John 20:18–20
18 Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.
Jesus Appears to His Disciples
19 On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jewish leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord.
The resurrection of Christ is truly the greatest story ever told. When I first encountered it as a young boy, it stirred a deep excitement in me—so much so that I dreamed of becoming a monk or a priest. I remember the old films about Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection, filled with miracles and wonder. In my young mind, the world suddenly seemed perfect and pure, with good and evil clearly defined and goodness destined to triumph.
Now, decades later, I find myself in my sixties—sailing through what I call the winter of life—facing health challenges and physical limitations that shadow the remaining years of retirement. I am not naturally drawn to recollection or meditation, yet the narrowing horizon of time pushes me to reflect.
Still, I keep paddling my small boat along, like an old fisherman who continues to sail out to sea even when there are no more fish to catch—or when his strength no longer allows him to haul them in as before. Each morning, he readies his boat and his net. Though his catch is small, he goes because it is not the fish that matters anymore. It is the sea itself—the vast horizon, the blue clouds, the play of light—that keeps him alive. His body has grown frail, but his love for the sea endures. Watching the younger fishermen, sharing their joys and disappointments, he feels content.
I wake up each morning grateful for another peaceful night. It took me a long time to regain proper sleep after years of carelessness with my hours. When I first retired, I assumed that freedom from work would mean peace: no more early alarms, no commutes, no deadlines, no bosses to please, no clients to satisfy. I imagined a quiet rhythm—coffee, reading, maybe a walk.
But instead of peace, retirement first brought chaos. I was like a child left alone in a candy store, free to take anything I wanted. I wanted to read, travel, learn, build projects, garden, exercise, take classes, learn new languages, fix the house, drive around, post on social media, and experiment with digital art and AI. I wanted to do everything.
And I did—until I was exhausted.
Freedom without structure became its own prison. My sleep worsened. My projects piled up unfinished. Books remained half-read. Social media became repetitive. Travel lost its appeal. Friends were busy with work and families. Hobbies multiplied but none gave lasting joy.
Eventually, life felt heavy and cluttered—with too much baggage and too little peace.
The only solution I found was letting go.
Social media? Who really wants to see my daily routines?
Reading every book? Impossible.
Relearning programming? That’s a recipe for immobility and fatigue.
Streaming shows all day? A quick path to decline.
Collecting hobbies? A drain of time, money, and energy.
Peace came only when I started pruning the excess. Like the old fisherman, I learned to venture into the sea not for the catch but for the wonder—the sunrise, the horizon, the closeness to God.
In old age, the mind turns naturally toward contemplation, nostalgia, and grief. I have lost many loved ones. Each familiar road or memory can still bring me to tears. I avoid the routes I once took with my late sister. I hesitate to visit Fort Lauderdale, where my best friend now battles cancer. Loss becomes the rhythm of aging, and perhaps my constant search for new things is only a way to cope—to distract myself from pain.
There is a sword that hangs above every life, unseen yet certain. But within suffering lies truth. Loss teaches us to understand and live rightly. None of us can predict tomorrow. I never imagined I would outlive my sister—ten years younger than me—or my best friend, seven years my junior. Life’s unpredictability is the signature of God, the Master of Mystery.
Yet God, in His constancy, keeps the world in order. The sun, the moon, the sea, and the changing seasons—these remain steady. Humanity rises and falls, but Nature abides. Its predictability reminds me of divine order even amid chaos.
If I focus only on my personal struggles, I lose sight of this greater harmony. To fear aging or death, to cling to safety and control, is to resist the natural rhythm of life. I now seek to embrace what God has written for me.
I can save money, build security, surround myself with professionals and friends, and still feel lost—because I see only the solitary tree, not the forest. Self-absorption blinds us to God’s design. When we overthink, overwork, or overprepare, we forget to live.
The Bible tells of a man who asked Jesus how to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Jesus told him to leave his treasures and follow Him. The man turned away—unable to let go.
Where our treasure is, there our heart will be also.
For me, a modest life is enough. Like that old fisherman, I rise each morning, venture into the open sea of life, cast my net, and accept whatever comes. Even when the net is empty, I find peace in the sunrise, the clouds, the moon, and the stars. Sometimes, there is a surprise waiting.
Mary Magdalene went to the tomb expecting nothing but sorrow—and yet she proclaimed the most wondrous truth in history: “I have seen the Lord!”
That is the mystery, the miracle, the forest beyond the tree.
What seems random to us is perfectly designed by God.