Sunday Morning

October 19, 2025

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.”
— 1 Peter 5:7

Morning Light

I woke up later than usual today. The sleep had been decent—better than expected—considering last night’s tickle of allergies that had begun to build up after my short walk at John Prince Park. The air had been dry, the wind brisk, and the sun sharp against the fallen leaves that had started to crisp after the recent rains.

I had known better—this was the season when mold and dust mites danced freely in the wind. Still, I went. And today, I’m paying for it with a slight fogginess, a mild chill creeping into my bones. I chuckled softly at how familiar it all felt—hay fever, the subtle signs of aging, the limits of the body that once withstood far worse.

But there was no self-pity in the thought. Only gentle acceptance. I’ve learned to live with this—Flonase, Claritin, and the faithful N95 mask are my seasonal allies.

Fall has always been a test for me. Spring, an even greater one. Yet in this chapter of life—retirement, solitude, and serenity—I’ve found new ways to move around my limitations.

The Backyard Ritual

8:30 AM – I step into the backyard.

The morning light filters through the bougainvillea, touching everything with a golden hue. This house, this patch of green—it’s one of my wiser choices. Retirement has taught me the value of stillness, of having one’s own space to breathe, to tinker, to nurture life from soil.

The air is still cool. I take the hose and water the plants—carefully, sparingly. I’ve learned the hard way that overwatering is as cruel as neglect. My hibiscus glows with promise; the bougainvillea climbs with stubborn joy. Even the plants I once gave up on are showing new leaves—tiny acts of defiance, or maybe hope.

I pause to look at the bitter melon vine. Yesterday, it surprised me with a small yellow flower. I took a photo, a simple thing that somehow made the morning sacred.

The golden jasmine hedges are spreading again. I kneel, curious about the small sprouts at their base—new life emerging from the old, as if nature itself refuses to retire.

Mid-Morning Reflections

10:15 AM – Back inside, I brew a cup of coffee. The aroma fills the quiet.

I think about time. Retirement is a curious gift—it grants you an abundance of hours, yet demands discipline to fill them meaningfully. I’ve managed to keep myself busy—gardening, learning, tidying, small projects that give structure to the day. But the lure of idleness still prowls.

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
— 1 Peter 5:8

I smile at the irony. I know that lion too well—not as a beast in the dark, but as distraction in the glow of a screen.

The Internet can devour time with such subtlety that one hardly feels the bite. I have been fighting my own small battles: deleting social media apps, curbing online shopping, resisting the pull of reels that promise laughter but leave a hollow aftertaste.

I’m learning to cast those anxieties—those wasted hours—back to God, who surely never meant the twilight of one’s life to be spent scrolling endlessly.

Gardening Again

11:30 AM – The sun is higher now. I decide to check on my compost.

Mask on, gloves ready. I turn the pile, spray a little water, watch the slow alchemy of decay turning into life. The new four-way faucet adapter works perfectly—no leaks, unlike that overpriced model I foolishly bought last month. Retirement teaches you to celebrate small victories: a $15 tool working better than the $40 one feels like triumph.

I plan my next gardening steps like a general plotting strategy:

• Start the seeds I bought from Amazon — tomatoes, bell peppers, and herbs.

• Try new cuttings from bougainvillea and hibiscus.

• Learn to propagate the anthurium from Irma.

• Observe if the cocoplums have started sprouting.

Each line in this mental itinerary feels like a quiet prayer—patience, purpose, persistence.

Afternoon Pause

1:00 PM – I sit on the sofa. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is lazy.

The day could go either way: a productive afternoon or a slow drift into idleness. I take another sip of coffee, look at my phone—an impulse I resist just in time.

Instead, I jot down thoughts for this story. Writing calms me. It’s like weeding the garden of the mind, pulling out the unnecessary to make space for what matters.

“Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.”
— 1 Peter 5:7

Perhaps that’s what retirement truly is—a slow surrender, a handing over of the restless need to do something all the time. Maybe it’s about learning to simply be, and to find meaning in small, deliberate acts.

Evening Plans

3:00 PM – I make another note on my to-do list:

• Clean the garbage bin once the new hose arrives.

• Try the new brush attachments for the bathroom.

• Set up the small side table beside the sofa when it’s delivered.

These are modest goals, but they stitch together the hours. My life now is made of such stitches—tiny, ordinary actions that keep the soul from unraveling.

Closing Reflection

Before sunset, I take one last walk in the yard. The golden jasmine glows in the fading light. The anthurium’s red spathe looks almost aflame.

I stand there quietly, listening to the faint hum of distant traffic, the rustle of leaves, the steady breath of the world. I whisper a short prayer—not for more time, but for better use of it.

“Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.”
— 1 Peter 5:9

Retirement is not an ending; it is a second sowing.

And every morning, including this one, is another chance to grow—humbly, quietly, under God’s mighty hand.