July 4 Psalm 24

A California Story

The morning sun was already stretching through the coastal fog when Mateo Santiago stepped onto the porch of his modest California home. It was July 4th, Independence Day—again. The wind carried the faint scent of jacarandas and distant barbecue smoke. Somewhere, children were already lighting firecrackers, their laughter echoing against the rolling hills of this sleepy town just outside Ventura.

Mateo was turning 63 this year. Today was quiet, unusually quiet. He stared out at the garden he tended every morning, now blooming with soft lavender, white sage, and a single blooming sunflower that tilted toward the morning light. The garden had become his temple. Today it felt like sanctuary.

Ten years ago to the day, July 4th, 2014, he had moved into a downtown condo—his first act of real independence. A new chapter, he’d called it then. He didn’t yet know that chapter would come with a litany of small battles: HOA conflicts, bad tenants, sewage breakdowns, a crumbling roof, threats from the mentally ill who lingered in the alley, and his own overly generous role as caretaker of a building that no longer felt like home.

Now, the decade had passed—and so had his younger sister, Ana.

Her death was still fresh, but strangely it had brought with it an odd sense of release. For thirty years, she’d been part of his American story—from the day he brought her over in hopes that she might thrive or perhaps help him shoulder the burden of immigration and aging alone. It never quite worked out that way.

She'd come with her own scars, including a failed marriage that left her afraid and uncertain. Mateo had been the wall she leaned on—financially, emotionally, spiritually. And although he never admitted it until now, he was always afraid to leave, afraid she'd crumble without him. That fear kept him tethered. It bent his plans, shaped his choices, and became the silent architect of many of his compromises.

But today, July 4, 2025, was another kind of Independence Day.

The living room inside was quiet. His roommate, Jim — a retired electrician and a kind of makeshift brother — was still asleep in the other room. They’d lived under the same roof for over twelve years now. Nothing special about their relationship, they were brought together by necessity, which matured into family, brothers. Each of them as far away from their families. Jim couldn’t afford a place on his own in Southern California’s punishing rental market. Mateo didn’t mind him so long as he contributes what he can for the utilities. Jim was respectful, handy, and loyal in a world where loyalty had grown rare.

Mateo sat down with his morning coffee, gazing at Psalm 23 opened on his tablet.
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

It hit differently today. Less like a poetic promise and more like a quiet truth.

He reflected on the freedom he now had. Not just freedom from responsibility, but freedom from the constant dread—of emergencies, of hospital calls, of guilt. For decades, he had walked with a boulder on his back, one he mistook for duty. Ana’s departure, while tragic, had loosened something in his chest. He could breathe again. “She’s with God now,” he whispered, and meant it.

In the late morning, he went for his walk along the canyon trail. The city had recently cleaned up the area, and the usual chaos of homelessness and noise had given way to peaceful silence. He greeted other walkers—mostly older folk like himself—and exchanged nods with a few familiar faces. Some days, he’d chat with a homeless man named Rafael about books and philosophy. Other days, he kept to himself.

Today, he walked alone.

By noon, fireworks had begun to sound in the distance. He thought about the family messages he received earlier that morning. His nieces and nephews asking about Ana’s arrangements. His eldest sister texting from Manila. He had responded briefly, then turned off his phone. His body still needed rest. The minor stroke three months ago had been a warning, not just from his doctor, but from God: “Slow down, Mateo. Your heart cannot carry everything.”

Back home, he danced alone in his room. Not out of joy, but habit. A little movement to stir the blood, stretch the hips, protect his back. He’d stopped filming his exercise videos since Ana entered hospice. They felt performative now, hollow. Maybe he would start again next month. Maybe not.

He thought about the men he had let into his life over the years—some kind, others careless. Joey, James, Jason. Mistakes that started small, grew big, and left him reeling. The worst was Steve, who’d taken advantage of his loneliness. But those days felt like echoes now. The one bright outcome of those tangled chapters was Jim, who had stayed. That was enough.

Tomorrow, he and Carlos — Ana’s quiet husband, now widower, would meet with the funeral director. Mateo felt no urgency. Ana’s story was closed. She had made her choices. He had done his part.

Still, the loneliness lingered. He wrestled daily with the primitive ache for company—sometimes sexual, sometimes merely the warmth of a voice in the kitchen. That craving always came in the morning, before prayer realigned his soul. Prayer had become his anchor. The Holy Spirit, his quiet visitor.

Mateo understood something now: the world of the body was full of illusions. The real kingdom was not of this world. He’d seen enough friends who returned home with grand dreams—big mansions, fancy retirements—only to die within months. The body failed quickly. The soul needed preparation.

So he prayed. He wrote. He gardened. He walked. He danced alone.

“Perhaps this,” he thought, “is what freedom really means. The long-awaited space to become one’s true self—without obligation, without guilt.”

The sun dipped behind the trees as fireworks cracked overhead. Mateo stood by his window, watching the sky pulse in reds and golds, then fade.

Tomorrow would bring funeral plans. Next week, perhaps a few more messages from relatives, some silence, a few dreams.

But tonight, he was free.

And in that quiet freedom, he lacked nothing.
2025-07-05 01:07:35
shortstories

Grief

1 Samuel 12:19-25

19 The people all said to Samuel, "Pray to the Lord your God for your servants so that we will not die, for we have added to all our other sins the evil of asking for a king."

20 "Do not be afraid," Samuel replied. "You have done all this evil; yet do not turn away from the Lord, but serve the Lord with all your heart. 21 Do not turn away after useless idols. They can do you no good, nor can they rescue you, because they are useless. 22 For the sake of His great name the Lord will not reject His people, because the Lord was pleased to make you His own. 23 As for me, far be it from me that I should sin against the Lord by failing to pray for you. And I will teach you the way that is good and right. 24 But be sure to fear the Lord and serve Him faithfully with all your heart; consider what great things He has done for you. 25 Yet if you persist in doing evil, both you and your king will perish."

The context of this passage is a pivotal moment when the people of Israel chose to appoint a human king rather than continue under the direct rule of God. The Lord was displeased with their decision and allowed a great calamity to come upon them. Fearful, the people turned to Saul, their newly appointed king, to save them. But Saul, realizing his limitations, turned to God in prayer—acknowledging that even kings are powerless without the Lord.

This reminds us that while human solutions can be helpful, true deliverance comes only from God. Relying on human effort alone will never be enough.

Psalm 23 – A Psalm of David

1 The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters,

3 He refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for His name's sake.

4 Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

6 Surely Your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

That morning, Esteban Reyes managed to get out of the house for a walk. The motion of his feet, the rhythm of air filling and leaving his lungs, felt necessary. The last few weeks had been consumed by the slow decline of his younger sister, now in hospice. At nine years his junior, she had once arrived in America full of potential. Now, she lay fading. Esteban hoped her end, if it must come, would be peaceful. Swift, if the Lord willed it.

When the grief became too much, Esteban turned to the one practice that had never abandoned him: writing. Journaling had been his sanctuary since childhood. In those private pages, he communed with the Holy Spirit.

That day, like many others, his body resisted. It longed to shut down, to rest while his mind whirled with images—some warm, most haunted. He saw her as she was now, bedridden, and searched his memory for a safer version of her. But questions clawed at him.

Why her? Why now? What went wrong?

There were so many wrong turns, especially on her part. But Esteban knew his own silence hadn’t helped. When their mother had begged him to bring his younger sister to the United States—for family support, for aging parents, and for Esteban’s own care in old age—he had answered the call.

He had paid for her move, for her exams, even for the apartment she lived in. He had commuted on weekends to help her settle. But he hadn’t known about the boyfriend she left behind in Chicago—the one who quickly reappeared in her new town and started draining her finances.

Soon, the help she had promised dwindled. Then disappeared.

She wasn’t here to help the family, Esteban realized. She had come for freedom—to build her own life, her own dreams. He didn’t blame her. It's her life. But he couldn’t ignore the sting. While she sought love and independence, Esteban worked himself to the bone, funding dialysis for their mother, covering for college-aged nieces and nephews, managing endless financial needs.

Then came the worst decision: selling their condos and consolidating into a townhouse. He had hoped for shared responsibilities, lower bills, and family stability. What followed was betrayal. Her husband gambled away their savings. Checks were stolen—even from Esteban himself. Foreclosure loomed. Esteban paid thousands to save their home.

He finally asked him to leave. He had to.

Amazingly, she found a new boyfriend once her divorce was finalized. Esteban, weary but hopeful, encouraged her again to work on being independent. Driving lessons. A second chance to explore the world on her own. But a new husband was her priority. Maybe now she’d live the life she deserved.

But fate had other plans.

In 2015, she developed a gangrenous foot from uncontrolled diabetes. Esteban, a healthcare worker, changed her dressings daily. Her new husband tried to help. But even he saw what Esteban had long noticed—her isolation, her refusal to move, to engage, to fight for her health.

That was her pattern. Even as a child, she had lived inside a locked room, both literal and emotional. She had brought that room with her to America.

Her final illness—cervical cancer—came swiftly. Esteban had just begun reckoning with his own health. Three months earlier, he had suffered a mild stroke, the product of years of denial and unmanaged diabetes. He could no longer shoulder anyone else’s life.

He remembered how she once said she had saved for retirement and named him as her beneficiary. That money, he later learned, went to remodeling the home she and her new husband had bought—from him. She had once secretly purchased a condo in Manila with her ex-husband while Esteban was paying for everyone else’s survival.

Still, Esteban did not curse her.

He looked back and saw that his sacrifices weren’t wasted. The family he had carried had built their lives. They were abroad now, thriving. But the romantic notion of returning home to their warm embrace was long gone.

He was still alone. Still aging.

And yet, even in that solitude, he felt the Holy Spirit’s presence. The same Spirit who had stayed with him in the quiet hours, through every storm.

Now, as his sister lay dying, he imagined her free at last. She had always longed for her own version of happiness. Perhaps, Esteban thought, she had finally found it—in the light, reunited with their departed parents, their oldest brother, the community they once called home.

He didn’t cry. But he could have.

He had witnessed her first breath when she was born being 9 years his junior. Now he would witness her last.

And in that sacred symmetry, he saw the truth: the physical world fades. Names vanish. Pain is buried. Only the soul endures.

The body returns to the soil.

But the soul flies—free, eternal, untouched by decay.

And Esteban believed she was now flying.

She had finally unlocked the door she had kept closed for so long.

And she was dancing, at last, in the wide, sunlit garden of the Lord.
2025-07-02 02:13:22
shortstories