Reflections

Reflections on daily life, faith, friendship, and the slow work of becoming. Written from where I am, not where I wish I were.

Color At The Edge Of A Barren World

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

Tonight’s sunset wasn’t the boldest I have ever seen.
It didn’t streak across the sky in wild ribbons of fire or paint the clouds in colors that demand you stop everything just to feel alive. But after a week swallowed by grey, a week of barren fields and frozen winds and a world that looked like it had forgotten how to breathe, this small burst of color felt like a hand reaching out of the cold.

The kind of cold we had today doesn’t lend itself to beauty.
It bites through coats and gloves and makes your eyes water the second you step outside. It turns every inhale into a sting and makes even short walks feel like a punishment. The days have been long and heavy, the kind where the sky barely changes and everything feels muted or asleep.

That kind of winter wears on you.
It settles into the quiet places.
It makes you wonder if the sun remembers how to rise for you at all.

So when it finally pushed through tonight, just a thin line of orange pressed against the horizon, just enough pink and gold to soften the clouds, I felt something loosen inside me. Not joy. Not relief. More like a reminder. A small, almost trembling insistence that even the bleakest stretches eventually break.

There is something tender about sunsets like this.
The quiet ones.
The ones that don’t announce themselves.
The ones that look like they are offering whatever little light they have left, hoping it will be enough.

It hit me harder than I expected.
Maybe because everything has felt so dim lately.
Maybe because I am tired in the way winter makes you tired, tired in the way that comes from carrying invisible things for too long.
Maybe because every day has felt like it blends into the next, all of them silver and silent and cold.

But tonight, the sky remembered color.

It was not spectacular.
It was not loud.
But it was present.

And presence alone can feel like a miracle after so many days of nothing but grey. After so many hours of wind that cuts through you and fields that look lifeless and mornings that never fully brighten.

I stayed longer than I needed to, watching the last thin glow disappear behind the line of trees. The air stung my face. The cold settled deeper. But it felt worth it.

Because even if tomorrow returns to grey, even if the frozen world closes in again, at least I had this one moment. This one quiet offering of beauty. This one reminder that winter does not get the final word.

For a brief moment, color pushed through the cold.
For a brief moment, the world softened.
For a brief moment, I remembered that I am still here too.

The Night The Sky Couldn’t Hold Itself

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

If you’re wondering what you’re looking at, these are star trails.

They form when a camera stays still long enough to notice what we usually rush past. It holds its breath, holds its place, and lets the Earth turn beneath it. We’re the ones moving, but the long exposure makes it look like the stars are the ones wandering, sweeping their light across the night like they have somewhere gentle to be.

I think that’s why I love them.
Because they prove something I keep forgetting.
That movement doesn’t always look like progress.
Sometimes it looks like staying in one place long enough for the truth to catch up to you.

What I can’t stop staring at is the reflection in the water.

That doubled sky.
That echo of light.
Like the world was so full that it overflowed and spilled itself into the stillness until even the dark had to carry something bright.

There is something almost painfully tender about that.
How the sky didn’t shrink itself or dim itself or apologize for being too much.
It simply became two skies instead of one.

And maybe that is what hit me.
The reminder that even in silence, even when my days feel stuck or small or swallowed by their own shadows, things are shifting.
Healing is shifting.
Grief is shifting.
I am shifting.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But undeniably.

The water didn’t move, but it mirrored the stars anyway.
And some days I feel like that.
Quiet, unmoving, like nothing is changing at all.
But maybe I am reflecting things I can’t see yet.
Maybe the parts of me that feel still are actually catching light I didn’t know was reaching for me.

I stayed out by the water longer than I meant to.
The grass was cold.
The night smelled like winter trying to arrive too early.
And I felt that familiar ache in my chest, the kind that comes from wanting more than I can name, from missing things I can’t explain, from holding hope and exhaustion in the same trembling hand.

But the stars kept tracing their slow arcs across the sky.
They didn’t hurry.
They didn’t need to.
They simply kept going, one thin line at a time, drawing proof of their persistence in the dark.

I think I needed to see that.

Because lately I have been feeling like I am barely moving.
Like I am suspended between worlds, South Dakota and Virginia, past and future, memory and whatever comes next.
But the camera caught movement my eyes couldn’t.
And maybe that is true for my life too.

Maybe I am changing in ways I won’t recognize until later.
Maybe this season is a long exposure.
Slow, quiet, honest.
Capturing shifts I won’t understand until I step back and see the trails.

Maybe you are in one of those seasons too.

If you are, I hope you remember this.
Stillness is not stagnation.
Quiet is not failure.
And even on the nights when you feel like you are holding your breath, the sky is still moving, and so are you.

A Sky That Breathed

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

The northern lights came last night.

Not the way I always imagined. Not wild or brilliant or loud. Not the kind they write postcards about or chase across Icelandic skies. These came soft. Unannounced. Almost hesitant. Like maybe the sky forgot it was allowed to be beautiful here too.

It started with a haze—green stitched across the clouds like breath. A red glow spilling out near the edges. Faint. Fainter than the photos. But I could see them.

With my own eyes.
Not through glass or lens or screen.
Just me. And the sky. And the dark.
And a kind of light I didn’t know I needed.

I’ve wanted to see the northern lights for as long as I can remember. It’s been one of those “someday” things, tucked onto a dream list I rarely say out loud. I always pictured them bold—exploding across a frozen sky in a place far from here. I always thought I’d have to go chasing them. Far. Cold. Alone.

But they came here.
To this farm.
To this quiet stretch of November.
To this version of me I’m still learning how to carry.

And maybe they weren’t loud. Maybe they weren’t the grand, breathtaking show I always pictured.
But still—they came.
And I saw them.

And it moved something in me.

Because we’re six weeks from a new year.
And I don’t know how I feel about that yet.

There’s been so much ache this year. So many days where the silence got too loud. So many moments where I felt like I was watching the world move and burn and spin without me. I’ve been holding a lot. Letting go of more. Some things I’m still not ready to name.

But last night, just for a moment,
the sky reminded me that not everything is lost.

That even faint light still counts.
That beauty doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
That wonder can still find me, even here, even now.

I still want to see the Iceland lights someday.
The big ones. The unforgettable ones.
But maybe I needed this kind first.

The quiet kind.
The kind that shows up when you stop expecting it.
The kind that doesn’t fill the whole sky, but still fills you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for right now.

After The Rain

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

This was April.
Mud season in South Dakota.
The kind of spring that doesn’t arrive all at once. It shows up in pieces. A little green here, a little sun there. Then rain. Then snow again. Then more rain. The kind that smells like thawed dirt and wet air. The kind that makes you believe something new might still grow.

We wait for it all winter.
We wait through the deep freeze, the dark mornings, the quiet that settles into your chest. We hold out for the day when the ground softens. When you can walk across the field and feel it shift under your boots. When you can breathe a little easier, even if nothing has bloomed yet.

That was one of those days.
It had just rained, and the sky cracked open for a minute. A rainbow stretched itself across the farmland like a whisper. You had to look up to see it, but it was there.

That’s our Gator in the front. Mud-streaked, worn in, still running. And the John Deere behind it, a little older, still waiting to be needed. Out here, the work never really stops. The equipment doesn’t ask what season it is. It just keeps going.

Spring felt like a beginning.
We watched goat kids find their footing in the mud. We hoped the frost hadn’t killed the roots. We looked for the first wildflowers on the edges of the fence line. Life returned quietly. Slowly. But it returned.

And now, months later, we’re preparing for winter again.
The sun sets earlier. The mornings are colder. You can feel it coming.

We check the machinery.
We fix what needs fixing.
We stack feed.
We make lists.
We brace ourselves.

This is the rhythm.
Hope, followed by work. Life, followed by stillness. We wait. We begin. We prepare. We do it all again.

But I still remember that day in April.
The softness after the storm.
The rainbow over the field.
The reminder that no matter how long or harsh the winter is, spring will come again.

The land always circles back.
And so do we.

Will I Ever See You Again?

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I’m writing this from the sky.
Somewhere between what was and what comes next. I boarded the plane, found my seat, and now I’m watching the clouds blur into something I can’t quite name.
And still, somehow, I feel stuck.
Suspended. Like I am paused in a doorway.
One foot in the past and the other not sure where it is going to land.

Over the last few weeks, I said a lot of goodbyes. Some short. Some silent. Some that felt like the kind of goodbye you don’t come back from. And somewhere in nearly every one, the same question found its way to the surface.

“Will I ever see you again?”

And the truth is, I do not know.

I wanted to have a better answer. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say of course. I wanted to say absolutely. I wanted to make promises, even if I was not sure I could keep them. But I have learned that sometimes the kindest thing you can do is tell the truth, even when it breaks your own heart.

And the truth is that life is not a straight road. It loops and turns and takes you places you never expected. And I do not know where this chapter is going to lead me. I would love to come back to Virginia. To the porches and backroads. To the trails and the tucked-away corners. To the places that held me when I did not have words. To the people who stood by me through all of it.
To the mountain views, yes, but also the little things. The streetlights and sidewalk conversations. The small-town moments and quiet kind of love I found scattered across this state.

But I have also left something behind. Something heavy. And not all returns are healing. Some just reopen wounds that have not scarred over yet.

There is a version of this story where I do come back. Where I visit in the fall or the spring. Where we sit on couches or church steps or trailheads and pick up right where we left off. Where the leaves still change.
Where the air still smells like woodsmoke and memory. I hope that version exists. I hope I get to live it.

But if I do not, please know this.

I loved this place.
I loved these people.
I loved this chapter of my life, even when it broke me.

And I will carry it with me.
All of it.
The memories.
The quiet hellos.
The brave goodbyes.
The moments I was seen and the ones I never found words for.
The laughter I will replay. The silences that taught me how to stay.

Virginia will keep breathing without me. That is how it works. The wind will keep moving. The leaves will keep falling. The sun will keep setting over the ridges and rooftops. Over the porches and roads and places I may never stand again.

But I hope you remember I was here.
I hope you know you mattered.
I hope we find our way back to each other in some season or some sky.

For now, I am flying.

And part of me is still there. Curled up on Megan’s couch. Watching the leaves dance. Wondering if maybe, just maybe, this is not an ending. Just a pause.

The In-between Place

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

This past weekend, I ended eleven years of service to Crossroads. Eleven years of sunrises and sunsets, of hauling water jugs and fixing what broke. Of cleaning cabins before anyone noticed and showing up again and again when it would’ve been easier to walk away. It wasn’t just a job. It was a lifetime of love, disguised as labor. It was ministry in motion, where the sacred wore work boots and moved picnic tables in the rain.

And now, it’s over.

I’m in Williamsburg for the week, a soft pause between the chapter I just closed and the chaos waiting for me back home in South Dakota. This week is a gift, rest after 100-hour summer weeks and the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t just touch your body, but your spirit too. I’ve been given slow mornings, gentle light, the space to just be. I’ve let myself sleep in, take long showers, go still. And still, the ache lingers. Because grief doesn’t wait for the right time. It follows you into the quiet. It packs itself in your bag and sits on your chest when the sun goes down.

And I’ll be honest: I’ve been staying with my best friend-my sun-and I feel like a bad guest.

Not because she’s made me feel that way. Not once. She’s been warm and welcoming and patient, like she always is. But because I’m not fully here. My mind keeps drifting back to the mountain, to all the goodbyes I didn’t know how to say. My body’s tired in a way I can’t explain, and I find myself quieter than usual, hollowed out, still carrying the weight of all I just left behind.

I want to show up. I want to be more present, more fun, more “me.” But right now, I’m this version-tender, frayed at the edges, not quite landed. And I hate that I feel guilty for that. For not being easier to be around. For not matching her light. But she doesn’t ask that of me. She just lets me be. Even when I feel like a ghost in my own skin. Even when I don’t have the words.

It’s bittersweet. That’s the only word that fits.

I’ve said goodbye to people I might never see again. Packed up rooms I once knew by heart. Walked the porch one last time with my hand on the doorframe, like maybe it would remember me. I left with the wind, just another leaf carried off the mountain.

And now I’m here. Not at Crossroads, not yet home. Somewhere in between. Caught between the grief of what I’ve left and the chaos of what I’m returning to.

Because home in South Dakota isn’t quiet. It’s the farm. It’s nieces with tangled hair and loud laughter. It’s family dinners and dirt roads and sunrises over cornfields. It’s love, messy and full and loud.

And I’ll bring all of this with me. The stars I watched every night. The porch light that kept me going. The part of me that learned to serve quietly, fiercely, without needing to be seen.

Some chapters don’t close cleanly. Some goodbyes echo long after the doors are shut.

But I’m learning to breathe in the in-between. To let myself be carried by the people who love me, even when I feel like I’m too heavy. To trust that rest doesn’t make me a burden.

And I’m still writing.

Because even the guilt-laced pauses and quiet returns deserve to be remembered.

Even the aching rests in the homes of those who love us.

Even the in-between.
Even this.

Holy Ground

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I served eleven years on Crossroads staff. Eleven years of early mornings, late nights, storms weathered, and prayers whispered between tasks. Eleven years of carrying water jugs, fixing leaks, sweeping cabins, and learning that sometimes ministry doesn’t look like preaching. It looks like quiet work. It looks like showing up. It looks like love disguised as labor.

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of Crossroads. Forty years of ministry, summer camp, and community. Forty years of stories written on this soil. It was also my last day of work.

This morning I stood on the porch one last time. The air was thick and cool, clouds gathering and parting like the sky couldn’t decide what it wanted to feel. I drove up to Hunt, filled my bottles for the last time, and cried because how do you not, when you’re saying goodbye to something that has shaped you down to your bones.

The leaves were turning, the wind carrying them down the mountain like tiny farewells. It felt right that I was leaving with them, part of the same rhythm of endings, of change, of release. The mountain will go on breathing without me. That truth stings, but it’s holy too.

This mountain has held so many versions of me.
The girl who wanted to belong.
The young adult who learned to lead.
The broken one who found healing in the work.
The quiet one who met God not in sermons, but in silence.

I’ve said goodbye to people, to summers, to versions of myself. But this goodbye feels different. Final, in a soft and sacred way. Like setting something down without resentment, only gratitude.

At our final staff meeting, Kenneth asked, “How do you create space to cultivate God?”

The question has stayed with me. For me, it’s about learning to notice. Not just carving out time, but softening my heart enough to see Him in the small things. In a shared meal. A kind word. A quiet walk back from dinner. It’s not loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just sitting with my coffee and not reaching for my phone. Letting silence stretch longer than feels comfortable. Being honest in prayer, even when all I can manage is a sigh.

And then there’s little lion, Kenneth’s two-year-old son, running across the property with that wild curiosity only toddlers have. Watching him see the world like it’s brand new has been one of the most grounding parts of this season. He’ll stop and study a leaf, or point to the sky just to say “moon.” He laughs at gravel crunching under his shoes, at the wind in his hair, at the smallest moments of wonder. He notices everything. He reminds me that awe isn’t something you grow out of. It’s something you grow back into.

Maybe that’s what this whole chapter has been about. Learning to notice. To see God not only in the big moments, but in the ordinary ones too. In the work. In the laughter. In the stillness.

As I stood there today, looking out over the valley, I thought about how much of my life is woven into this soil. How many prayers I’ve whispered here. How much love this place has carried for me and through me. Crossroads will always be my holy ground.

And as I go, I know I’m not really leaving.
The dust of this mountain is still on my shoes.
Its river still runs through my prayers.
And its stars,
its stars will always take note.

Stitched Into the Story

/ Kelly Thomas / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking a lot about how some people carry light without even trying.
How they walk into a space and, without a word, the air softens. The room becomes gentler, warmer, more alive.

That’s what it feels like when the American Sewing Guild arrives.

They come twice a year, once in spring and once in fall. Like a rhythm this mountain remembers. Like the turning of seasons or the rise and fall of breath. And every time, they bring more than fabric and thread.

They bring a spirit that fills this place.
Laughter and grace woven through every conversation, every quiet moment of creation, every shared cup of coffee or glance across the table.

They have made this place brighter. More human.
Every time they come, I see what love looks like when it is lived in color — in laughter, in patience, in hands that keep creating even when the world feels heavy.

I have spent so many seasons here, learning what it means to give and stay and believe.
And still, every time they return, I am reminded of the quiet holiness in ordinary things. The way stories are traded like gifts. The way kindness lingers longer than sound.

They have shown me that creation is its own kind of prayer.
That art, in any form, is an echo of gratitude.

They have welcomed me with such warmth.
They have let me hover and ask questions. Let me watch the process. Let me belong.
They have reminded me that curiosity is something sacred, not something to be ashamed of.
They have seen me. Really seen me. And that means more than I can explain.

This week felt tender.
They are my second-to-last group.
The 40th will be my last.

And the truth is, I do not know how to say goodbye to a place that has held so many versions of me.
These hills have watched me grow up, break down, lose faith, find it again, and stumble through the in-between.
The porch lights, the trees, the sound of the wind at night — they have all been witnesses.

But if I had to end this chapter, I would want it to feel like this.
Surrounded by warmth.
By women who create beauty from broken pieces.
By laughter that feels like home.
By proof that the world is still good.

The American Sewing Guild came this week, and their arrival felt like a deep exhale. The kind that loosens what has been tight in your chest for too long.
They brought light and quiet joy. They brought the hum of sewing machines and the softness of shared silence.

And when they left, they did not just leave quilts and color behind.
They left kindness.
They left joy.
They left a stillness that felt like peace.

They left proof that even as things end, there is still beauty being made.
And I will carry that with me —
stitched into the fabric of everything I have loved here,
a thread of light I will never forget.

Seven days left.
It is strange to say it out loud.
But if I had to choose someone to help me write the second-to-last chapter of this Crossroads life,
I am glad it was them.
I am glad I got to see them one more time.

The Porch, The Leaves and Me

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I came back to the house yesterday after running a few tasks nothing major, just the usual mountain things and for some reason, when I stepped up to the porch, I stopped.

The vines were hanging down just right over the roofline. The light above the door had kicked on even though the sun wasn’t fully gone yet. There were leaves scattered everywhere across the steps, all orange and crinkled and loud under my shoes.

And I don’t know, something about it felt really beautiful.
But also really sad.

Because I’m leaving this.
Soon.

I’ve walked through this door a hundred times. Maybe more.
Usually in a rush. Usually with something in my hands.
But today I didn’t move.

I just stood there.
Staring at the way fall had dressed the porch in color.
And I thought,
This is what goodbye looks like sometimes.
Soft. Quiet. Beautiful. Subtle.

No one around.
No big speech.
Just me and a house that’s held so many versions of me.

There are thirteen days left until the 40th.
Thirteen days until I leave this mountain.
Thirteen days until I close this door and it doesn’t open for me again.

And I know it’s right. I know I’m ready in the ways that matter.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

Because this isn’t just a building.
It’s been a home. A hiding place. A launch point.

This porch has seen me exhausted and giddy and crying and singing and eating dinner on the steps at midnight. This door has welcomed me back when I felt like I had nothing left to give.

So yeah.
Looking at it yesterday, with the leaves and the glow and the chill in the air.
It hit different.

I think I just needed to write this so I don’t forget how it felt.
The stillness. The beauty. The grief.
That weird ache in your chest when something feels like home and a memory at the same time.

I don’t want to rush past these moments.
I want to let them matter.

Even if it hurts a little.
Even if it makes me cry later.
Even if no one else ever sees that porch the way I did today.

Because I saw it.
And I felt it.
And I’ll carry it.

When The Seasons Turn

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I keep thinking about the trees.

How they do not fight the seasons. How when the air shifts and the light tilts, they do not cling to what was. They turn bright burning gold and red and fire and then, when it is time, they let go.

I wish I was more like that.

Because the truth is, this season has been hard. Harder than I can say out loud most days. Full of change stacked on change until I could not tell where one ended and the next began. Everything I thought was steady cracked a little. Maybe a lot.

And in 21 days, it will be my last day at Crossroads.

I keep packing my things. Sorting piles. Deciding what goes home, what stays, what gets handed off to someone else. But it feels heavier than just boxes and belongings. It feels like I am saying goodbye to a version of myself I did not expect to lose this soon.

Because this was not the season I imagined.

I thought I would leave here full, overflowing with memories, with joy, with a sense of belonging I could carry with me. But instead, it feels like I have been scraped raw. Like this place took more out of me than I had to give.

And yet… Jesus was here.

Not in loud, obvious ways. Not in ways that fixed everything or stopped the ache. But in the smallest mercies—like how the sky kept burning with sunsets even on the worst days. How the trees whispered of endings that could still be beautiful. How there was always just enough strength to make it through one more long, ordinary day.

And maybe that is what fall teaches us.

That endings can be holy. That letting go is not failure. That there is a strange kind of grace in the falling, the emptying, the trust that winter will not last forever.

The leaves do not fight it. They do not hold on, afraid of what is next. They blaze for a moment, and then they release—quietly, simply, like they know the same God who wrote spring into the world will keep His promise again.

I wish I trusted like that.

But right now, it just feels like goodbye.

And goodbyes have never come easy for me. Because it is not just leaving a place. It is leaving pieces of myself here, the laughter that came when I least expected it. The prayers whispered on nights when the silence felt heavy. The version of me that made it through even when she did not think she could.

Fall does not ask us if we are ready before it comes. It just sweeps in, shifts everything, strips the trees bare, and somehow calls it beautiful.

Maybe that is what this is.

So I am letting the days count down. I am watching the leaves turn and scatter. I am packing what I can, carrying what I must, and leaving the rest in God’s hands.

Because if the trees can trust Him with their seasons, maybe I can too.