God and Art

In a world filled with uncertainty, perhaps the one certainty I continue to hold on to is the presence of God—and humanity’s desire to reach Him in so many different ways. I try to reach God through meditation, prayer, and the creative work that has always been part of my life. I believe that somewhere in every human heart is an imprint of God, something we instinctively try to reach, understand, imitate, and express. Perhaps that is partly where art comes from. Whether through painting, music, writing, or any other form of creativity, human beings keep trying to reproduce something beautiful, meaningful, and greater than themselves. We cannot seem to help ourselves. Maybe that desire has been planted deep within our spiritual DNA.

I have stopped posting frequently on social media lately. The primary reason is simple: I am busy. The secondary reason is that I don't have much I want to share publicly right now. There is very little art in posting simply for the sake of posting, and I have never wanted to become someone who feels obligated to produce content just to remain visible. At the same time, I don't want my sudden silence or disappearance to stir unnecessary curiosity or speculation among people who became accustomed to seeing whatever little piece of creativity I happened to share. Even when the posting stops, however, the artistic impulse remains.

To satisfy that craving for beauty—and perhaps my longing for something resembling God's perfection—I return to the art form I know best: writing. In a world that seems increasingly superficial, I still find myself wanting to explore the deeper chambers of the human heart and spirit. I don't do this out of responsibility or obligation. I do it because I love it. There is also a certain urgency behind it because so much contemporary media seems to be moving toward the surface of things. Creativity is increasingly measured by numbers: views, followers, likes, shares, engagement. Those numbers may measure attention, but they do not necessarily measure value.

Of course, this is not entirely new. The same distinctions existed in the past. Newspapers had serious journalism alongside sensationalism and tabloid junk. Literature has always offered everything from profound works of art to material with little lasting value. Radio and television were no different. There has always been thoughtful art and shallow entertainment, beauty and ugliness, substance and noise. Every generation simply encounters these choices through different forms of media.

Now we live in the computer age, and naturally it offers more choices than perhaps any generation before us could have imagined. As for me, creativity remains my way of reaching toward the beauty of God. I write stories that try, however imperfectly, to approach that threshold. I find the process itself beautiful.

That has become especially important to me now.

I am still recovering from the loss of Jim, and his death has set in motion enormous changes in my life. I am selling my home because I no longer believe I can—or even want to—manage everything here by myself. At the moment, I feel more comfortable hiding somewhat from the world of social media. I don't want to invite people's curiosity or speculation, and even worse, I don't want to present myself publicly as the grieving friend, adding performative layers of sadness simply to attract sympathy, attention, or drama. I have no desire for that.

But privately, I continue to create.

I sit down and write through my anguish, grief, confusion, and occasional moments of peace. I have recovered considerably from the initial shock, but grief still arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens when I enter places where Jim used to linger—his room, the back door, the backyard. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Rocky and grieving that old loss as well. Sadness has a strange way of finding familiar doorways into the mind. It comes, stays for a while, and eventually leaves again.

So I write and meditate. They help stabilize me and keep sorrow from consuming every corner of my mind. But for now, I write without thinking about an audience other than God. Someday I may post some of these writings on my websites, where my identity doesn't matter and where I can write whatever I want—whatever drama, imagination, memory, grief, or emotion happens to come out. I can call the stories fiction, and most of them are. I don't give them too much importance, nor do I burden them with expectations. They are simply acts of creative self-expression, and right now, that is enough.

Eventually, I will probably return to my usual social media activities. But there is no hurry.

---

Meanwhile, ordinary life continues to demand my attention.

I finally got hold of Jim's ex-wife, Alicia, so she can retrieve the box of her belongings that I took out of storage. She was understandably shocked by the news of Jim's death. I remember that initial shock myself, but this time I managed to stay focused on the practical matter at hand. Interestingly, as I tell more people about his passing, I feel as though I am also distributing some of the grief. There is a strange comfort in that. The sorrow is no longer something I am carrying entirely by myself.

I have also secured the important documents I will need for traveling abroad. Thankfully, I didn't lose my Social Security card this time. My passport is valid until 2034, so I have plenty of time to use it for whatever travels may come during the next several years.

I attempted to restore my old ASUS laptop to its factory settings, but so far every attempt has failed. My next step is simply to remove my personal apps and data and leave the computer for Carl so he can use it. At this point, I don't need to make every little thing perfect. I simply need to keep moving forward.

My next major steps involve buying my plane ticket and selling my car to CarMax, with the proceeds going toward whatever balance remains on the loan. Getting rid of the car alone should eliminate roughly $600 from my monthly expenses between the payment and insurance. I have already eliminated another $200 by closing my storage unit. Eventually the utilities will disappear, grocery expenses will decline, the Internet service will go, and many of the subscriptions I accumulated over the years will also be canceled.

Apparently, I need to unsubscribe from many of these services individually. Another tedious little project—but also another source of savings.

Piece by piece, I am dismantling the machinery of my American household.

I believe everything will eventually work out for my good, even if the road getting there is painful. There is one complicated truth I have gradually allowed myself to acknowledge. After my sister died last year, I could have left then, but I didn't. One reason was Jim. I worried about what would happen to him if I left. His income was small, the cost of living in Florida had become extremely high, and I knew how precarious his life could be. I feared that if I simply walked away and something terrible happened to him afterward, I would have struggled with the guilt.

For six years, he had a stable place to live. Whatever his shortcomings and habits—cigarettes, beer, weed, and his sometimes questionable financial choices—he had a home. He had stability. He had someone around who cared what happened to him. I take some comfort in knowing that.

The deaths of my sister and Jim have also left me with another emotion that is difficult to admit because it can sound terrible when separated from its meaning: relief.

I am not relieved that they died. I would never wish that. I am relieved that I no longer have to carry the fear of what might happen to them if I were the one who disappeared first.

For years, part of me worried about my sister's future and how she would manage if her health deteriorated and I was no longer available. I worried about Jim for similar reasons. His circumstances were different, but the underlying fear was the same: *What happens to them if I am gone?* That question quietly followed me as I grew older.

Now that burden is gone, though I would gladly have carried it longer if it meant they were still here.

Back home, my siblings will also grow older. Their health may decline someday, and I may experience grief again. But they have families and much stronger support systems around them. I can participate in their lives without feeling that their survival depends on me. Perhaps that is one of the reasons returning home increasingly feels like the natural next chapter.

My prayer now is simply that the Lord will hasten the steps that remain. I pray that the house sells quickly and that the weather cooperates when it is finally time for me to fly home. Beyond that, I am trying not to demand too many answers at once.

In the meantime, I am taking care of myself. I am sleeping well. I am eating regularly and taking my medications on schedule. I am trying not to overdo the physical work. At first, I was intimidated by the sheer amount of junk, belongings, boxes, and accumulated pieces of life that had to be sorted, donated, thrown away, shipped, or given to someone. Yet somehow, most of it is already gone.

Today is another sorting day. The balikbayan box is ready to be shipped. Alicia will pick up her box. Carl will take the things from the house that he decided to keep. I have also adjusted my investment portfolio into a less aggressive mix because this is not the time in my life when I want unnecessary financial risk. With the significant reduction in my monthly expenses once I am back home, I may not need to touch my 401(k)s for a very long time. Hopefully, I can simply let those funds sit while I live a quieter and less expensive life.

That thought gives me some peace.

The next major practical step is selling the car and applying whatever I receive toward paying it off. Then comes the plane ticket. I may choose a flexible ticket because September can bring unpredictable storms, and with the house sale still unfolding, flexibility may be worth paying for.

The timing of everything now requires some thought. My realtor may begin showing the house to prospective buyers next week, which means the remaining belongings need to go soon—the bed, television, books, and whatever else is still here. I may keep only my bedding and a rubber mat so I have somewhere to sleep once the house is nearly empty. It will be strange, perhaps, to sleep on the floor of a house that once contained an entire life. But it will only be temporary.

Soon I should also begin disconnecting services one by one. Every cancellation will mean another expense disappearing, another obligation ending, another small cord connecting me to this house being cut.

Maybe that is what this period of my life is really about: not simply getting rid of possessions, but gradually releasing the things that once anchored me here.

I am grieving, certainly. But I am also moving.

There are moments when I look around and realize how much has disappeared in such a short period of time—people, plans, possessions, assumptions about my future. Yet beneath all of that uncertainty, I return to the thought with which I began: God remains.

And so I continue to reach for Him in the way I know best.

I meditate. I pray. I write.

Then I pack another box.
2026-08-25 14:16:21
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