Quiet Reckoning

At 63 and newly retired, Rafael often reminded himself that aging came with expectations—physical decline, grief, spiritual testing, and the aching solitude of being the last to stand. But yesterday, he found himself spiraling again. His brother-in-law had sent a text—frantic, sharp: the hospice had called. His sister was not doing well.

Of course, Rafael knew this was inevitable. His sister was terminal. There would be episodes like this. But panic still surged through his chest. He had told his brother-in-law before: thank you for taking care of her, but I must be careful. Rafael had survived a mild stroke and now took great care to avoid stress that could spike his blood pressure. Yet here it was again. The call. The panic. The helplessness. He reached for the anti-anxiety medication his doctor had prescribed, feeling ashamed that even now, with the outcome as clear as daylight, he still struggled to relax through these moments.

Rafael reflected on the story of King David—not in triumph, but in sorrow. David, harried and worn, once fled from his own son, Absalom, who had turned against him and sought to seize his throne. David’s pain wasn't rooted in mortality but in the heartbreak of betrayal, of family undone. A daughter violated. A son was murdered. Another son exiled. And then, rebellion. And yet, David still called on God, still meditated, and—eventually—slept.

David wasn’t spared the cruelty of family dysfunction, nor was he promised peace despite his righteousness. And neither was Rafael. His sister was dying. His oldest brother had already passed weeks earlier. The losses were piling up like stones on his back.

He thought about the ones who had walked closely with God. Moses never saw the Promised Land. David’s legacy was splintered. Peter was crucified upside down. Paul, beheaded. And here Rafael sat, worried about a quiet, invisible ending.

The spiritual life, he realized, is not a promise of comfort in the physical world. Jesus himself once said, Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s. The physical world matters, but it is not the endpoint. Not the true measure.

Still, Rafael admitted, some days he found himself chasing formulas: Do good, and life will be good to you. But that’s not how it works. That’s not how it has ever worked. His good deeds—decades of supporting families in the Philippines, funding their futures, providing homes, shelter, guidance—had returned to him not with care, but often with silence, even indifference.

He no longer expected gratitude. He was learning to stop expecting anything at all.

There was a bitter clarity in this realization: no matter how much he had given—money, time, housing, even inheritance—none of it guaranteed love, comfort, or companionship in his old age. That belief, he told himself, was as outdated and foolish as his youthful bad habits.

To move forward, Rafael had to release those old expectations. He could not depend on others for happiness. He had to prepare for a future where he walked alone—but not without God.

For nearly a decade, Rafael’s life had been gripped by worry—first when his sister slipped into ketoacidosis in 2015, then again when cancer struck years later. Each new crisis interrupted his life, his rest, his plans. And then came his brother’s request for dialysis support—a permanent reminder that time was running out for all of them. Rafael’s recurring fear was: What happens to them if something happens to me?

But the answers were beginning to unfold. His brother was gone. His sister was in hospice, breathing shallowly. The pattern was painfully familiar—just like when his mother suffered terribly, her screams echoing in Rafael’s mind until he prayed for mercy and an end for her. He had seen her go. Then his father. Then his oldest brother. And now—his sister.

And always, he was the one who remained.

He had done it all before. Financial support, caregiving, moral guidance. He never complained—at least not out loud. He simply carried the weight. Even now, he refrained from traveling, skipping vacations, because of the emotional anchor of being needed.

Now, perhaps, came the final release.

Maybe this was his sister’s final gift to him: freedom.

But it hurt. More than anything, Rafael grieved the deeper truth—that even in his pain, there was no one in his family he could call upon for comfort. All his sacrifices seemed forgotten. If help ever came, it was always from him, never to him. Maybe they believed they owed him nothing. Maybe they thought of him not as a brother, but as a duty-bearer—an endless source.

So be it.

The Lord, he thought, was leasing him a new life—one finally free of obligations. His sister was the last tie. Soon, there would be no more.

He imagined his final days not with family at his side, but walking in solitude with God. That image had comforted him since he was fourteen. That was when he first met Jessie—a quiet figure in his make-believe world, a spiritual companion, not a person but a presence. Even then, Rafael had known: I don’t need the crowd. I only need the Lord Jessie.

Those who once benefitted from his labor and love had disappeared. Some may even wish him ill. Some, he feared, might quietly celebrate his decline, waiting like vultures for scraps of inheritance. But they would find nothing—because Rafael would not be there. Not emotionally. Not spiritually.

He would be walking with the Lord.

In silence. In peace.

God had given him strength and intelligence for a purpose—not to be repaid, but to carry out his part in the continuum of life. For years, Rafael had turned to prayer, journaling from a tiny Gideon Bible in the car before work, now through a laptop and a cloud folder. The medium had changed, but the devotion remained.

Yes, he felt resentment. Yes, he felt alone. But this wasn’t new. Even when the children he helped were young and unable to offer anything back, he had managed. Now, as they matured and couldn’t afford to be with him no matter how hard they tired. They have new families, they have new careers, they want to survive in this modern world depriving them the time and energy to care for a lonely or sick relative, he knew not to expect more.

His siblings were aging too. No one could be depended on. And maybe that was the truth God wanted him to accept: it had always been Rafael and God. No more. No less.

Moses didn’t see the land. David’s family unraveled. Peter and Paul died alone. So why should Rafael expect a warm bed and a circle of loved ones in the end?

No. That was never promised.

What was promised was God.

And Rafael’s strength, his unshakable center, came from that.

He still prayed. He still believed. He still endured. He was not helpless. He was simply returning to where he began—with nothing but faith, solitude, and a pen.
2025-07-01 04:18:28
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