Simple Life

In a modest stucco house tucked into a quiet Florida cul-de-sac, the late morning sun streamed through half-open blinds, casting long, warm strips of light across the floor. Ramon had only just risen—later than usual. At sixty-three, he had learned not to rush the day. He reached for his coffee, still warm in his thermos mug, and sat before his small meditation nook, the Bible app already open to Romans 12.

"Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice... Do not conform to the pattern of this world..." the verse read. The words echoed with clarity in his mind, and for once, he did not fight them.

This was not a new realization. Each day lately has been a small act of surrender, of letting go of the habits that had once defined his sense of productivity—and even, mistakenly, his sense of self-worth. But this morning felt different. There was joy, however subtle. Joy that came not from achievement, but from clarity. From release.

Ramon remembered how it all started, three years ago. What had begun as an innocent desire to share a few life updates with distant friends through Facebook had quickly spiraled into something far more consuming. At first, it was the thrill of rediscovery—of updating, of crafting video reels, editing soundtracks, pairing filters with sentiment. But soon, the habit took root. He began posting daily. Then, obsessively. Checking likes. Monitoring views. Browsing endlessly. Admiring others. Comparing. Envying.

Social media, he realized, had become a mirror—one that reflected not who he was, but who he thought others wanted him to be.

“It was no longer joy,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the worn cover of his prayer journal. “It was hunger. For attention. For affirmation. For something the screen could never really offer.”

The Holy Spirit, he believed, had been gently steering him back. The clearest sign came not in a sermon or a dream—but in illness that had rearranged everything—plans, priorities, and the illusion that he would one day return to his old hometown in the Philippines for good.

He remembered the trip home three years ago —forty-five days spent in a town that no longer recognized him, surrounded by faces that belonged to someone else’s memory. The streets were familiar, yes. The food was still comforting. But the connection? Gone. A third of his friends had passed. The rest were aging, burdened, and distant. He had wandered the house his parents once lived in, sitting by the lace-curtained window, watching the slow passage of tricycles and schoolchildren. He had never felt so alone. He never felt so alienated in a barrio he once called home.

That’s when the Holy Spirit whispered again: “Stay where you are in Florida. You are not done there. You cannot start all over again in your old town in the Philippines. Everything you thought was there is gone.”

Florida, for all its humidity and heat, offered safety. Emergency services. A hospital ten minutes away. Paved walking trails under sprawling banyans. Anonymity. Solitude. Familiarity. Life.

And so, he returned back and stayed.

This morning, Ramon had mailed his HOA checks for the rest of the year, a symbolic gesture of commitment to the place he now reluctantly called home. As he stepped out of the post office, sunlight poured through unexpected raindrops—a shimmer of grace falling from a blue sky. The breeze off the Intracoastal cut the summer heat, and he took it as an invitation: he walked. Four miles. Shade and breeze his companions. And in his ears, his latest audiobook—four chapters of Robert Jordan’s Lord of Chaos, interwoven with the whisper of leaves and the steady rhythm of his own breath.

The afternoon led him to General Dollar, not out of urgency, but for the simple pleasure of routine. Potato taters. Zero-sugar soda. Something to stock the pantry. Something to mark the day. He drove home feeling light.

But the temptation lingered. The lure of checking Facebook. The dopamine pulls of the red dot.

He resisted.

Instead, he opened his laptop and began writing — notes for a new article on his health blog, drafts for his fiction website, ideas swirling for a piece that might inspire someone down the line. Perhaps this very story, told under another name. Perhaps this moment.

He no longer felt the need to link everything to Facebook. His creative work had become sacred again, private even. The likes didn’t matter. The shares didn’t either. What mattered was clarity. Discipline. The rediscovery of his gifts: writing, storytelling, teaching.

Social media had taught him a painful truth: that much of the world now performed rather than lived. He too had performed, perhaps not with vanity, but with the quiet desperation of someone trying to matter in a world that was forgetting him.

But God had not forgotten him. The Spirit reminded him daily—through wind, through verse, through the very restraint it took not to open another tab.

There were things Ramon still missed: the spontaneous chats with old friends, the imagined life in his hometown, the brief flirtation with digital popularity. But more than these, he longed for something deeper—something lasting. Conversations with God. Insights from long-dead authors. Honest reflections rendered in prose, stored in a quiet website, unlinked from the noise.

At dusk, Ramon sat again by his window, the same kind of window he had once stared through back home. But this one looked out onto a Florida street, quiet and still, the breeze just beginning to shift as another thunderstorm prepared to arrive.

He pulled out his notebook and began to write:

“Offer your life not for applause, but for purpose. Offer your time not for praise, but for presence. Offer your gifts not for trend, but for truth.”

He paused.

This was worship.
This was joy.
This was enough.
2025-07-17 00:00:56
shortstories

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