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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