Heroes & The Hard Things

Hello Readers,

My heroes have been many different people over the years. Men and women, fictional and real, famous or unknown, these people have inspired me. They have made me try harder, reach further, dig my feet in when the world tries to pull me off the edge.

I want to surpass my heroes. I want to dig in deeper, fight harder, be smarter. I want to fight like my life is too short to care about what people think of me. I want to sing when I feel a song in my soul, I want to write the words that buzz in my fingers, I want to tell people I love them without reserve or “only when”s.

I want to do all these things, and I try to do them, but the fact remains that I get scared.

This life feels long to me. The songs too awkward, the people too broken, the words too hard.

But the truth is, this life isn’t long. And I can’t do the hard things. But He can, so I don’t need to be strong. I am weak, I know this, but if God is strong, then I can be too.

Somehow, it’s hard to remember this.

It’s hard to sing when you sometimes forget the tune and your voice wavers.

It’s hard to write when the words don’t flow and things don’t make sense, when the plot doesn’t come together and the characters don’t seem genuine.

It’s hard to tell people you love them when you don’t always feel like you do. When they do things that you don’t love and it’s hard to remember to see the person and not the filth they are smearing on themselves.

The things we want to do, need to do, are hard.

But I hope I will do them. Today and tomorrow and the next day. The next week. This year. Next year.

And at the end of my life, I hope I will stand before my Maker, my first and last Hero, and look him in the eyes as my knees shake and tremble because my inspiration, the comforter of my soul, is standing in front of me. I hope that while I stand in front of him, my mouth dry and a grin on my face, that I will force out the words “I did my best with what you gave me.” That I will mean them. That then, the words will tumble and I will tell my Father what I did.

I wrote the words that you put into my soul. I sang the songs that you handed me to sing. I loved the people you put into my life. I followed in your footsteps.

This is what I want to be able to say.

All of my heroes are fighters.

I hope I will be one too.

I want to fight to write the words that He’s given me, to sing the songs that play on repeat in my heart, to love everyone with open arms.

This is my heart, and it is many of yours. So let’s fight for this.

May the grace and strength of God allow us to do so.


Who are your heroes? What do you want to say at the end of your life? 

A Poem Made Of Hymns and Worship Songs

Hello Readers,

The words fail to come to my fingers, my friends. They swirl in my head but don’t look right on paper. Like a misspelled word or a painting turned sideways. I want to write a poem, but I do not have the words to one. I can not write because what I have been saved from is overwhelming. I have a debt paid for that I can not explain in the simple words I know.

But that’s alright. The words will come. Until then, I can only rehash the words I know to be true. The words that have given me so much comfort.

Take heart, we are not in control.

there is power in the name of Jesus.

though satan should buffet, though trials should come…

make my life a prayer to you.

amazing grace,





it is well, it is well

amazing grace



wretch like me

there is power in the name of Jesus

i want toi need to

be more like Jesus. 

prone to wander

lord, i feel it.

Amazing grace

it is well




nothing lasts, except the grace of God, by which I stand,

in Jesus.

it’s your breath in my lungs


your love broke through


(all lyrics are not mine)

Falling Off The Face of the Earth

Dear Readers,

First off, may I say thank you for sticking with me. I have just passed the eighty follower mark! I really appreciate every like, comment, and read. I hope that I will be able to continue to write content that will bless you, make you laugh, and make you think. You all are amazing! 😀

I have made a discovery. We, as humans, are so scared of being forgotten. We’re scared of being left behind, that our names will mean nothing one day. We want to leave a legacy.

(If you can’t tell, I’ve recently been listening to Hamilton.)

Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. -The World Was Wide Enough (Hamilton)

It’s an incredibly interesting story, and caused me to examine some things about myself. I am not scared of being forgotten, but I am scared that I will not leave a mark. I am scared that my life will be a waste of time. I am scared that at the end of the day, my life will have not meant something to someone else. I am scared that the stories I carry on my shoulder will die with me. The stories that are not just mine, but the people back and back. I am scared that the important stories of the past will die on my shoulders.

I’m scared of letting the people who made me down.

Because, you see, it’s not so much my name I want to be remembered, as the changes I make. I want to change things. I want to leave an impact.

I love old things, I love antiques, I love old music, I love old books, I love old photo albums.

I think I love them because they’re lasting craters of something someone made. They have left an impact. They have changed things, for better or worse. They have made a difference, they have laid a foundation, dug a hole to plant a seed. I have never lived somewhere long enough to put down roots, to absorb a culture as my own, and these old things ground me to the surface of Earth. These old things that have proven true over time, the ones that have not, ease out of my grasp like rotten wood when I cling to them. I hold them so tightly my knuckles turn white as I cling to the stories I know to be true.

It’s as if I didn’t have my heritage, my stories of the people that came before me, I would simply float off the face of the earth. I would drift, I would be just another voice yelling to hear the sound of myself. But because of these old stories, I can dig my fingers into this time proven soil, bracing myself against the wind that batters against me every day. I have a story to tell, a purpose as I talk out into the void. But I have enemies there too. The voices that come with the wind, yelling against me, my convictions, my beliefs.

Do you not see why history is so important? We have no roots without them. Even if you stayed in the same place your whole life, digging your fingers into the soil, eyes shut tight, you would still be blown off. The winds would claim you.

We just can’t live long enough to dig deep enough.

So listen to your stories, and add to the roots, add your stories, throw your words back at the voices in the wind. Don’t let them batter you down. Dig deep with dirt under your fingernails and hold on as tight as you can.

What is holding you to the skin of the Earth?


Impression of A Grieving Church

“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll”

An entire congregation is brought to its knees in a horrible beautiful way, weeping for something that they can not ever replace. Nor would they ever wish to. There is a wound now, a gaping red wound. The regular services are canceled and the pastor up front states that there are no words to describe this loss. You can feel it in the air, this tangible, horrible tragedy.

“Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul”

Three people have been lost in a car accident. Three souls have flown away to heaven. They were too good for this world. We long to be among them, and we rejoice in their joy but weep for ourselves, left behind in this broken world.

It is well
With my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

The church reacts as any ordinary family would. They weep. They hold each other. Tears flow easily and words come hard. It is the most painful beauty that we can ever experience. The bitter taste of a brush with death. The harsh sting of being left behind. They ask the hardest question known to mankind, looking up at the heavens.

Why? Why did you do this?

“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control.”

But through it all is a steady thread that the congregation grabs onto, strength flowing along that taut line. It grounds them, keeping their heads above the waters of grief. The thread is Jesus. We do not understand why this horrible tragedy befell us, but we do know this.

Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul



Coming ‘Home’

Hello Readers,

How does it feel to be home?

Ah, I hear this question so much. What people are asking is how does it feel to be back in familiarity, in a house that I know, where the food is familiar and the language is mine.

But home isn’t that for me.

Home is my aunt hugging me goodnight like she can’t believe I’m there. Home is binge watching British shows with my cousin. Home is trampolines and pizza and avoiding trips to Walmart.

Home is sarcastic quips and jokes that take too long to get to the punchline. Home is waiting on my Gramma to hurry up and blow dry her hair already.

Home is this weird bunch of people that I love in the living room telling stories.

And what stories we have to tell. I could write a whole series of them, but I don’t think I ever will. Part of me is selfish and wants to keep these stories hidden away for myself.

I don’t want to share my home.

Because home isn’t a big red house with a white picket fence. Not for me.

Home is butterfly wings and cicada shells in my hair. Home is screeching laughter and bike rides. Home is a crazy wild thing that I do with the people I love.

I suppose it’s all perspective, isn’t it? My home is my stories of long summer days and cold winter nights.

And maybe one day I will share them, but for now, I’ll be selfish and keep them hidden away to keep me warm.



The Sea’s Calling

Hello Readers!


I’m sorry for the long hiatus, and I wish I had a good reason for it. I simply couldn’t think of what to write.

I don’t know how to write what I am feeling because I do not understand it completely myself. And if you can’t understand it, how do you explain it to other people? How do you explain things that you don’t know?

I’m scared. I’m happy. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I feel like a walking contradiction.

I’m moving, as some of you know, and I know it’s time to go. But the thing is, knowing it’s time to go doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad.

Lots of people think that kids like me, moving around a lot, don’t really care when it’s time to pack up and move because we can feel the sea calling. But we do.

I miss things, I’ve missed things my whole life, and that’s fine. It’s the way it goes, and for everything I miss there is something different to discover. Something new, something exciting, maybe something better.

It’s always scary walking out into the unknown, leaving what you do understand behind. You don’t know if this new world will accept you, or if you will accept it. But I have learned that there is always beauty to be found, always wonderful people to meet, and that everywhere you go there is God.

It all happens so fast. You talk and talk about moving, and you know it will happen, and then one day you wake up and somebody is moving your couch out, you’re taking down posters, and then you know. And it’s not a bad thing, knowing it’s time. It just shocks you for a bit and then you realize that you get to go out into the world again. You get to meet new people, make a difference in a different way.

I believe moving is a good thing. I know this next move will be good for my family. And I know it’s time to go, because I can feel it.

Missing things is like listening to the sea. It’s there and you know it, and sometimes you can sit there and listen to it, but other times, you have to move beyond the warm beach and dive into the freezing water. There are things that must be done and you can not listen to the water forever. You have to get out there.

I am excited for a new opportunity, I am excited for a new house, a new schedule, a new way of doing things.

But I will not forget the old ones.


Star Gazing at the Sea

Hello Readers,

I stared up at the stars two nights ago. I stared into the black swirling deep of the sky until I feared I might lose my mind in the vastness. I fell back down to Earth, and stared at the concrete.

To no avail, my eyes went back to the sky.

I stared at the stars and forgot to blink as they twinkled at me.

The night sky looks like someone spread a sheet over the world and poked holes in it to let the sun through.

I recognized a few constellations and tried in vain to count the stars like Abraham did so long ago.

Recently, someone asked me if I felt all the history of the sea as I stood by it, if I felt impacted by the ancients who walked its beaches long, long ago.

Yes, I feel the history, the weight of time. Yes.

But it’s also personal.

This wasn’t just the ancient’s beach. It’s mine. It wasn’t only their sky, it is mine as well. I have just as much claim to the stars as they did.

I have spilled my secrets and my songs and my soul to the sea. I have cried to the night sky and I have prayed under the moon’s fragile veil.

I have walked a pilgrimage in the sand. I have failed to count the stars.

I have found shapes in the moon and I have ridden the waves.

I have gazed up at the stars and been scared out of my wits.

For me, the sky, the sea, these vast things that I live so close to, are… almost people. Almost friends. Not impersonal giant objects.

They were not just the ancient’s. They’re mine.







Hello Readers,

Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile (that is, assuming people actually read these, haha). Just been busy/low on inspiration.

Anyways, I, being a musician, have come to terms with something I like to call ‘suffocation’ (and I didn’t just come up with that on the spot. Definitely not.). Now this isn’t literal suffocation, I just call it that because it seems to fit with the feeling. With the situation I have been experiencing lately.

This ‘suffocation‘ happens when I sit at my keyboard, looking at the keys and thinking, “How on earth could I ever make a song that would be any different or any better than the million already written?” “How could I make anything original? Am I just copying everyone that has come before me? Do I have any talent or am I a parrot?” This feeling, though, is not one that only I get, nor one that only musicians get. It’s a feeling that writers get when they see their blank page and think, “Are there really any good plots left? Is there really a character that’s never been written, or an idea that hasn’t grown into a book?”

This feeling often haunts me when I’m playing my piano, as I’m sure it does many, many other musicians. It’s a feeling that says, “Is there anything left? Can you really play something beautiful? Or even halfway decent?” And let me tell you, it’s hard to shake off. Like smoke that clings to your clothes.

Now, usually when this idea comes, another thought consumes me at the same time. The thought of a thirteenth note. Crazy, maybe, but sometimes I wonder if it’s out there. Somewhere… A sound nobody has heard.

A book idea no one has written.

An equation for a graviton.

A color no one has ever seen.

Or maybe we don’t need these things. Maybe all we need is the twelve keys given to us. Maybe all we need is the creative mind given to us. Maybe all we need is God’s will for us.

Maybe, all we need is a little light to see the sheet music.


How I Began.

Hello Readers,

It’s astonishing for me to look back at some of my old work and realize that I actually had people read this. That people actually commented and told me to continue. Because looking at my writing back then right now, I can honestly say it was crud.

But nobody told me that. They said “You’re still learning.” But they took it seriously and they told me to keep going, to keep learning.

Somehow they were able to look past the plot holes, the weak and shallow characters, the grammatical errors, and see a heart that wanted to be made known. I wore my heart on my sleeve, thought I knew a lot, and miraculously, I was protected. No one told me I was awful. I got critiqued yes, but what I heard a lot of in the beginning was, “I’m glad you’re writing. You’re good for your age. Keep writing and don’t stop.”

And I thought I knew so much. I sent my first novel to a lot of people, not all of them read it (don’t blame ’em, either.). I was proud, and I cringe now at the pride I had in work that was still developing.

Now? I’m much more cautious with my novels, I don’t let many people read them. Because I want my friends and family to have my best, after they read my worst and told me to continue.

So, in a sense, this blog is a love letter. This is my writing, laid bare for those who read my worst. This blog is a compromise. “You can’t read my novels yet, but here’s a piece of my heart.”. This blog is me sharing my thoughts and my writing with those people who refused to give up on me then, and now, because I’m still learning. Because I have learned so much. Because I will learn so much in the future.

This blog is me reaching out to people like me, to try and be that person that so many people were to me when I first started. An eleven year old who didn’t know what to do with her heart, so she wrote it on a word document.

Two years later, and I know a little more, I can write a whole lot better, but I’m still learning and those people are still telling me, “Keeping writing. Good job. You’re amazing. We love you.”

So when I look at this blog and can’t stand the thought of writing another post, for fear I will look back and cringe, when I don’t want to write another page on my novels because I don’t know enough yet, when I can’t stand to write poems, I hear this.

Keep writing. Keep writing and don’t look back. Keep writing and don’t give up. We believe you can do it. So prove us right, and make us proud.

Keep writing, Ruby.

I sigh and turn back to my word documents, because I never could say no to that voice. So I write. I write another chapter, a blog post, a poem. And it might just be my imagination, but I can feel them smile. And I look at what I wrote, and I can truly say.

“This is good.”



What Love Is To Me

Hello Readers,


If you know me well, you know that I’m not a huge Valentine’s Day person. I was thinking about the reason for this a couple days ago, wondering why I did not hate nor love this day. Some people are upset because it reminds them that they are single. But I do not need or want a boyfriend. I don’t feel any different on this day.

I came to the conclusion that it was because I don’t need a day to be loved. Because I feel loved every day of the year, just as much as on Valentine’s Day. I don’t need a day to tell me I am loved, because I know without a doubt that I am loved.

I don’t need any other love at this point in my life. I am safe and content. Why go searching for something I don’t need yet?

Lots of my friends pity me, because I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t understand why, as I don’t feel the need to have one, nor do I want one. I’d much rather have friends than something that won’t last and just adds stress.

I don’t need to worry about that weirdness yet, so why jump in? I’m perfectly content, and I honestly don’t think any man could love me more than my dad, so why do I need one?

I don’t need a day to be loved, because I am loved everyday. (Though Valentine’s Day is a good excuse to randomly hug my brothers [they aren’t big huggers]) And my little sister loves it because she can shower us with cut out hearts and sing songs and hug us as much as she wants because it’s Valentine’s Day.

She used to randomly proclaim days “Valentine’s Day” when she was younger, just so she could give us cards and tell us how much she loved us. That’s because she loves to give gifts.

Me? I give cards that are written on notebook paper, but that make everyone cry. (I hope because it’s wonderful, not because of my handwriting, but you never know…) I have a reputation as the writer in the family, so I don’t know why they keep asking me to write cards because I just make everyone cry.

I don’t think that love is really what we show in commercials on Valentine’s Day, sure, we like a big show and cut out hearts and red confetti and love everywhere.

But that’s not really what love looks like.

Love is when someone listens to your ramblings even when they don’t really understand you, love is when someone wakes up early to take you to the airport, even though they have to rush to work right after. Love is when someone makes you a sandwich without you having to ask.

Love isn’t this huge grand display, it’s the little things that are whispering quietly, “I’m staying with you.”.

Love is my sister making my bed to surprise me, love is my little brother not stealing my notebooks and drawing in them because he knows I don’t like that. Love is my mom watching shows I like and listening to me talk about them constantly. Love is my dad taking me to restaurants and listening to me when I feel lonely. Love is my brothers not waking me up early on Saturday. Love is when my baby brother hugs me, love is being asked to play X-box and legos. Love is blanket forts and messy rooms and laughter.

Love isn’t a huge expensive display, though we love that. And love isn’t just for husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends.

There are other kinds, and I think, especially at my age, the other kinds are far, far stronger.

The bind between brothers and sisters, that say “While we complain about how annoying my sibling is, if you dare to say a word against them, I will punch your face.”

Love is not all flowers and Starbucks gift cards, love is my brother threatening to destroy anyone who even thinks about trying to ask me out. (Though this hasn’t happened, he has on multiple occasions reminded me that if this does happen, he will personally beat them up and chase them away because I am HIS sister and they don’t get to have me.)

Love isn’t a dozen red roses to me, love is a handful of weeds that got picked and presented to me with a dirt smudged face and a wide grin.

Love isn’t always “I love you.” sometimes it’s a “Play Legos, Ruby?”.

Love isn’t romantic ballads or moonlight serenades at this point for me. Love is my sister singing at the top of her lungs and asking me to dance, and I do it, even though I hate dancing, she loves it and she doesn’t care, so I’ll dance with her.

Love isn’t dramatic proposals to me. Love is late night conversations with my best friend and staying up just to talk to my family in America. Love is the sound of my friends playing music, or randomly singing Disney songs.

Love isn’t an expensive box of chocolates.  Love is when my brother brings me food without me asking, when my sister asks me if I want tea. Love is my dog laying his huge head in my lap and letting me hug him and lay in the sun.

This is what love is to me. I don’t really know about “romantic love” as I have never experienced it, but this kind of love, this strong pure kind, that gives me strength each day? That’s all I need right now. I am safe and content in this.