Slow Reset from Chaos

A Christian reflection on Key West, Hemingway, mental health, surrender, and God’s grace — The Roaming Catholic

Before I met Cleo, the best cook in the universe, I thought I already knew what good food was. She was an African American woman who could cook up a storm and make the “bestest fried chicken” this side of the Panhandle. At Chuck Wagon, I started by bussing tables and eventually stepped up to become a waitress. The bigger the tip, the messier the table—and whatever was left underneath it.

One of the funniest lessons I learned as a waitress came through a customer’s order: “I’d like to order chicken, please—breast. I want them in pairs.” I can still hear the joke and the laughter that followed. This is how I remember the Keys—the Florida Keys—and the longest drive I had ever taken in a car: the conch shells, the fishing rods, hurricane season, and the tropical waves of the Atlantic.

That drive to Key West became tangled in my memory with everything I had left behind.

In the ’70s, I—not we—moved to Key West, Florida, leaving behind the skyline of San Francisco. And yes, I did leave my heart there. I would miss Chinatown, with its whole roasted ducks and chickens hanging in the windows that faced the sidewalk, along with Fisherman’s Wharf, the Bridge, and the hills that never seemed to stop rolling.

Oh wait—and the incredible FAO Schwarz! You’ve never heard of FAO Schwarz? It was the biggest and “baddest” toy store ever. My eyes popped out, my tongue hung loose, and my brain could barely handle the joy of touching and playing with everything. There were plush animals so big, soft, squishy, and light as feathers; a piano laid out on the floor that you played with your feet; the biggest Christmas tree I had ever set my eyes on; and a second floor. Imagine that: two whole floors of total toys! It hurt because I had to leave it all behind. But I did leave with a souvenir in hand: a water globe of the San Francisco skyline.

When we arrived at Key West Naval Station, I understood what people meant when they called Key West beautiful. Margaritaville sat in the heart of Key West, made famous by Jimmy Buffett’s song. But what touched me more was Ernest Hemingway’s home. Hemingway’s house became more than a landmark to me; it became a doorway into questions about sadness, faith, and survival. It still felt as if he were there as I walked around its corners and through the doors of the rooms. I could imagine him behind the typewriter, gazing through the window. The cigar, the rocking chair, the walls I touched—if only they could speak—the door handles, and the pathway where he once stood all made him feel close. How sad that even a place so beautiful could hold such sorrow, and how someone so famous could be so lost. Grief, I imagine, has no friends. Depression can take hold especially when insecurity twists the desire for acceptance. Mental illness does not discriminate.

Unless you have lived with mental illness, it is hard to fully understand. The unimaginable courage it takes to admit it does not make it easy to accept. This made me think of Hemingway and myself. His book, The Old Man and the Sea, won Hemingway a Pulitzer Prize in 1953. In 1974, it won me over with its reflection of the steady fight through life, dignity, and courage. People don’t offer much encouragement these days, but they forget that peace can also come at a cost. It is strange how long it took me to remember how we carry thoughts of tragedy and struggle, thinking we managed every victory on our own. Worse, we manage to blame God for all our losses because we want to be right, but being right is not the same as being righteous.

Hemingway uses Santiago’s struggle to show the difference between human strength and spiritual grace. Santiago tries to prove his worth through pain, endurance, and survival, but the biblical message suggests that people are not made worthy by struggle alone. True strength comes from God’s grace, especially when human strength fails.

Santiago carrying the mast is like carrying a cross, so it represents suffering and sacrifice. His wounded hands suggest holy wounds, showing pain and endurance. The sea can represent life itself: beautiful, dangerous, and difficult to control. The fish represents Santiago’s goal and pride because catching it becomes his way of proving himself.

These verses helped frame that truth for me:

Ephesians 2:8–9: “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so no one may boast.”

Psalm 127:1–2: “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchman stays awake in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrow…”

2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”

We will struggle apart from God, for without His Divine Mercy, we are powerless.

Survival may prove our endurance, but surrender reveals our faith.

Redemption is hard. When the past collapses, don’t rebuild on the same foundation. Build a new one—steady, unmovable, and bound by the blood and sacrifice of the Builder. When we leave the pages of our stories and thoughts held back for too long, the pages turn yellow and fragile. Those thoughts layered in the past do not simply go away. Only when I handed them over to God did I begin to let go at a steady pace. It is not magic; it is faith.

The greatest victory is not proving we can survive the sea, the sorrow, or the past. The greatest victory is learning to lay it all before God and rise again through grace.