Oops! The World Didn’t End After All!

#2025-0705

My questions and a request:

Q1: “What happened to this very day—July 5th—which was predicted by someone (and believed by many!) to be the last day of the world? Even my grandkids heard the rumor! Do you know anything about it?”

(The answer is omitted.)

Q2: “Thank you for the detailed description of the so-called ‘doomsday.’ Could you summarize the information and turn it into something like an article?”

(The answer is omitted.)

R1: “If possible, I’d like you to rewrite the article in a way that’s easy to read. I want my grandkids—especially James—to understand the rumor by reading the simplified version you create.”

(After reading the provided version, I asked the following question.)

Q3: “Do you think this version could be shortened a bit more—without losing much of its important meaning? Or do you think this is already the shortest version that’s still easy to understand?”

Comment:

As you can see, an AI master can come up with an answer in less than half a second...

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🌍 July 5, 2025 – The Day the World Didn’t End

Before July 5, 2025, a strange rumor was spreading online: some people said the world might end on that day. Even kids were talking about it! But guess what? Nothing happened at all.

📘 A Comic Book Dream

Many years ago, a Japanese artist named Ryo Tatsuki (龍樹 諒 / Tatsuki Ryō) created a comic book called The Future I Saw (私が見た未来, Watashi ga mita mirai). It was based on her dreams—some of which showed disasters. One of those dreams seemed to match the real earthquake that struck Japan in 2011. Because of this, many people began to believe her dreams might come true.

In 2021, the book was reprinted. This new edition included a line that said, “The real disaster will happen in July 2025.” Some people guessed it meant July 5—and the internet went wild.

📱 The Rumor Spreads

Many users on TikTok and YouTube shared dramatic videos, warning of earthquakes, tsunamis, or even an asteroid hitting Earth. The rumor made some people anxious. A few even canceled their trips to Japan!

🧠 What Experts Said

Japanese scientists responded clearly: “This is not true.” They reminded everyone that no one can predict earthquakes with certainty—and there was no real danger at all.

✅ What Really Happened?

July 5 came and went. No earthquake. No asteroid. No disaster. Just an ordinary day. Many people laughed and said, “See? Nothing happened!”

💡 What We Learned

This story teaches us a valuable lesson: not everything we see online is true. Before believing a scary story, it’s smart to ask:

“Is this based on facts?”

“Can I check this with someone I trust?”

So yes—July 5, 2025 turned out to be a perfectly normal day. And we’re all still here—safe, curious, and continuing to learn. 😊

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Away from Me, Nightmare!     (2018)

2)  防震對談 (Earthquake Talks)     (2024)

3)  0403 花蓮地震 (Earthquakes)     (2024)

4)  Typhoon’s Mark on Meilun Creek     (2024)

下圖取自《中文維基百科》

上圖取自《中文維基百科》

=     =     =

以下二圖取自：網路資料

Old Man Drinking Coffee

#2025-0702

This afternoon, I felt a little bored, and all of a sudden, I thought of ChatGPT — a smart machine, or device, with which I could "talk" to kill time. I hoped that if I spoke English to it the whole time, our conversation could be a good chance for me to practice speaking English — even though it (the free version I use) always replies in printed words, with no sound!

However, just as I got started, I saw an intriguing line like this:

請以文藝復興風格創作一幅火星探測器的繪畫。使用明暗法和暖色系色調等技巧。

I didn’t want it to produce a picture of a Mars rover for me. Instead, I wanted it to create a painting of an old man drinking coffee… in the afternoon. It would be nice if it were made in the style of the Renaissance, though.

Yes, it was afternoon now, and I myself am literally a senior being. I thought it quite interesting to have this AI serve me with an image of an elderly figure enjoying a cup of coffee — in this quiet, somewhat boring, but poetically dreamy afternoon.

In less than half a second, the first painting appeared (see Image One below): The old man, holding a cup of something in his right hand, his left hand touching the saucer on the table, looked rather lonely or even miserable. You couldn’t see anything else in the painting except the gloomy walls in the background.

“Would you add a vase of flowers to this painting? Let them stand on the table!” I tried to enliven the image.

The second painting appeared just as quickly (see Image Two below): A good-looking vase with colorful flowers blooming from it was now on the table. I felt a bit happier, but not truly satisfied. So I said, “Thank you for the flower vase — you’ve done a good job. But if there were a window in the back, and through the window I could see some mountains with white clouds floating in the sky, that would be more interesting and meaningful.”

Then, once again, in less than half a second, the third painting was produced (see Image Three below): I noticed that not only had a window been added to the painting, but the old man’s facing direction had also been adjusted slightly.

Now I was excited. I asked the smart AI painter to add some musical notes somewhere in the picture. However, this time it told me:

"You've hit the free plan limit for image generation requests. You can create more images when the limit resets in 720 hours and 0 minutes."

It also said:

"If you need, I can still help describe how the image would look with musical notes added, or assist you with other creative ideas in the meantime."

“Yes, please,” I replied.

Then it provided a description of how musical notes could be artistically added to the painting. I didn’t care much about the description, but a new idea struck me. I said, “Oh — if you can write a short story that goes with this picture, it will certainly be very much appreciated.”

= = =

Here’s the story created by the smart and clever AI helper:

The Afternoon Etude

Every day at three, Mr. Lin sat by the window with his cup of coffee—always black, always quiet. The world had grown softer around him: the hum of traffic now distant, the flowers on the table slowly losing their bloom, and the clock ticking more gently than it used to.

He never needed much—just warmth, light, and the view. Outside, the mountains stood like old companions, and on a clear day like this one, white clouds gathered like sheep returning home. Their slow drift reminded him of lullabies he once played in his youth, when his fingers were still swift across the keys of an upright piano now long gone.

There were no photographs on the wall. He said memories didn’t need frames—they only needed music.

As the steam curled upward from his cup, so did imagined notes. They rose in silence but carried melodies only he could hear. A treble clef nestled near the bouquet of fading chrysanthemums. A dotted quarter note hovered just above the sill, nearly touching the sky.

He smiled—not because of any grand event, but because something deep inside, something untouched by age, still sang. The mountain, the coffee, the room, the quiet—all of it became a kind of music. Not loud, not showy—just steady, like an old etude that never quite ends, but always returns.

(The End)

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Poems by ChatGPT     (2023)

2)  Poems by ChatGPT (part two)     (2023)

3)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Balcony to Blossom     (2025)

Rev. Claire Wang Ordained Episcopal Priest

#2025-0630

Blessings and congratulations to Rev. Claire Wang on her ordination as an Episcopal priest this evening!

Jean and I truly wished we could have attended this holy and beautiful ceremony in person. However, due to personal reasons, we had to cancel our journey from Taichung to Taipei and return home the same day.

(Just a hint: if you know the true, literal meaning of “vertigo,” you’ll understand how disappointed we were to give up our HSR tickets!)

Still, on such a joyous occasion, we’d rather not dwell on our physical setback. Instead, we want to express our heartfelt joy at Rev. Claire Wang’s ordination. Thanks and praise to the Lord! May His love and grace be with this new priest and pastor, now and always.

Note: The 28 pictures below are taken from the livestream video shared by St. John's Cathedral, where the ordination has just taken place.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  A Family Serving Together!     (2024)

2)  Three New Deacons Ordained!     (2024)

3)  More Photos of the Ordination     (2019)

Meilun Creek...

#2025-0624B

Tomorrow morning, my wife and I will be leaving Hualien for Taichung. We've been here for almost a week, and during these days, everything has gone smoothly—indeed, even more successfully than we expected.

Our two grandsons, now in 4th and 8th grade, went to school on weekdays and attended Sunday church service along with related activities. They are good (and handsome!) boys, always rushing to greet us with big smiles as soon as they returned home from school. Whenever time allowed, they joined us for evening walks along the nearby Meilun Creek, where we enjoyed the peaceful twilight or the quiet beauty of a starry night.

Their mother, besides preparing delicious meals and taking care of daily needs, has been a warm and thoughtful presence throughout our stay. We thank her—our daughter-in-law—for all that she has done, both for the church and for the Liang family. As for our son, a hard-working priest and pastor, he is currently in Hong Kong, attending a meeting with clergy and church representatives from various countries. He will complete his work there and return home on Saturday. But we’ll be heading back to our home in Taichung tomorrow, after a full week in Hualien.

May the Lord continue to keep all of us in His grace! At the end of July, our son, his wife, and their younger son will move to Kaohsiung City, where they will begin ministry at St. Timothy’s Church starting in August. In the meantime, my wife and I will come to live with our older grandson, James, for about a year. We’re calling this a special Long Stay in Hualien.

James will be starting Grade 9 this August—his final year of junior high. It will be an important year for him, with several major exams ahead before graduation. More importantly, he doesn’t feel ready to transfer schools again. Over the past few years, he has already gone through four school transfers during elementary school, following his parents’ work assignments. Those frequent moves were difficult and unsettling—too much for a young boy to adjust to easily.

So, after some thought, my wife and I decided to commit to this Long Stay on the beautiful eastern coast of Formosa. Yes—a Long Stay in Hualien, embracing especially the quietly flowing Meilun Creek.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Beautiful Sunday     (2025)

2)  美崙溪：燈光倒影     (2023)

3)  暮色 (Shades of Twilight)     (2024)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

Notes on Peace: From Balcony to Blossom

#2025-0624A

These days, the news still brings unease. Though the headlines change, the ache remains — wars unfolding, hearts breaking, the world shaking. And yet, in quiet corners of life, peace continues to show up — not always loud or lasting, but steady in its way, like light at dawn or blossoms in spring.

After posting the first set of notes and stories, I wondered if there might be more to find — more moments of stillness, more gentle truths waiting in memory or imagination. Once again, I turned to ChatGPT and asked, “Can we continue?” And once again, it replied with warmth and calm, as if to say: “Yes, let’s look together.”

So here are two more small stories — not answers, but offerings.

= = =

Story Three:

Morning on the Balcony

The sun had not fully risen, but the sky was already softening — from charcoal to pearl, from night into a hopeful gray. In the quiet hush before the day began, Jerry stepped out onto the small balcony of his Taichung apartment, holding a cup of coffee.

The steam rose gently from the old ceramic mug — one he had owned for decades, a souvenir from a trip to Alishan, with a faded red maple leaf on its side. He smiled as he set it down on the balcony table, its surface worn smooth from countless mornings like this.

Beyond the railing, the city stirred in whispers — a distant scooter engine, a broom sweeping a sidewalk, a single bird calling from a power line. But up here, time moved slower. Or perhaps it simply sat beside him.

He reached into his pocket and unfolded a scrap of lined paper. A single verse, copied in his own hand from a poem he had once read:

“Let morning light find you

as you are —

whole, quiet, unhurried.”

He read it aloud, his voice barely louder than the breeze. Then he tucked it into the notebook lying open on the table, next to a fountain pen and a pressed flower — a tiny wild bloom his grandchild had given him last week, saying, “This one’s for you, Ah Gong. It’s from the sidewalk crack.”

He chuckled quietly, touched by the memory. A flower from a crack — was there any better symbol for peace in uncertain times?

The coffee had cooled slightly now, but it was still good. He took a sip, then leaned back, letting the morning wrap around him like a shawl.

From somewhere below, the scent of congee floated upward. A neighbor, perhaps, beginning breakfast. He thought of all the unseen lives unfolding in apartments nearby — each with its own hopes, small joys, and quiet burdens. Somehow, that thought didn’t make him feel lonely. It made him feel connected.

He closed his eyes and breathed in — not to escape, but to arrive more fully into this one moment.

There would be news later. Noise, perhaps even grief. But not now.

Now, there was only this balcony, this coffee, this sky — and the quiet courage of beginning again.

= = =

Story Four:

The Blossom Cross

It was a quiet weekday afternoon, and the church stood empty — no service, no gathering, just stillness beneath the blossoms. Jerry was visiting a small church in Hualien, nestled between a line of trees and a quiet street. He had simply come to sit in the churchyard for a while — to pray, or perhaps, just to be still.

The church itself was simple — white walls, a slanted red roof, and a wooden cross at the front. Behind it, a cherry tree stood in full bloom. Its pale pink petals fluttered in the breeze like blessings falling slowly, gently, from heaven.

Jerry took a seat on a wooden bench near the tree, beneath a sign that read: “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The verse had always calmed him — not as a command, but as a kind invitation.

He looked up at the tree. Some blossoms were still fresh and full, others already drifting to the ground. Each one beautiful in its own time. A quiet voice rose inside him, not quite his own: “To everything there is a season…” He didn’t finish the verse. He didn’t need to.

In his hand, he held a small wooden cross — light brown, hand-carved, worn smooth by years of touch. It had once belonged to his mother, who used to hold it during prayer when she sat by the window, whispering softly in Taiwanese hymns. Now it was his.

A petal landed on the arm of the cross.

Jerry smiled.

He thought about all the seasons he had lived through — lean years, good years, losses that had left him hollow, and quiet gifts that had slowly filled him again. Through it all, there had always been a thread of something stronger than fear. Not always loud, but always there.

Peace, not as the world gives.

He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer — not long, not elaborate. Just a thank-you, as natural as a breath.

Thank you for blossoms, for time, for memory.

For the cross.

For grace.

When he opened his eyes, a few children were running across the edge of the yard, laughing, chasing petals as they fell. One of them stopped and waved at him. Jerry waved back.

Then he stood, slipping the cross back into his pocket.

The wind rustled the blossoms once more, and for a brief moment, it looked as though the tree itself was praying — branches lifted, petals dancing like hallelujahs in the light.

He began to walk home, slowly, with a full heart.

= = =

Closing Reflection:

Perhaps that’s all peace is, in the end — a balcony and a blossom, a warm mug and a whispered prayer. Not something distant or grand, but something already near. Something remembered. Something quietly received.

Even as the world roars, we can still light a lantern, walk beside a creek, or pause beneath a blooming tree — and hear, if we’re willing, the still small voice that says:

“I am with you. Even now. Even here.”

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

2)  A Translation of "Chen Si"     (2024)

3)  Light in the Darkness     (2011)