Reflection on Being Alone with a Purpose

October 9, 2025

Romans 8:28–30

28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. 29 For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, that He might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. 30 And those He predestined, He also called; those He called, He also justified; those He justified, He also glorified.

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He woke up early that morning but, for some reason, failed to meditate. His excitement over his plants had overtaken him. Instead of stillness, he spent the early hours creating a short video reel from the clips he had taken the day before. One thing led to another, and before long, he had posted it on social media—earlier than he had planned. Once again, his gardening passion consumed him: searching endlessly for 15-gallon planters online, reaching out to sellers on Marketplace, and losing himself in the cycle of fascination and obsession. At times, he felt helpless before these passing enthusiasms that so easily took hold of him. It seemed the morning had slipped away into trivial routines.

He had begun the day taking photos of the plants he had transplanted the previous day—everything looked well so far—and soon after, he found himself sharing another update on Facebook. Later, he threw his kitchen scraps into the compost bin he had just started.

After two long days of housework, he thought he deserved lighter activity. Two days earlier, he had walked ten thousand steps, followed by cleaning and treating mold in his air-conditioning units. The day after that was filled with yard work—applying bags of soil, transplanting bitter melon, and refilling pots for his moringa. So, he had planned a restful day. Yet, instead, he found himself walking under the intense morning heat in the park, hardly a “light” activity. On the way home, he stopped by Dollar General to buy a two-gallon watering can—a small thing, yet it made him happy.

Inside the store, though, the narrow aisles made him dizzy. He noticed the sharp turns triggered a sense of vertigo—something he was only now beginning to recognize. He finished shopping quickly and went home. There, he ate half a bag of chips—an unwise move, considering his hypertension—and then took a nap. Before sleeping, he checked his blood pressure; it was stable. After three hours of rest, he woke, made a turkey sandwich, and took his medications.

The week was full of reminders: one from his neurologist, another from his insurance advising him to follow up with his primary physician. His overdue vision check weighed on his mind as well. He had already left a message for his doctor.

Now, he sat quietly on his sofa, writing the meditation he had missed that morning—an effort to return to focus after the distractions caused by his newfound gardening passion. He reminded himself that he must temper his spending, which had already exceeded a hundred dollars on soil, manure, and planters. Yet he found comfort in the productivity and joy gardening brought him. It complemented his love for walking outdoors. Though he often shared his progress online, the act of growing and nurturing life was not wasted. He knew his passions often burned bright and then faded; soon enough, he would return to his usual rhythm.

Lately, he had noticed anxious wakefulness creeping into his mornings—a symptom, perhaps, of age and its insecurities. Now, with no one else to rely on, he was responsible for his own health. Living alone made it difficult to maintain the social connections humans naturally need. But he thanked God for the laptop that allowed him to “speak” with his fingers and for the Holy Spirit, who comforted him in such moments. Without that divine companionship, he felt he would be overwhelmed by the ordinary burdens of aging—frailty, solitude, and the slow narrowing of life’s possibilities.

There was, he reflected, no escaping the realities of age. Returning to his homeland might not solve much either—his family there was already burdened with its own troubles: younger generations raising children, older siblings facing illness, and the ever-present problems of flooding and unreliable utilities. Going back would likely limit his independence and medical access. Here, at least, there were constant reminders to seek care and stay proactive with his health.

Still, anxiety lingered—heightened by bouts of vertigo, restless sleep, and the absence of meaningful conversation. On his daily walks, he exchanged only brief greetings with passersby. Back home, he imagined, there would always be someone to talk to. For now, he likened himself to an old hermit deep in the forest, communing not with people but with nature—and, instead of forest spirits, with the Holy Spirit Himself.

He felt deep gratitude for that divine presence, which quieted his fears and guided his thoughts. Sometimes he imagined a world of total absence—no people, no news, no internet, no bills—just silence and solitude, where he could live among books and the dream of a gentler world. Perhaps that was why his dreams felt so refreshing, why he woke up at peace—until he reached for his laptop and was pulled once again into the noise of social media.

Then, a question came to him: Could it be that the Lord kept him in solitude deliberately—to free him from distractions and guide him toward the purpose he was meant to fulfill? Why did restlessness seize him when he did nothing, only to vanish once he began to write? Perhaps his writing was not mere pastime but calling.

After all, mindless scrolling on the internet filled his time but not his spirit. Writing, on the other hand, produced something—something meaningful. It connected him to readers, restoring that sense of communion he missed. Could it be that God had arranged this quiet life precisely so he might write, as monks once did in their cloisters, copying sacred manuscripts in silence?

Those monks, he thought, must have endured long hours bent over parchment, surrounded by the scratch of quills and the scent of ink. It was a labor of love—surely they glorified God through their devotion. His life, he realized, was not so different. God had placed him here, in this quiet home with its garden and faithful companion, so that he might write in peace.

Yet he felt a pang of guilt whenever he strayed from this purpose. His mornings were meant for meditation, his afternoons for physical work—walking, tending plants, maintaining health. After his naps, when his mind felt sharpest, he should write. But too often, he wasted those hours in the wilderness of the internet.

Still, on this day, he felt content. He had managed to follow the rhythm designed for him—meditation, work, rest, reflection—just as the old monks once did.

And perhaps, in this quiet obedience, he too was glorifying God.
2025-10-10 01:15:17
popong