound weight loss after a month on NOOM. But I tuned out the negativity and continued to focus on myself. Every pound since then feels like a major victory on this amazing journey. Ultimately, losing weight isn’t just about the numbers on the scale. It is part of my powerful journey of self-discovery, because, as I already mentioned, I alone have claimed what was so loving and freely given to me all along: my authentic self. (While it looks like the naysayer is headed for a knee replacement, I am not, at least not at the moment!)
Just as amazing, too, and completely by happenstance, today also marks my one-year anniversary of becoming a pescetarian! There was no pressure, no specific date in mind – it just happened. (Plus, this time, I kept my secret to myself, secured in my judgment-free zone!) And that’s when I realized the most profound aspect of this journey: sometimes, the most meaningful changes come about organically, like a nudge from a higher power that reigns over all the super human powers.
My inspiration for this eating shift had been brewing for a long time, fueled in part by your gentle spirit and by my amazing daughter, Alexandra. She’s been a vegetarian since she was just eight years old, and at 29, she’s still a passionate advocate for animal welfare. Witnessing her compassion has brought the joy of spring to me every season, her dedication is always rubbing off on me. Then there’s my niece who’s poured her heart into working at an animal sanctuary early every Sunday morning for over a year now.
From the start, I felt a deep conviction about my dietary path. Then, just a few weeks in, a fantastic article in the New York Times, Peter Singer: Fix Your Diet, Save the Planet, practically fell into my lap, seemingly confirming my intuition. Since I gave up eating animals, even on days when the world feels like a relentless battle, I go to bed knowing I’ve made a positive impact, however small.
So, big brother, you were right – “natural” truly is beautiful. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in aligning myself with the universe’s flow, dancing with it rather than resisting, keeping my world free from the super human powers that get in the way and cause an accident.
Today, on what would have been your 78th birthday, I celebrate not only your life, but also the newfound vibrancy in mine. Who knows, maybe next year on your birthday, I’ll discover another divinely inspired way to move through the world that can sometimes feel so serious, a joyful expression in your memory.
But for now, I raise a glass (sparkling water, please!) to you, brother, to my incredible daughter and niece, and to the life I’m so grateful to share with them and all of you. Let’s weave faith into the unexpected twists and turns of life, and see what beautiful and unique tapestry emerges. Regarding that natural process, I’m profoundly grateful. Now, I can simply rest and watch the masterpiece unfold.
Happy Birthday, bro!
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Ruby, a precious gemstone prized for centuries for its beauty, rarity, and strength, also symbolizes love, passion, and faith. While some wear ruby jewelry to mark milestones, I found myself drawn to a 14k gold ruby ring during my tumultuous divorce in 2011.
Some people might have questioned why I had chosen to wear it daily at such a time of emotional and financial upheaval, perhaps perceiving it as flaunting wealth amid chaos. However, the truth was, the ring gave me a sense of control I desperately needed in my vortex of life.
Most of us have our personal ways to seek grounding and stability in life’s unpredictable moments, and sometimes it’s the “things” we hold dear that guide us back to our center. While some might find solace in religious symbols, such as a crucifix, for me, a simple ruby ring had served as a powerful anchor. It offered a sense of calm and strength, much like the red shoes provided balance for the woman I wrote about in a previous blog post.
While I rarely wear the ring anymore, whenever I come across that beautiful ruby ring tucked away in my jewelry box, it serves as a powerful reminder. The ring whispers tales of past chapters, highlighting the importance of personal anchors. This realization also prompts me to soften my judgments when I see others clinging to their own possessions, whether it be a cherished trinket or a flashy car. All things considered, life’s journey is rarely smooth. If driving a ruby red Mercedes or wearing a ruby ring helps someone navigate life’s bumps and roadblocks, who am I to judge? Perhaps the truest faith lies not only in traditional beliefs, but in the quiet understanding that many of us possess our own personal talismans that not only help stabilize us in life’s storms, but power us forward. Ultimately, we all carry our own burdens, and sometimes the most faithful act is simply acknowledging the quiet battles fought behind the projected facades as well as victories celebrated within the hearts of others.
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He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
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We’ve all heard that broken mirrors bring bad luck. Seven years to be exact. Well, six years ago, a stray mattress shattered the mirrored back of our small china cabinet. I shrugged it off at the time, preoccupied with other matters.
A few months ago, my dear friend Michelle recommended a wonderful handyman. Recently, while he was working on some odd jobs, our conversation turned to the china cabinet’s broken mirrored back.
“My wife won’t allow any broken mirrors in our house,” he said, his voice heavy with an unspoken worry. His words clung to the air, making the shattered reflection before me appear ominous. The cracks seemed to mirror the fractures in my own life, the hardships I’d endured, and the raw pain of our family’s tragedy.
Even though I was raised in a superstitious family, I didn’t really believe a piece of glass held any power over my circumstances. Fortunately, I do have a little more faith than that — but just in case — I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Maybe the broken mirror brought the bad luck into the house! I want it out as soon as possible!”
A few weeks later as the mirror came out, there was such a lightness in its place. I felt this sense of renewal – not in a superstitious “now things will be perfect” sort of way, Instead, it felt like a chapter had closed and getting rid of the broken mirror felt incredibly liberating.
During a conversation with Michelle, she mentioned something a friend, who had recently retired from the corporate world, had shared: “Hope is not a strategy.”
The wisdom resonated with me. I realized that removing the broken mirror was the true strategy. In doing so, I found hope. Perhaps the real power lies not in the shattered glass itself, but in the courage to choose change and embrace hope.
We all hold on to things, physically and otherwise, that no longer serve us. Whether it’s an old teacup with a stain, an item of clothing with a tear, or even a situation or person we can’t seem to move on from… sometimes letting go is the most cleansing and rejuvenating action we can take.
What are you holding onto that it may be time to release?
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A common refrain in the face of tragedy, often dismissed as a platitude.
But in Akin’s stream of thought, a main character in Stay With Me, Ayobami Adebayo reveals a powerful truth: Sometimes, the most profound emotions reside in the absence of words.
“I realized that the ground under our feet had just been pulled away, we were standing on air, and my words could not keep us from falling into the pit that had opened up beneath.”
Through grief, we confront the universal cavity life eventually carves, a void even the most eloquent language cannot fill. That’s Akin’s experience when he grapples with the devastating loss of his second child and is forced to reveal the truth to his wife, Yejide.
Without revealing the entire powerful story of Stay with Me by Ayobami Adebayo, let me say this: it’s a poignant exploration of love, loss, and the intricate bonds of family. While it delves into sensitive topics and doesn’t shy away from life’s harsh realities (trigger warnings advised), it also offers a captivating portrayal of Nigerian culture and societal pressures in the 1980s.
Can Yejide and Akin, the central characters, rise above their suffering? To answer that, we must first define what constitutes suffering and what defines strength? Does abandonment, for example, truly shield us from pain or, simply, compound matters?
If you haven’t read the book, prepare for twists and turns, even taboo ones.
The reason Stay With Me resonates with me is that the novel’s message transcends the specific narrative. It challenges the notion of starting life with grand expectations of a perfect world. Instead, it urges us to embrace reality – a reality where loss is inevitable, where storms are guaranteed. It’s in navigating these storms, in weathering the tides of hardship until true faith reveals itself.
While I was immersed in Stay With Me, my friend Pat presented me with Winter of the Heart, Finding Your Way through the Mystery of Grief, by Paula D’Arcy. This book, gifted to Pat by a mother who had lost her daughter to suicide, was part of a grief resource bundle. As I delved into its pages, I realized the uncanny connection – both books explored profound themes of loss and grief, making Pat’s gift feel divinely timed and deeply meaningful.
Here’s an excerpt from a section called, It’s Your Turn from Winter of the Heart: Although loss feels personal and isolating, it’s common to all humankind. Countless men and women have traveled this road; many are walking with us right now. The book of Ecclesiastes repeats the phrase “There is a time.” It’s true. Eventually there is a time when we all lose someone or something of great value to us. We expect grief in the wake of deep loss, but even everyday losses and unmet expectations may surprise us with force. The common experience of loss binds us all. We will each take a turn one day; we cannot escape life. We can only meet our circumstances with a deepening awareness of what it means to live life fully.
Instead of chasing some nebulous concept of “happiness,” what if we set our sights on a life that’s full? Consider the dictionary definition of “full”: packed to the brim, complete, lacking nothing. Now, compare that to “happy”: a fleeting state of well-being and contentment.
Life typically isn’t a neatly plotted story with a guaranteed happy ending. Nor does it have to contain a heart-wrenching Stay by Me plot line. But in a full life, the twists and turns, the moments navigated by blind faith, become chapters in a rich and vibrant story.
“I have no words,” becomes a celebration of life’s unpredictable nature. Because in a full life, the ending isn’t written yet. It’s an open book, waiting to be filled with the messy, magnificent adventure that is called your life.
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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.
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.
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.
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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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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WTF? (Where's the faith?) 