Adventure

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.

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.

Sometimes, Adults Need Wonder Too

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I went to the Virginia Beach aquarium today.

It’s not the most impressive one I’ve ever seen, but it has its moments. The marsh walk is peaceful. The layout flows okay. The shark tank is the kind that makes you stop for a while.

My nieces are in South Dakota. All three of them—12 months, 4, and 7. I miss them. A lot.

They’ve never been to a real aquarium. Just the little ones attached to zoos—small tanks, maybe a touch pool, a few turtles if you’re lucky. Not like this. Not with massive walls of glass and sharks sliding past like shadows from another time.

I kept thinking how much they’d love it.
How much I wish I could bring them here.

But I also realized I needed to be here alone.

I love being their aunt. I love answering a million questions, pointing things out, helping them see the world. But today, I needed to see it for myself. Not through their excitement. Not through their voices. Just… for me.

There was this moment at the shark tank.
It was dim and quiet, the water dark and full of slow motion. A shark drifted by, huge and calm, with light trailing down its back like silver. Schools of fish moved like constellations.

And for a little while, no one asked anything of me.
I didn’t have to hold anyone’s hand.
I didn’t have to read signs out loud or carry a bag or answer “why.”
I just stood there.

And it hit me—
How long it’s been since I’ve stood in front of something beautiful
and not had to explain it.

It wasn’t loud awe. It wasn’t big joy.
It was something quieter. Something slower.
Something I didn’t know I missed.

I think adults forget we still need wonder too.

We build experiences for kids—and that’s good. I’m not saying we shouldn’t. I want my nieces to grow up swimming in awe. But I think somewhere along the way, we start handing wonder off to the next generation like it’s no longer ours to hold.

But it is.

We still need to feel small in the best way.
We still need to be silenced by beauty.
We still need to stand in front of the deep blue and let it hush us.

Even if the moment only lasts a few minutes—before the noise returns,
before the yelling kid,
before the glass gets slapped and the magic slips away.

It’s still worth it.
It still matters.

Today reminded me I’m not just someone who gives wonder.
I’m someone who needs it too.

And honestly?
The sharks deserve reverence.
The turtles deserve peace.
And so do we.

The Reach

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

Summer ended yesterday.
And I don’t even know how to explain the weight of that.

There was no final fanfare.
No clear moment that said this is the end.
Just silence.
Just stillness.
Just a walkie that didn’t call my name.

But all I can see is this photo.
Two TOs—suspended midair, reaching for a high five between two different ropes courses.
No one told them to do it.
No one asked them to.
They just reached.
Because they could.
Because they wanted to.
Because that’s what this place teaches you:
to stretch across what separates you and meet someone in the air.

And I think that’s the most honest picture of this summer I’ve got.

Because that’s what we did.
Over and over and over again—we reached.

We reached from the edge of burnout.
From behind fake smiles and tired jokes.
From cracked hands, sunburnt arms, knees that buckled halfway up the hill but climbed anyway.

We reached from silence—
not the peaceful kind,
but the kind that replaces care with absence.
The kind that makes you feel invisible.

We reached across leadership that didn’t show up.
Across jobs we weren’t trained for but did anyway.
Across cold sandwiches, hotter tempers, and schedules that forgot we were human.
Across every “just hang in there” from people who never stopped to check if we had.

We reached anyway.

We wrote letters with shaking hands.
We reset the dining hall after sixteen-hour days.
We hauled coolers in the rain, fixed what others broke, and made things work with duct tape, walkie calls, and the sheer force of stubborn love.

And most of the time?
No one saw us.
No one reached back.

But we reached anyway.

Because that’s what it means to love something bigger than yourself.
To believe in a place even when it stops believing in you.
To carry it—not because you’re unbreakable,
but because someone had to.

That reach?

It wasn’t a job.
It wasn’t a metaphor.
It was survival.
It was hope.
It was communion.

It was me.
And you.
And the ones who stayed.
Not just present.
But anchored.
Hands outstretched in the storm saying:
I’m still here.
I still care.
I’ve still got you.

And now it’s quiet.
The radios rest.
The coolers are stacked.
The gravel doesn’t echo.
And our bodies—finally—feel the weight we’ve been carrying for too long.

But the reach?

That doesn’t end.

That stretch between who we were in May and who we are now—
it’s longer than anyone will ever know.

But we know.
God, we know.

We earned every bruise.
Every scar.
Every late-night porch laugh that reminded us we were still alive.
Every whispered prayer spoken into a walkie-less sky.
Every cracked, holy moment pulled from the mess.

This wasn’t the kind of summer people post highlight reels about.
This was the kind that leaves a mark.
This was the kind you survive.

And we survived it.

We reached through it.

We became something through it.

And maybe… maybe that’s enough.

Summer 2025 ended yesterday.
And I am tired.
And I am broken in places no one sees.
And I am still reaching—
but this time, maybe for myself.
Because I’ve earned that too.

The Pamper Pole

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

So there’s this thing at camp called the Pamper Pole.
It’s one of our high elements—literally a 32-foot-tall telephone pole standing upright next to the river. Metal staples are nailed up the side like a ladder, and at the very top, there’s a tiny round platform. Barely big enough for your feet.

Some camps call it Hi-5. That name makes more sense, honestly, because the goal is to jump off the top and slap a rope hanging in front of you midair.
But we call it the Pamper Pole. I don’t know why. We just do.

Here’s how it works:
You get clipped into a harness, go through a safety talk, and then start climbing. First the ladder, then the staples. And the higher you go, the more the pole sways under you. Not enough to fall, but just enough to make your brain say hey, maybe this was a bad idea.
And when you get to the top? You’re supposed to stand. All the way up. On a tiny platform that feels even smaller than it looked from the ground.

Then you jump.
Outward. Toward a white rope.
You don’t grab it—you just slap it like you’re giving it a high five. Your arms are supposed to stay crossed over your chest so the harness can catch you clean. If you grab the rope, you’ll burn your hands. Learned that one the hard way.

The whole thing is challenge by choice. You never have to go all the way. You can stop at the ladder. Halfway up. At the top. You decide how far you’re willing to go, and no one pushes you past that. That’s the rule. And we actually mean it.

I’ve watched kids sprint up the pole and jump like it’s nothing. Ten times in a row, laughing the whole time.
And I’ve watched kids freeze two steps up. I’ve stood on the ground for half an hour, gently talking a camper through panic, tears, and silence—until they either jumped or climbed back down.
And honestly? Both moments hit just as hard.

There’s something beautiful about the ones who keep coming back to it, who jump over and over again like they’ve found a kind of joy up there. But there’s also something sacred about the ones who are terrified and still try anyway. Or those who don’t make it to the top but still show up. Still clipped in. Still gave it a shot.

The Pamper Pole isn’t really about the rope. Or the jump.
It’s about choice.
It’s about learning what fear feels like in your body and realizing you get to decide how much power it holds.
It’s about standing 32 feet in the air, knees shaking, heart pounding, and saying, Okay. I’m scared. But I’m still going to try.

I’ve done this dozens of times. Set up the gear. Clipped kids in. Held the rope. Coached them up and down.
And I’m still in awe. Every single time.
Of the courage it takes to try. Of the power in deciding for yourself what “enough” looks like.

The truth is, fear doesn’t make you weak.
Sometimes, it just means you’re standing on the edge of something that matters.
And bravery?
It isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it looks like shaking hands. A single step.
Or saying, “Not today—but maybe tomorrow.”