Tag Archives: writing

stories

The Ghost And The Iron Wolf

So, I’ve been quietly writing a novel and wanted to finally share a summary of it here.

There are stories that arrive gently, like petals drifting onto water.
And then there are stories that arrive like a wound, a prayer, and a promise all at once.

This one began with a girl who could hear what the world tried to bury.

For a long time, Huashi lived only in fragments of thought—shadows, battles, unanswered questions about love and loyalty. She wasn’t born from a plan. She grew from feelings I couldn’t place anywhere else: what it means to be strong when you’re misunderstood, what it means to obey when your heart longs for something truer, and what happens when two guarded souls meet, not to conquer, but to recognize one another.

The Ghost and the Iron Wolf is not just a war story.
It’s about survival turning into devotion.
It’s about being forced into a future you didn’t choose—then choosing it anyway.
It’s about two soldiers standing on opposite ends of a battlefield and walking toward the middle.

Below is the heart of that world: a glimpse into Huashi Song and Kezang Chen—their war, their tenderness, their defiance, and the love that threatens a throne built on control.

Huashi Song was never meant to be a bride.

Once abandoned in blood and betrayal, she learned to survive by listening to the dead. The spirits became her armor, her witnesses, and her curse. Through ten years of war on the Northern Frontier, Huashi rose as the Empire’s feared Phantom General—haunted, brilliant, untouchable. The court called her useful. The people called her cursed. And the Throne called her disposable.

Kezang Chen was forged for obedience.

Duke of the Iron Province and commander of an unbreakable army, he ruled through discipline, silence, and endurance. Known as the Obsidian Wolf, Kezang was the Empire’s shield—steady, lethal, and loyal. But loyalty to a corrupt throne is still a chain, and Kezang spent his life learning how to bear it without breaking.

When the Empress forces their marriage, it is not a union of love, but the weaponization of two legends meant to cancel each other out.

Their wedding becomes a battlefield. Assassins strike before the vows grow warm. Exorcists attempt to burn Huashi alive. The Empress replaces her army and tries to erase her name.

Yet instead of destroying one another, the Ghost and the Wolf recognize something dangerous in each other: a reflection. Kezang does not fear Huashi’s shadows. Huashi does not bend beneath Kezang’s iron. Together, they form a pact colder than romance and stronger than command.

What begins as an alliance becomes intimacy.

Behind fortress walls and blood-soaked banners, they discover one another beyond war—hidden talents, quiet laughter, vulnerability beneath armor. Kezang learns to hear the spirits whisper Huashi’s name. Huashi learns the gentleness buried inside a general carved from stone. Love does not grow from softness, but from survival shared.

But the Throne sees their bond as treason.

Two soldiers from opposite ends of a battlefield have met in the middle. Like legendary warriors reunited, their union threatens a system built on separation and control. The Empress moves to sever them before prophecy can take root—before the Shield learns the language of Fire and the Ghost learns what it means to belong.

Now, Huashi and Kezang must decide what kind of legends they will become:
Weapons of the Empire,
or the beginning of its end.

Writing them has reminded me why I love stories that live in shadows as much as in light. Huashi and Kezang aren’t just characters—they are fragments of courage, defiance, and longing. Their world is brutal and beautiful, but even amidst war, there is tenderness. And sometimes, when legends meet, the smallest moments—a glance, a shared laugh, a whisper—can change everything.

This is only the beginning. I hope, one day, you’ll meet them fully and watch as the Ghost and the Iron Wolf carve their place in a world that tried to keep them apart.

With love,

Ang 🌸

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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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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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