June 21: From my Journal

Life has not been kind to me. 

But as I look to him it can bubble up inside of me anyway. Love for life, and love for the people in it, around me. The snatches are powerful. 

Yesterday...

I love being a college student. I love history in my bright class room, I love the thrum in me as I see the past painting a story before my eyes, I love my Canadian instructor teaching American history, his smile, and occasionally frown, all combined. 

I love my entire class, even those who want to play High School and make silly cliques, and the snippy girl who is really lonely inside. I love my thought-provoking English class and the girls that I sit with, and the boy who ignores me and stares at my friend with dreamy eyes the size of saucers. 

I find the love causing me to leap to show it. I help my English instructor (who has no hands, only the beginnings of them) to erase the board, staying after class to do so. I sneak up behind a friend of mine and bound onto her in a hug, and go to lunch with her. I speak to a fellow from History that I normally wouldn't. I see burden in a girl's eyes, and gently prod her to speak. I listen to her sad story of loss and anxiety. I get her e-mail to help her in class, and give her a fervent hug, for which I get a raw and heartfelt, "Thank You."

I help another girl with her project. She has a smart mouth, and edge, but I love her too. 

"Perhaps I can use the movie Pocahontas as a primary source," one says. 

"I am certain you can convince the professor that Disney was there."

We giggle lightly. I love to giggle. 

The only book we can find in the entire library upon our tribe of topic is in the kid's section. And on the book's cover is a little white boy, donning some absurd kind of headdress. "Just put a funny hat on him," Caitlin remarks, "And he's an Indian all right."

I love our backwards society. I love the library. I love the kids section, full of light and laughter. I love life.I go to bed early, to keep myself on this roll of feeling good. 

And then today... 

I woke up. Took a shower. Numbly ate half a breakfast. And crawled right back into bed. 

The very thought of waking up and forcing myself to function was too monstrously insurmountable. 

I need healing. And healing takes time. 

But I'm going to stop beating myself up for the bad days, and trust that He'll take me through them. I'm going to stop beating myself up over the occasional B or C, because A's do not make me. Grades do not make me. Love does. 

I'm going to put my sword away, and keep raising that white flag like a banner of victory. Because when He is writing the story, I can be in today, and breathe today. And stop dying inside. 

Life has not been kind to me. But He always has been. And He always will be.

{Photo Via Pinterest}

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~Rachel  (Photo via Pinterest) 

New Short Story: Untouchable

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Once upon a time, a prince named Stephen came to love a girl with skin like parchment, and bones like glass.A girl he could never touch, lest she break...


A Kind Reader's Feedback: 

This is a wonderful, delightful story. It has beautiful imagery and amusing dialog. I like all your characters so far, no bad ones yet. And the innocence of this story is truly appealing. 

-Linda D. 

Untouchable is a short tale of truest love, Prince Charming, poofy ball gowns (with a ball at a castle to seal the deal, of course) and friendship. 


You can read Untouchable on Figment now. If you sign up with Figment you can also heart, comment, or write a review on this story, as well as publish your own writings. 


I do hope this little story brightens your day, and would love to hear if it did! You may leave a comment or write a review below, or you may contact me at racheldanielle12(at)ymail(dot)com


Happy reading, love, and blessings!


~Rachel 

Life in Poetry: Peter Pan

Sometimes rhyming, sometimes lyrical, sometimes nonsensical, I cannot fathom or control the way of my pen upon sunset or twilight. In the near dark I see life in true light. I hope you'll grab a pen and pretty book and start your own tradition of living thankfully, vividly, truly...

He is beautiful. Fair and fanciful.

Yet-- not femininely so.

A boy he is.

But a beautiful boy.

He-- so sweetly-- makes a specialty drink for me. It tastes of sparkling goodness, pink and yellow, but the gesture is more delectable.

Am I this starved and lonely?

I half think

As he watches me drink

That perhaps I drink a spell.

And whether I fear

Or whether I hope

I can hardly quite tell.

Perhaps I'll wake in his fairy-land.

And he'll reveal himself

As Peter Pan.

And release me? He shan't.

Unless I best him in tag.

We'll adventure and play until twilight.

When we'll find an inn

With a storyteller

And a fire

And scones and tea--

And be happy.

But to see vividly

To see the poetry

To live dreamy

Need not make a fool of me.

And in dreams he's a sprite

But in crisp and clear light

He's a boy. And...

I know that he whines.

I know he hogs toilets.

I can't imagine his closet.

I know I don't know half of it.

I know that every girl in his whole wide world

Is surrendered to the illusion

I allow only dabbling in.

I know none of them

Would love him

Like me

I also know

That's why he'll abandon me.

Because he can always have me.

Now a friend to me.

Tomorrow lost to me.

As always is with me.

In rainy twilight

He's my dreamy lad

In rainy twilight

He's my Peter Pan.

But in haze we'll stay.

'Us' will stay

'He and I' stay

'Love' will stay

Mere heart-bubbling illusions...

All that my secret dream is.

Living Avonlea: Marie

About: There are many lovely lands in the world. What is it about the fictional Avonlea that has feverishly captured hearts and imaginations from generation to generation? It was lived vividly, by a girl named Anne, through L.M. Montgomer's pen. 
Not long ago, I decided to live the land God has placed me in just as vividly. So when sunset or twilight comes (or any time that feels tingly with magic), I slow, reflect, capture, pen. I see beauty. I am filled with thankfulness. I hope you'll grab a notebook and join me.

Sometimes rhyming, sometimes lyrical, sometimes nonsensical, I cannot fathom or control the way of my pen upon sunset or twilight...

Photo from Pinterest.

Her name is Marie.

It sounds to me like 'lovely.'

She has hair like early, early pale dawn. Misty and yellow.

She has not an affection but is an affection; an affection that seizes, an adhesion and then a cohesion. A laugh like lingering sunshine. A smile with which she's not stingy.

Her name is Marie.
She is lovely.

But she doesn't know it.