Reflection 2-1-2026

Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-Two
10 After this the Lord appointed seventy-two[a] others and sent them two by two ahead of him to every town and place where he was about to go. 2 He told them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. 3 Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. 4 Do not take a purse or bag or sandals; and do not greet anyone on the road.
5 “When you enter a house, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’ 6 If someone who promotes peace is there, your peace will rest on them; if not, it will return to you. 7 Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you, for the worker deserves his wages. Do not move around from house to house.
8 “When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is offered to you. 9 Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ 10 But when you enter a town and are not welcomed, go into its streets and say, 11 ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near. 'This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.

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This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
I am deeply grateful for the peace and assurance God has given me. It has given me confidence in life—enough to learn how to navigate familiar settings, repeated stages, and the inevitable hurdles along the way. And yet, my greatest joy is found not in movement or recognition, but in aloneness and solitude. There is a quiet, everyday joy in sitting in contemplation and carrying on a conversation with the Lord. No earthly attraction can compare to the peace of simply sitting still and listening.

Today feels like a continuation of yesterday. I have resumed a long-postponed journey—returning to an old dream of spending time writing, a gift I still believe was given to me for a reason. I write with no expectations, seeking only the joy of self-expression and the quiet possibility that this practice keeps me connected to the Lord through the Holy Spirit. I do share my writing online, but again, without expectation. I write about nothingness and emptiness—nothing meant to impress the world or change society—but simply to show how I find peace and rest each day.

It has become clear to me—at least in my heart—that one of the most effective ways to counter the sadness of this world, and to escape what humanity seems to be deteriorating into, is to dwell in the pasture of the Lord. The indecency, the inhumanity, the foul language spoken openly by those in power, the hatred they inspire, and the normalization of what was once clearly wrong—all of it grieves my heart deeply. In the Lord’s house, there is only peace. Conversations are quiet, sincere, and meaningful. That is where I choose to dwell, leaving behind whatever the devil has sown in this world. It is the devil’s opportunism—and humanity’s openness to it—that has caused so much unrest in my heart. I am thankful that God has shown me a way out.

Continuing what I began yesterday, I managed to meditate and write early in the day. Knowing that an Arctic blast is expected in the coming days, I went out for a long walk at the park. I covered five miles. I chatted briefly with a homeless man I recognize—a permanent fixture of the park—and then returned home to rest and resume my meditation. Later, I brought my small plants indoors and turned on the space heater to warm both the room and the plants.

I paused my meditation briefly to give my body and mind a break, reminding myself that prolonged sitting and intense focus are not healthy. I brewed another cup of coffee, walked around the living room carrying a box of plants I had moved indoors the day before, and placed them under the grow light. Then I returned to my chair. To “rest” my mind, I checked the Internet—and that is where the trouble began.

For me, going online has become increasingly upsetting. Social media quickly pulls me into comparison: one person appears to be thriving, another miserable, another desperately seeking attention. News sites offer no refuge either—just endless political maneuvering and recycled outrage from every side. Whatever brief escape I hoped for evaporated instantly. There is something about this technology that now agitates rather than comforts me. I am grateful that the Holy Spirit has helped me recognize the darker spirit it embodies—at least for me. It may inspire or relax others, but I know now that I am not one of them.

So I return to meditation-through-writing, the only comfort that consistently steadies me. Mindfulness has been a great help. It teaches me to recognize which habits and tasks quietly deliver harm to my body and spirit. The Internet, in nearly all its modern forms, is one of those forces that destabilizes me.

It was not always this way. I remember the early days of computing—when turning on my tower PC filled me with excitement and anticipation. There were operating systems to build, problems to solve, things to learn that few others were attempting. I loved diving into the inner workings of computers. Every small breakthrough felt like a celebration. Those days were deeply fulfilling. Those days are gone.

Part of this loss is my own doing. I abandoned complexity for convenience. I traded depth for ease. I lowered myself into the shallow waters of mass consumption and social validation, even though I was never meant to thrive there. I am not, and have never been, a social creature in that sense—so why did I keep checking social media? I know now that I was tempted by the illusion of recognition and acceptance. That is all it ever was.

Through meditation, communion with the Holy Spirit, and mindfulness, I am trying to reconnect with my old self and my earlier pursuits. I am resetting my focus—away from the social, back toward the intellectual and the literary. This is where I find peace. This is how I avoid the restless unease that follows indulgence in social media. I must return to my old happiness: the computer as a tool for learning and creation, and writing as my primary form of expression—without anticipation, without performance.

To do that, I need to return to programming projects and code learning. I need to refocus my literary portfolio on creativity instead of chasing reels and short videos. I know few people read literary work today, especially in a country suffering from a shortage of readers. But I am in this for the long haul. This is about self-expression, not validation. I will continue to post anonymously, perhaps read by only a handful of long-time strangers who once crossed paths with my nom de plume.

Practice matters. Writing is a skill that must be exercised, just like any other. I take comfort in knowing that while my ideas are my own, AI has become a helpful partner in editing and refining my work—saving me from the need to seek or pay for an editor.

This is something I especially want to say to Filipinos who are constantly assaulted by social media feeds pushing the worst kinds of content into their mental space. I am exhausted by the endless parade of beauty pageants, crude skits, suggestive humor, and careless use of language. I often wonder whether these feeds persist because of something I once watched too long—or because algorithms assume I share the same interests as my friends. Even when I click “not interested,” the content returns.

I can only imagine what young people endure while scrolling endlessly—how habits form, how attention is drained, how precious mental energy is spent on things they would never choose on their own. Mindfulness becomes an act of resistance—not rebellion, but self-preservation. We must return to ourselves, rather than allowing technology to dictate who we are. A child should first discover their interests, gifts, and desires before being shaped by algorithms. There is nothing wrong with becoming a content creator if that is where one’s gift lies. What is harmful is abandoning one’s true calling—whether in literature, science, engineering, medicine, or agriculture—simply to chase popularity.

Many people are unaffected by this struggle. I know friends who barely use the Internet at all because life keeps them busy with real responsibilities. When I worked full-time, I rarely touched my phone except for work-related messages. Later, when I returned to school for a second degree in IT, I was consumed by learning. I spent nights solving problems, weekends recovering from mental exhaustion, and countless hours wrestling with projects that refused to cooperate. I barely knew social media existed—and if I did, I dismissed it as childish distraction.

There are countless people like that even now. There are more important things in life than this technology. Once, the dream was to build apps, to create systems, to solve real problems. My own dream was Linux-based—raw, difficult, demanding. Even installing it felt like an achievement. I felt like a king of computing.

Ten years later, here I am—struggling against habits formed by social media, perhaps the most mindless, least challenging, and most addictive technology ever created. And yet, I am hopeful. Awareness is the first step. Mindfulness is the path back. And writing—quiet, patient, and honest—remains my refuge.
2026-02-01 13:36:15
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Reflection 11/20/2025

Romans 12:3–8 — Humble Service in the Body of Christ


Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful day, even though I’m wrestling with the fears stirred up by my current medical appointments. There are lab tests to complete, a pending Cologuard result, and a visit to the cardiologist. It would be so easy to stay still, pretend everything is fine, and avoid the discomfort of knowing. But as a healthcare worker in the past —and as someone aging with diabetes—I know better. If my neck, shoulders, knees, and muscles ache in ways I never felt when I was younger, what more might be happening inside my body? Now that I am retired and have the time, it only makes sense to follow through with the appointments that allow the experts to “look under my hood.”

There is always anxiety when facing potential bad news. Ignorance feels like comfort, but reality eventually arrives—and its impact is far worse when we’ve refused to look. My sister, who lived most of her life morbidly obese, chose isolation over medical care, preferring the darkness of her room and the illusion that nothing was wrong. By the time she faced the truth, it was devastating and irreversible. My brother did the same, ignoring signs of kidney failure for years, dismissing everything to fate. He ended up suffering greatly in his final years, navigating dialysis in a country where treatment requires constant medical visits and financial strain.

Had they both simply gone to their doctors early on, they might still be alive today—perhaps limited in some ways, but present and enjoying the life God gave them.

I refuse to follow that path of denial. Yes, I still get anxious, but all I need is spending a few minutes with specialists covered by my insurance. Why not take advantage of that blessing? And why spend hours worrying about results that will be the same whether I panic or not? If something negative appears, then I deal with it—medication, lifestyle adjustment, or treatment. That is the cost of aging, and I am fortunate to be in the United States where follow-ups and preventive care are accessible. Medicare is coming in about a year and a half. For now, my insurance covers the rest. Even Jim, who plans to stay with me long-term, is a companion provided by God when I need one most.

The warnings from my departed siblings, the resources available to me, and the newfound discipline and attention to my health—these are all gifts authored by the Lord. Instead of anxiety, I should respond with gratitude though human nature is stubborn and fearful. I think of the early saints, apostles, and martyrs facing imprisonment, persecution, stoning, and crucifixion. They didn’t worry about diabetes or cholesterol; their faith carried them through dangers far greater than mine. Meanwhile here I am, worried about my lab tests like God has no role in my life. It humbles me.

Of course, if Peter and Paul lived in 2025, they would probably use modern medicine. Ignoring our health would be foolish. The body is the Temple of God, and we must care for it. The difference lies in how much we allow health concerns to dominate our minds. I have slipped into overthinking, overplanning, and over worrying—rather than simply living out the gifts God has given me.

The past few days have been productive: morning workouts, afternoon rest, walks, and gardening. Today is my day to physically rest, but my mind can still work. I’ll stay indoors, maybe clean the house a bit, visit the store or the library, perhaps create a new reel or finish a health article. My fiction site has been untouched for months. I may tend to my plants because they calm my mind. I’m experimenting with lighting
9dim light, bright light, artificial light) for my philodendrons. These small things give me joy.

Still, rest is needed. Three straight days of activity—walking, gardening, lifting, digging—have taken a toll. The pain in my neck, back, and shoulder last night reminded me to slow down. Aging is real, and limitations appear whether we welcome them or not.

I also noticed that sharp turns and dimly lit places trigger mild vertigo. This could be the blood pressure medication, the aftermath of my recent illness, or simply age-related changes—but the pattern is becoming clear. Walking straight is easy; turning quickly is harder. It mirrors what I sensed three years ago in Manila, when knee pain limited my ability to take public transportation. Now vertigo joins the list. I finally understand why people of a certain age no longer roam like they used to.

Yesterday was especially heavy: an hour-long walk, followed by more gardening, lifting stones, transplanting trees, clearing leaves, and working outdoors for hours. My mask and gloves were not enough to prevent the familiar flare of post-nasal drip and fatigue today. Rest was necessary, but boredom pushed me to test myself—I drove, revisited old hangouts, and discovered I no longer belong in those places. Thankfully, I had the self-control to stop before dizziness and low blood sugar took over.

This is diabetes: a seesaw of highs and lows, bursts of energy followed by sudden fatigue. Stopping medications is not an option, so the best I can do is manage the side effects. I took a short nap, ate an apple, made myself soup, and used Flonase for my congestion. Slowly, I started to feel better.

Driving may actually help me regain a sense of normalcy. Yesterday’s afternoon drive kept me awake and energized. But last night, after only four hours of sleep, everything felt off. I suspect a link between intense activity, nasal congestion from outdoor exposure, and next-day weakness. Add the dizziness from sharp turns and it all makes sense. I even remembered feeling something similar during my last doctor visit after yard work and taking my medication earlier than usual. I’m slowly connecting the dots.

Now it is almost 8 PM, and I’m feeling better. I rested for an hour but slipped into browsing the Internet. The recurring theme across the feeds was America’s dependence on a handful of companies to sustain its economy—many of them promising breakthroughs in AI without showing real profit. It reminds me of Bitcoin: a gamble, a bubble waiting to burst. AI can assist with tasks, but it cannot replace the depth of human thought. Months ago, I prompted it to create a PHP blog. It produced a skeleton, but the actual work—domain registration, hosting, building the database—still required human hands. If the project became tangled, would the AI know how to untangle it? I doubt it.

Night has arrived, and in the quiet of my room, the anxieties of aging return. I never worried this much in the hospital after my illness. But now, with lab works tomorrow and memories of my coworker announcing her cancer’s return, I feel vulnerable. The grief for my sister still sits close to the surface. I’m tired of thinking about my health, yet I can’t help it.

I often imagine the faith of the first Christians—those who died believing Christ Himself would receive them. I wish I had that same intensity of trust. But today’s world has pushed humanity toward self-reliance, away from God. Atheism has become fashionable. People act like there is no moral order, no judgment, no soul. Technology amplifies our impulses. Politics is filled with denial, dishonesty, and chaos. Young people drown in their phones, living virtually while neglecting the collapsing realities around them. Even I am not exempt—I spent two hours scrolling through lives I have no business observing. News of deaths, suicides, conflicts, vanity, and exhibitionism filled my screen. It all left me feeling lonely and disillusioned.

Earlier, I tried to revisit my old hangouts, hoping to feel traces of my former life. But that life is over. And that may be a blessing. Today, I still wake up, walk, garden, drive, read, write, and meditate. These things are enough. They are my new normal. Adventures and escapades belong to the past. And given the state of the world now, maybe retirement is my God’s protection.

Now I turn my delight back to the simple joys of my childhood—quiet, home, prayer, light routines, and honest conversations with the Holy Spirit. These are the things that anchor me. These are the things that endure.
2025-11-21 01:53:10
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