Tag Archives: life

love, Spiritual

The Shape Of Love

I decided to take Gary Chapman’s 5 Love Languages quiz the other day to see where mine would fall. While the result wasn’t much of a surprise, I learned that my primary love language is Acts of Service.

The description reads: Acts of service means doing things for your partner. Someone with this love language feels loved and appreciated when others help them—whether that’s running an errand, cleaning, cooking, or lending a hand with a project. Those who receive love this way tend to notice the things people do for them and often express love by serving others in return.

I’ve realized this is something I’ve always been drawn to—serving others. Perhaps it’s a natural instinct shaped by being the oldest child, carrying a quiet, motherly desire to step in and help when someone is in need. More than anything, it brings me genuine joy to know that even the smallest act of service can make a difference in someone’s ordinary day.

During the week of Christmas, I had the opportunity to go caroling with the missionaries. Though the nights were cold, I was grateful we went out to visit some members we hadn’t seen in a while—especially those who didn’t have family nearby to spend the holidays with. The night before, I stayed up until 4 a.m. baking an assortment of cookies to bring along. Everyone deserves a treat during the holidays, but more than that, a reminder that they are loved and remembered.

That evening, we visited a grandmother named Pa Vang, whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time. She was very ill and could barely walk, so we sang hymns and offered a prayer for her. I later learned that she has kidney disease and has chosen not to go through dialysis, knowing her time is limited. My heart broke. I remembered her from my early years in the church back in 2013—so lively, full of humor, always joking and playfully roasting her daughters. I cherished her presence and the conversations we once shared.

It felt as though we were meant to visit her that day—to offer comfort and to remind her that the Lord sees her and loves her. Hymns are often described as another form of God’s word, and that night we sang Silent Night to her in Hmong. Choosing that song felt especially meaningful, like a gentle reminder that Christ was born for her—that His love reaches her, even now. I am deeply grateful that I was able to see her once more. Afterward, I added her name to the temple prayer roll.

One quiet act of service I often do is submitting the names of my Heavenly brothers and sisters, as well as my loved ones, to the temple for prayers when they are sick or unwell—an offering of extra love, given without attention or recognition. Loving and caring for someone doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes, it’s simply giving because you genuinely care.

Another brother from church later shared how much he appreciated the caroling visit and the cookies. He had been feeling especially lonely during the holidays, missing his partner who is still in Thailand and awaiting her arrival in late March or April. With no family nearby, he wondered who he would spend the holidays with—until we showed up. Even if it was only for a brief moment, it was enough to bring him joy and a few smiles. It reminded me how often the smallest things matter most.

That night, we visited eight members in total. Each home was filled with warmth and surprise that we would show up just to sing for them during the holidays. I have to admit, though—the first person I affectionately refer to as my “zodiac soulmate” had an expression that made me laugh. We couldn’t quite tell if he was enjoying it or simply confused as we stood there singing Angels We Have Heard on High. His expressions always intrigue me. Maybe that’s why I get nervous speaking to him—I can never quite read what he’s thinking. So mysterious but I sure do love cracking down a mystery.

While I find joy in bringing light to others, I later found myself reflecting on what I could do for my own family—especially in ways that don’t involve monetary gifts, since that’s often how they feel most loved. I asked myself why it feels easier to be a light for others than for my immediate family, even when I try. Somehow, it never seems to be enough, or I find myself shut down.

That reflection brought me back to the parable of the ten virgins. If they did not prepare enough oil for their lamps, they could not meet the bridegroom. In the same way, I cannot light someone else’s lamp if they are unwilling to prepare their own oil. Is that truly how it is? I am ready to love and serve, yet some hearts may not yet be prepared to receive it.

Perhaps this is one of the quiet truths of family life—that there will always be imperfections we cannot change. All we can do is accept them with grace and continue to serve in the best way we know how. It is still an early journey of faith for my family, and in time I hope they will come to know how deeply our Heavenly Father loves them, just as I have come to know for myself.

I have lived a life both with Christ and without Him, and I know now that the latter brought nothing but emptiness. It wasn’t until I found the courage to return, to face Him again, that I discovered what true love feels like. Not a day goes by that I regret choosing Him. If I have any regret at all, it is not loving people sooner—and not always knowing how to stay in their lives as a constant light.

Still, I will continue to pray for them. The Lord has faith in me despite my imperfections. He chose me, and I choose to love each of His sheep in whatever way I can. I will keep serving. I will keep fighting—with love.

With even more love,

Ang 🌸

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Wedding, Relationship, marriage

A Moonlight Covenant

Each year, my perspective on marriage continues to evolve, and with it, my vision of a shared life. As time passes, the loud fantasies of my youth have softened into something quieter, deeper, and more meaningful. I find myself thinking less about the “day” itself and more about the person I hope to walk beside—and how I want our life together to feel. For 2026, and for all the years that follow, this is the desire I carry.

Fourteen years ago, I drafted a “marriage contract” for fun, a list of terms I thought would protect my heart. But growing older has taught me something gentler and truer: I cannot change a soul to fit my expectations if they do not choose to honor me. Love cannot be enforced; it must be chosen, freely and continually, in the quiet moments when no one is watching.

Now, I hold only three terms close:

  • Wisdom: To be wise with what we are given.
  • Kindness: To meet one another with respect, gentleness, and care.
  • Commitment: To choose each other again and again through every season, remembering why our hearts first said yes.

I no longer seek a one-way street where I give endlessly while love flows elsewhere. I want a partnership where giving and receiving are a shared rhythm—a steady, quiet strength that carries us through the day. Some days, one of us may only have twenty percent to offer, and the other must carry eighty—but together, we still arrive at one hundred percent, leaning into one another until we are standing tall again. It is the beauty of two people moving in harmony, never letting the other walk the difficult paths alone.

As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, marriage is a holy pursuit. I have worked toward my endowment in preparation for this covenant, praying that one day my future partner and I may be sealed in the temple—bound not only for this life, but for the eternities. To love with eternity in mind is to love with reverence, purpose, and care. Because of this, I seek a companion whose heart is first turned toward God. I desire a partner who shares my eternal standards—someone who understands that our devotion to each other is an extension of our shared covenant with Him.

This is the love I am choosing to believe in.


When I envision the future, there is one place my heart always returns to: the Houston Texas Temple. Although I have never seen it in person, I have long been in love with its silhouette. In photos, it looks like a fairytale castle—the kind I once believed only existed in stories. It feels like a quiet kind of magic, as if a sense of belonging has been waiting there for me to finally arrive. Whether I am eventually sealed within its walls or simply stand before it to be asked for my hand, it is where my future feels most clear.


Even the symbols I cherish have shifted. I no longer long for the cold fire of diamonds. Instead, I see the glow of white jade—translucent and serene, like moonlight held in a stone. I envision a dainty white jade engagement ring set in polished silver, a combination that feels cool, intentional, and timeless. I value pieces that feel like home—tactile reminders of protection and a love that is deeply rooted.

Our celebration would unfold in a simple, beautiful sequence. We would begin with a quiet nod to the stories that have shaped my life, entering our reception as the familiar melodies of a Final Fantasy mashup weave through the air. To many, it is just music, but to me, these songs carry a story that echoes the depth of my feelings for a special individual—a tribute to the one who taught me that a soul can be both a legendary hero and a safe harbor.

The stake center, filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the faces of those who have prayed for us, would feel like a true sanctuary. From there, we would slip away to a honeymoon somewhere entirely new—just the two of us, learning the rhythm of one another’s company in a world we’ve yet to explore together.

This hope remains alive in me—a tender expectation I do not chase, but trust will arrive when the time is right. Until then, I will keep becoming, keep believing, and keep my heart open to the love God is preparing for me, nurturing my faith and my spirit with every passing day.

This is my quiet prayer and my hopeful promise: that when the day comes, I will recognize it, embrace it, and walk forward in love—ready, steady, and full of gratitude for the life we are meant to share.

With love,

Ang 🌸

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Faith, family, love, Spirituality

The Sound of Home

Endowment. A word that once felt foreign—yet as I prepared to receive it, I realized it was exactly what I had been missing to finally feel at home. Over time, I have come to understand that the growth I seek cannot be found by observing the paths of others, but by turning inward—by choosing what I am willing to pursue and obtain for myself.

I see the endowment now not as a single moment, but as a quiet unfolding: an invitation to anchor my identity in the eternal. It teaches me that worth is not assigned by the world nor earned through perfection, but revealed through covenant and commitment. In a world that constantly demands proof, there is something profoundly healing about sacred things that simply ask for presence, humility, and willingness. What is holy does not shout; it whispers. And in those whispers, I have begun to recognize the sound of home.

I have learned that growth is not meant to be rushed or compared. Healing is rarely loud, and becoming is rarely linear. Some days, growth looks like courage. Other days, it looks like rest. And sometimes, it looks like trusting that God is still working in the unseen spaces of my life. When I stop measuring myself against others and begin measuring myself by the tenderness of my heart, I find a deeper kind of peace.

This peace has changed how I view the life I hope to build. Once, I believed love would arrive as a rescue—something that would complete what I felt was unfinished in me. Now I understand that love is not meant to fix me; it is meant to meet me. I refuse to wait to become the best version of myself when I can begin that work now. I am preparing the way, trusting that when the time is right, he will meet me where I stand. We will walk forward together—not because we need one another to be whole, but because we choose to walk side by side. Preparation is not passive waiting; it is faithful movement.

This same light guides how I navigate my most cherished relationships. Loving my family is one of my most sacred roles, yet I am learning that love does not require me to absorb every storm. I have realized that no matter how large an umbrella I bring, I cannot always keep others dry—and that is okay. I can offer shelter, patience, and a steady presence, but true healing is a journey each soul must walk for themselves. Learning to let them carry their own umbrella is not a withdrawal of love; it is an act of trust. It allows me to stand beside them with a full heart rather than a weary one, loving them more purely without losing myself in a weight that was never mine to bear.

This lesson is both humbling and freeing. Boundaries are not a lack of love—they are an act of wisdom. They allow me to serve without self-erasure. Even when I feel weary, I remind myself that God sees the quiet endurance and the effort it takes to remain soft in a world that often rewards hardness. I was never invisible; I was only measuring my value by the wrong standards. Confidence is not arrogance; it is agreement with truth. And truth tells me that I am enough, even as I continue becoming.

So I vow—gently and imperfectly—to love myself more. To honor my gifts without diminishing them. To speak kindly to myself when doubt creeps in. I no longer see service as something I do to be noticed, but as a quiet consecration of my heart. To love my heavenly brothers and sisters is to recognize divinity in ordinary moments—a listening ear, a steady presence, a simple act of kindness.

I do not want to exist merely to survive. I want to be ready. I want to be worthy. I want to leave an impression through consistency and sincerity. I want to protect the colors of who I am and never allow sorrow to dull them.

I am still learning. Still trusting. Some days, faith feels like certainty; other days, it feels like choosing to keep walking without answers. But I no longer fear the road ahead. I know who walks with me. I know where my heart is anchored. And I know that becoming is not something I must rush—it is something I am invited to live into, one sacred step at a time.

With Love,

Ang 🌸

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Reflections, Spiritual, Wallflower

The Timing of Bloom

As the new year approached, I found myself reflecting on the “what ifs” of life—on what might have happened had I settled for less than what God intended. While I have not yet arrived where I once hoped to be, I feel genuinely blessed for all I have received, for all I have lost, and for the leaps of faith I took in the hope of obtaining something greater.

2025 was a year where hope was tested. For a long time, I remained stuck in a one-sided fantasy, unable to move forward. I tucked my heartbreak away, hoping it could be mended, only to eventually accept the truth: some things can never return to what they once were, no matter how hard we try to fix them.

I eventually made some of the hardest decisions of my life, yet I have never felt such joy as I did when I finally stepped through the door that had been left open for me all along. I see now that the Lord has His own timing; I wouldn’t have been ready to meet someone like him had I left sooner. I was being prepared without even knowing I was in preparation. I was hurt, unaware that this pain would become the very path to my healing.

I feel as though I’ve been brought back to my nineteen-year-old self, given a second chance to make things right. This time, I am choosing my circle more wisely and taking my search for an eternal companion more seriously. I am setting eternal standards so that I may never wander from my covenant path again.

I am reminded of Alma’s words on faith: “It beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.” A seed I once planted felt delicious to me, yet I left it unattended and allowed it to perish just as it began to blossom. I am deeply grateful that through the Atonement of our Savior, I have been given the chance to replant those roots. Though I am still far from the woman I hope to become, I know that as I wear the armor He has given me, I can withstand all things through Him.

I can hardly put into words the enchantment of realizing the Lord placed someone in my life to help me heal—an answer to prayers I had only whispered. I wasn’t paying attention at first; my loyalty had been given to the wrong person for so long that I almost didn’t recognize what I had always sought. He is a soul so kind, sincere, and uplifting—a light that pushes back the shadows in my heart.

Though I am still finding the courage to fully claim that light, I pray it remains close. He is a physical reminder of the Spirit by my side—a presence I look forward to, a warmth I seek, and a comfort I have never known before. It is a quiet hope I carry, something I never wish to take for granted.

Is there anything more magical than something so good it makes you want to be better? He fits seamlessly into the growth I am working toward, encouraging and challenging me in ways only love and light can. It is a reminder that the things we hope for most are not taken from us; they are often just being carefully prepared by a loving hand, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

So, on this New Year’s Day, I end with a quiet confession: I kind of liked it your way, how you shyly placed your eyes on me. Oh, did you ever know that I had mine on you? And even more softly—how I loved your peaceful eyes on me… did you ever know that I had mine on you?

With love,

Ang 🌸

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