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Category: Stories & Soul

Welcome to Stories and Soul — a collection of reflections born from quiet mornings, loud prayers, spiritual questions, and the sacred mess of everyday life.

Some of these are stories from my past.
Some are lessons I learned the hard way.
Others are simple moments — a verse, a silence, a sentence from God — that changed everything.

It’s not a sermon. And I’m definitely not a theologian. These are just the parts of life that made me cry, pray, laugh, and squint at heaven — now told from the other side.
The moments that wrecked me. The questions that shaped me. The unexpected grace that found me anyway.

If you’ve ever felt tired, unsure, behind, or just too human for spiritual spaces — this is for you.
You’re not too much. You’re not too late. You’re just in progress.
Same as me.

Pull up a seat. There’s room here for your story too. 🐾🔥

  • The River Remembers: A Paris Story of Love and Hope (Part Two)

    His Voice

    Paris, 1952

    I continued to stand by the Seine every day.
    It calmed me. Grounded me.
    The river always moved forward — with purpose.

    Then came December 10th. A night I’ll never forget.

    It was winter. I wore my usual long black coat — but this time, I used pomade and cologne. I tried to look my best, though I was nervous.

    Paris was glowing.
    Christmas lights danced from lampposts.
    Music drifted from shop radios — and I’ll never forget the song that played
    “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”

    And then I saw her.
    She was walking toward me — red dress, matching hat, wearing the earrings I gave her.
    Her smile was warm. Her eyes confused — because I stood frozen, breathless, just staring at her beauty.

    She tapped my shoulder and teased,
    “Beau, my darling, why are you standing still?”
    She looked at the crowded restaurant and added,
    “Let’s walk and find somewhere to eat.”

    Then she grabbed my hand — playfully, gently — and said,
    “Go on, darling. One foot in front of the other.”
    Like she was teaching a baby to walk.
    She was teasing. That made her even more irresistible.

    I pulled her close by the waist and whispered,
    “Cassandra… let’s stay here for a while.”

    I asked what she thought of the Seine.

    She replied,
    “It’s beautiful. I never really thought deeply about it. But now that you ask… there’s something in it that makes you feel calm.”

    Then she added,
    “You’re not feeling down again, are you? Like the day we met?”

    “Far from it,” I said.
    And then I began.

    “Cassandra…
    When you first saw me standing here, I was lost. Discouraged.
    My thoughts were heavy with despair.
    I came to the river because it moved forward —
    never pausing, never turning back.
    It gave me hope.
    And then I met you.
    And on that day, I knew I had a future.
    You were that hope.
    That light.
    And I know… God heard my suffering and gave me you.”

    I pulled out a small box.
    Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine.

    “Cassandra, I don’t have vast land,
    but I can give you a decent home.
    I don’t have a fancy automobile,
    but I’ll take you wherever you need to go.
    I will protect you.
    I will provide.
    And most of all — whatever happens —
    I will never leave your side.”

    She stood smiling. My heart raced.
    Why wasn’t she answering yet?

    Then she laughed softly,
    “Aren’t you supposed to ask me something, silly?”

    And I said,
    “Cassandra, will you marry me?”

    She said yes.
    She hugged me, whispered in my ear,
    “I will hold you to that promise.”

    A few months later, we became Mr. and Mrs. Beau Moreau.
    Standing at the altar, promising to love each other to the end.

    Her Voice

    One Year Before the Present

    I was standing by the Seine.
    It was night. I couldn’t bring myself to go home.
    My heart was heavy.

    I stared at the river — like Beau used to.
    And I remembered what he said:
    That the Seine flows in one direction.
    That it brings peace, because it leads toward hope.

    Then I remembered December 10th, 1952.

    A week before that night, Beau told me we had an event.
    He sent me a red dress. A matching red hat.
    It was elegant — something you wear to a grand evening.

    On the day itself, I dressed with care.
    I used the red lipstick my mother gave me, the one I’d been saving.
    When I saw myself in the mirror, I paused.
    “I look… beautiful.” I hadn’t said that in a long time.

    That evening, Christmas was everywhere —
    Lights shimmered. Music floated.
    “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…” played in the background.

    And there he was.
    Handsome in his long black coat, staring at the river like the first time I saw him.

    His eyes — steady, deep, full of meaning.

    He didn’t speak at first.
    So I playfully said,
    “What are you staring at, my darling?”

    We laughed about the restaurant being full.
    I grabbed his hand and teased him forward.

    But then he stopped me.

    We stood by the river.

    And he said words I will never forget.

    “Cassandra…
    I do not have vast land, but I can give you a decent home.
    I do not have a fine automobile, but I will bring you wherever you need to go.
    I will protect you and our children…”
    (I giggled when he said ‘children’)
    “I will provide. And no matter what happens —
    I will never leave your side.”

    He said the river moves forward —
    and that’s how he saw our future.

    I hugged him. I told him:
    “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

    And he kept it.

    We married. Built a family.
    Our children are grown now.
    They visit often. We had a good life.

    Beau gave me everything he said he would.
    A home. A safe place. A hand to hold through storms.

    But not today.

    Tonight, I stand alone by the Seine.
    I haven’t told him yet.
    But like the river, I, too, must move in one direction.

    Soon, I’ll be going where he cannot follow —
    not yet.

    Still…
    I feel peace.

    Because I know that God will keep Beau, our children, and our grandchildren in His care.

    And someday, I’ll meet Beau again.
    In a new home.
    Where rivers don’t end.
    Where love remembers everything.

  • The Lamp Post

    It was a rainy Monday.
    I was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus.

    But I guess I wasn’t just waiting for the bus.
    I was waiting for an answer.
    Waiting for something to fill the void I’ve been carrying.
    Waiting for the ache inside me to ease up — even just a little.

    The weather matched my mood, but oddly, I’ve always liked gloomy days.
    There’s something comforting about the rain — the soft rhythm of droplets falling, the way the street glows under the lamp post light.
    It feels honest. Like the world isn’t pretending to be okay.

    I sat quietly for a while, then noticed an old man across the bench, watching the rain with the same stillness.
    He saw me, smiled, and waved. I walked over and sat beside him.
    We both didn’t seem to mind the wet bench.

    “Why are you sitting here alone?” I asked. “Don’t you have someone to keep you company?”

    He chuckled. “And why are you alone, young lady?”

    I smirked. “If I had someone with me, I would’ve asked him to join me.”
    Then added, “I guess I feel lonely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a… Beau.”

    He laughed gently. “Even if you had a Beau, he couldn’t go with you everywhere. Sooner or later, you’ll have to learn how to be alone. Even family and friends can’t be with you all the time.”

    I nodded. “I know… it’s just, I’ve been doing life on my own for so long. I’m tired.
    I don’t just long for a Beau — I long for a breakthrough.
    I’ve been working so hard for half my life. It’d be nice to be taken care of for once.
    To travel again, to walk unfamiliar streets and taste local food.
    To speak a language I still can’t pronounce.
    To fly — not as a passenger, but the one in the cockpit.
    To have a Beau. And little beaus.”

    He chuckled again.

    “I get it,” he said. “We all have our longings.
    As humans, we carry emptiness sometimes — the need for someone to ask, ‘Are you okay?’
    To really see us. Hear us.”

    Then he shifted his gaze toward the nearest lamp post.

    “Describe the street,” he said.

    “Dark. Damp. It’s still raining.”

    “What else?”

    “Lamp posts.”

    He smiled. “Yes. Look at how the light touches the street.
    Wherever that lamp shines, even the wet concrete seems to glow.
    The darkness is still there… but everything the light touches becomes softer. Brighter. Beautiful.”
    He turned back to me.
    “So whatever it is you’re longing for — talk to God about it. He is your lamp.

    Tell Him, ‘Father, I am tired. Frustrated. My heart aches.’
    He listens.
    I’m sure He’s listening to us now.”

    I didn’t speak right away.
    The rain had softened into a drizzle — less storm, more lullaby.

    The ache was still there, but it didn’t feel as sharp.

    I looked at the old man — at the wrinkles shaped by both sorrow and kindness, the quiet strength in his presence.
    He wasn’t trying to fix anything.
    He just sat there with me. And somehow, that was enough.

    I smiled, more to myself than to him.
    “Thank you,” I whispered.

    He nodded, eyes still on the glow of the lamp post.

    “Just remember,” he said, “we may sit alone… but we’re never truly waiting alone.”

    The moment passed. But something in me stayed.

    So I stayed on the bench a little longer —
    Not to wait,
    But to rest.

  • Baalam and the Donkey

    I was looking for a Bible story that’s not as mainstream as the usual Noah’s Ark or David and Goliath showdown. That’s when I stumbled on Numbers 22 and found a talking donkey.
    Yes. A. Talking. Donkey.

    And I thought, Wow. This donkey really made it into scripture. She deserves a certificate or something.

    If you haven’t read it yet, go to Numbers 22:21–34. (You thought I was going to summarize it for you, didn’t you? Okay, fine.

    🐴 Balaam, Moab, and the Talking Donkey

    The Israelites had camped in Moab, and King Balak of Moab was sweating bullets. He’d seen what Israel did to other kingdoms, and he was like, “Nope. Not today.” So he sent people to a prophet named Balaam with one request:

    “Curse these people for me, please. We’ll pay well.”

    Balaam asked God, and God said:

    NO.
    “These people are blessed. Do not touch them.”

    Balaam delivered the message. King Balak, however, had the persistence of a toddler in a candy aisle. He sent more messengers—this time with a bigger, shinier offer.

    Balaam said, “Wait here. I’ll ask God again.”
    (Pause: The first time God already said no. But the offer now had more zeroes. Suspicious? Yes.)

    God responded:

    “Fine. Go. But you can only say what I tell you to.”

    So Balaam went—but God saw through him. His feet were walking, but his heart was for sale.
    God was angry.

    So He sent an angel with a sword to block Balaam’s path.

    Only problem? Balaam couldn’t see the angel.
    But guess who could?
    His donkey.

    🗡️ Donkey vs. Angel: The OG Roadblock

    Round 1: The donkey swerved into a field.
    Round 2: The donkey crushed Balaam’s foot against a wall.
    Round 3: She just sat down like, “We’re not dying today.”

    Balaam, being spiritually blind and emotionally dramatic, beat the donkey three times. That’s when God said, “Enough.”

    And He opened the donkey’s mouth.

    She said:

    “What did I do to deserve this? Have I ever acted like this before?”

    Balaam, still in full delusion, answered her like she was just another commuter.

    Then God opened Balaam’s eyes—and there was the angel, sword drawn.

    “If your donkey hadn’t turned away, I would’ve killed you. She saved your life.”

    Balaam repented.

    🎯 The Lesson That Hit Me

    There are a lot of takeaways here. But the one that hit me like a divine chancla was this:

    Balaam asked God once—and God said no. But then he asked again, hoping to change God’s mind… because the second offer looked better.

    I do that too.

    Sometimes, God says no.
    And I accept it… for like a day.
    Then I try again.
    And again.
    Trying to convince Him why this time it makes sense. Why this door should open. Why this blessing feels justified.

    And sometimes, He gives me what I ask—but not because it was right. Because He’s letting me learn.

    But now that I’m getting older (emotionally, spiritually, and in actual knee-crack years), I’ve started to understand God more. Not always. I still stumble. I still ask Him too many questions. But slowly, I’m learning to trust that even His no is an act of love.

    🙏 Trust Comes From Knowing Who He Is

    To trust someone, you need to know their character.
    And God’s character?

    • He’s our Creator: Look at the mountains, the ocean, the stars, and that one sunset that stopped you mid-scroll.
    • He’s our Father: He gives, disciplines, and stays.
    • He’s our Savior: Jesus healed the sick, gave sight to the blind, and raised the dead.
    • He’s our Helper: The Holy Spirit prays on our behalf when we don’t have the words.

    So even if I still ask for things, I no longer do it with bitterness when the answer is no.
    Just a quiet kind of waiting.
    Because I trust who’s behind the decision.

    What about you?
    What part of Balaam’s story do you relate to?

    (And if your donkey starts talking, please don’t argue. Just listen.)

    -Ember 🐾🔥

  • Something Good Is About to Happen (And No, I’m Not Just Saying That)

    Have you ever felt like something good is about to happen?

    I did—in the shower. There must be something magical in tap water, or maybe it was just the conditioner finally reaching my brain. Whatever it was, I felt a shift.

    For the past few years, my heart has been heavy with sadness and discouragement. My mind? Full of anxious thoughts doing laps. I hit that weird emotional state where I wasn’t happy or sad—just okay. The “emotionally buffering” zone. I even lost count of how many times I Googled “drifting through life means.”

    (And yes, I might look ten years younger than my age, but I’ve lived through enough plot twists to earn those Googles.)

    I used to cling to a quote I found online—“live life moment to moment.”
    It helped, kind of. For a while.
    But eventually, I realized: I need more than a Pinterest mantra.

    What I thought I needed was a man. A strong, strategic, steady man.
    Translation: a husband.
    A handsome one who would sweep me off my feet, take me on wild adventures, and look good in travel selfies.

    Look, don’t judge me. I’ve been single for a long time. Let a girl dream.

    But here’s the plot twist:
    I didn’t need a man. I needed healing.

    I kept looking outward—promotion, success, plane tickets—chasing things I thought would make me feel whole. But the advice always circled back to the same things:

    “Find happiness within.”
    “Help someone in need.”
    “Be grateful.”

    And I was like:
    I am someone in need.
    What do you mean “be grateful”? I’m barely hanging on!

    But then… I came across this verse again. And something in me softened:

    Philippians 4:6-7
    “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.
    And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

    So I tried. I prayed. I thanked Him—even when I didn’t feel like it at first.
    And something shifted.

    No, I’m not suddenly problem-free or perfectly happy. But I feel different. I feel a quiet strength, a steadiness. A sense that even if I don’t get what I’m asking for, He hears me. And that’s enough.

    To my fellow citizens of the Republic of Anxiety:
    Try gratitude. Not just the hashtag version. The raw, shaky kind.
    Memorize that verse. Whisper it when the spiral starts. Put it in your heart.

    Because something good is about to happen.
    Even if it’s just peace.
    And honestly? That’s more than enough.

  • When Longing Hits Deep, Surrender It to I AM WHO I AM

    There’s something about Friday and Saturday nights.
    The world slows down. My shoulders drop.
    And suddenly, I’m bold. I’m full of ideas. I imagine freely.
    No pressure. No deadline. No one watching.
    Just me, the dark, and the version of myself that dares to dream.

    But then comes morning.
    And worse the Sunday night.
    Everything feels smaller, heavier, more “real.”
    Not in the good way. In the doubt yourself again kind of way.

    At night, I’m booking flights in my head.
    I’m already packing, imagining the airport, replaying my cousin’s words about visiting London.
    Everything feels possible. Like life is wide open again.
    And for a while, that feeling is enough.

    But then morning comes, and with it, questions I didn’t ask at night.
    What if I don’t get the visa?
    What if I freeze at immigration again, like I did in 2017?
    Suddenly, I’m not imagining freedom anymore , I’m rehearsing how to explain myself.

    It’s strange, isn’t it?
    How between midnight and morning, the same dream can shift from flight to fear?

    Dubai always shows up in these midnight thoughts.
    Maybe because it was the last place I truly felt alive.
    There’s something about it I can’t shake
    like every time I remember it, a part of me switches back on.
    Not nostalgia. More like… recognition.
    Like, “That’s the version of me I’m trying to get back to.”

    There were mornings I’d wake up thinking, “Here we go again.”
    Same desk. Same screen. Same routine.
    That tiny grocery store a few blocks away somehow became the highlight of my week.
    And honestly, that scared me.

    I’d look around and wonder Is this it? I know there is more to life
    I’m older now.
    Will I ever get married? Will I ever have children?
    Will I ever live abroad again? Travel the way I used to?

    And worse…
    There were days the bitterness lingered.
    Not loud, just quiet.

    But recently, that’s changed.
    I’ve felt lighter. Maybe because I finally surrendered the questions to God.
    And when you surrender, it doesn’t mean the questions disappear
    it just means they stop owning you.

    After I surrendered to God, something lifted.
    I remember thinking, “If only I had done this sooner.”

    But of course, that’s when the doubt showed up
    the voice that asks, “What if your deepest longings never come true?”

    And yet, in the quiet of night, another voice speaks softer, but stronger:
    Keep surrendering your desires. God is in control.
    The One who created the universe, who hung the stars in place,
    who catches your tears in a bottle , He will not forget you.

    He is the same God who leaves the ninety-nine to look for the one.

    And when I look at the sea, the mountains, the trees that start as seeds and grow into something so abundant, giving fruit, shade, and even the wood we build with
    I remember: there is purpose in the waiting.
    There is timing in the growth.
    There is a plan, even when I can’t see it.

    So I rest.
    Because the voice in the night says,
    “Take rest, My child. I’ve got you.”

  • “It’s Just Work, Nothing Personal… Right?”

    Colossians 3:23–24:
    “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”

    Every Sunday night, I get this feeling I can’t quite explain—you know, the universal “ugh, work again tomorrow” vibe. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be here six years later (and counting, by the way—loyalty badge unlocked).

    After some reflection, I realized it’s not the actual work that makes me want to dramatically throw my laptop out the window and board the next flight (Okay, slight exaggeration. I work from home, so maybe I’d just slam the fridge door dramatically instead.)

    The truth is, it’s the people—sometimes. You can be deep in your task, finally in the zone, and then boom—“Hi, can I just ask something really quick?” (Spoiler: it’s never quick.) And let’s not even talk about bosses. For the record, if any of my current teammates or manager stumble upon this post—hi! This is totally about my past jobs. Wink.

    I’ve worked most of my life, held different roles, and reported to various bosses. And one thing is universal: if you and your boss are out of sync, it feels like trying to do a trust fall with someone who’s scrolling TikTok. Work becomes survival.

    That’s when I found the verse above. But truthfully? At first, I resisted. “Work with all my heart? Girl, my heart is telling me to grab my slippers and scram.”

    But here’s where it gets real.
    When I feel drained or wronged, I go back to that verse. Because it’s hard to give your best when you feel unappreciated or mistreated. Honestly, sometimes it’s hard to even give the bare minimum. But then I remember: I’m not just doing this for my company or my boss—I’m working for the Lord.

    Let that sink in.
    “I am working for the Lord.”
    When I repeat that, something shifts. He is worthy of my time, my excellence—even when others aren’t. It doesn’t magically erase the stress, but it lightens the weight I carry.

    I’m not saying we shouldn’t aim to impress our managers or be team players. They have authority, and we honor that. But at the end of the day—as we say here in my country, quoting an action star—“It’s just work. Nothing personal.”

    Insert moment of truth here:

    And just to be clear—it’s not like I didn’t want anyone to ask questions. Actually, I feel honored when someone asks me how to do things because it means they trust my knowledge. But it’s the ones who ask without even trying to look for the answer first—or when the answer is literally staring at them from the screen—that can be a little frustrating. Like… open your eyes, dude! The answer is right there. Highlighted. In bold. With sparkles.

    Of course, not all bosses are villains. Maybe some just had a few rough chapters that turned them cold and guarded. You know, like Scar—Mufasa’s brother in The Lion King. Maybe he started out okay, but somewhere along the line, he let bitterness take over. And then you have bosses like Mufasa—wise, composed, and protective. Alright, let’s stop here before I break down the entire Lion King trilogy. Hakuna Matata, moving on!

    A Short Prayer

    Dear God,
    Thank You for the life You’ve given us. You know how many times I’ve cried because of mistreatment at work. You’ve seen my bitterness when words cut deep, and yet You’ve always carried me through.

    I pray not just for myself, but for everyone who feels unseen, hurt, or overwhelmed in their workplace. Help us to find comfort in Your Word, and to remember that we are ultimately working for You. Let that truth fuel us to keep showing up—with heart, with strength, and with grace.

    In Jesus’ name, Amen.

    ✨ “When work feels heavy, remember who you’re really working for.” 🙏

    Written by Ember

    Full-time dreamer, part-time overthinker