Dear Santa,
I know it has been a long time since I wrote to you, but something in me felt pulled back to this small tradition, this quiet magic. Maybe it is the season itself. Maybe it is the kind of year I have had. Maybe it is the part of me that is still trying to believe good things can find their way to me. I do not know exactly why, but I do know I wanted to write.
This year has felt heavy in ways I never expected. It held moments of beauty, too, but also a kind of tired I cannot always explain. I think you understand that sort of thing. I think you have seen many hearts trying their best to keep going, even when they feel worn thin. Mine is one of them.
I am not writing to ask for anything extravagant. I think what I want most is a little steadiness. A small piece of peace that stays long enough for me to breathe again. I want warmth that lasts even after the lights come down. I want hope that does not slip through my fingers the way it usually does.
There are a few real things too. Simple things. A winter that is not too harsh. A soft morning to rest in. A day where my body does not hurt and my chest feels light enough to carry. A moment of laughter with the people I love. A reminder that I am not as alone as the dark sometimes tells me I am.
I would also love something symbolic. A sign that the year ahead will be kinder. Something small that tells me I am still allowed to believe in goodness, even after everything. Maybe it comes in the shape of a sunset or a handful of stars. Maybe it is a quiet reassurance I do not have to fight as hard as I used to. I would be grateful for whatever form it takes.
I know many people ask you for big things, impossible things, and maybe this letter is strange. But I think the heart of Christmas has always been this gentle honesty. The kind that shows up in simple words and quiet wishes. So here is mine.
Please bring a little light to the places in me that have been dim for a while. Please bring kindness to the people who need it most. And if there is room, please bring something soft for me too. Something that reminds me I am still growing, still healing, still here.
Thank you for reading this. Thank you for listening to the small voice in me that still believes in wonder. I hope you have safe travels, clear nights, and warm cookies waiting wherever you go.
Sincerely,
Kelly
faith
When The Seasons Turn
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.
The Reach
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 Mountain Holds Their Story
We’re lucky enough to host two Kesem chapters here at Crossroads—University of Virginia and William & Mary. Last week, UVA brought their crew up the mountain. This week, it’s William & Mary’s turn. And while both groups carry the same mission, the same heart, each week unfolds differently. It’s the same story told in two different voices—and both are beautiful in their own way.
UVA’s week is loud and full of motion. It hums with energy, like the whole place is alive from sunup to lights out. They bring big games, big laughs, big love. You can feel their presence in every inch of camp—in the giant swing squeals, the chaos of the dining hall, the trail of glitter and joy they leave behind. It’s like sunlight—bright, wild, and impossible to ignore.
William & Mary’s week moves differently. It’s softer, steadier, more intentional. They bring warmth that creeps in slowly, like morning fog over the hills. It’s in the way they notice campers, really see them. The way they create space for conversation and quiet moments, while still bringing fun and laughter. Their energy doesn’t blaze—it glows. And it’s no less powerful.
But no matter who’s here, the thing that never changes is the transformation. We see kids show up guarded, unsure, holding their stories close to their chest. And by midweek, we see them splashing in the pool, laughing with their whole body, or sitting around the campfire in a circle of new friends, lit up by flame and safety. They start to feel like they belong. Like maybe they’re not so alone in this world after all.
And for us, as the host site—we get to witness that. We get to see college students give everything they’ve got for a week straight. We watch them pour themselves out in the smallest, most meaningful ways—braiding hair before breakfast, sitting with a homesick camper in the dark, yelling encouragement from the bottom of the zipline, laughing when they’re exhausted, making every single kid feel like they matter.
These two weeks always remind me why camp matters. They remind me what love looks like in real time.
It looks like water balloons and dance parties. Like whispered “you’ve got this” pep talks and messy friendship bracelets. Like catching a camper’s smile for the first time all week and knowing you helped make it happen.
At Crossroads, our mission is to create space to experience God. And in these weeks, we do. Not always in the traditional ways, but in the joy echoing off the hills, in the trust built over meals, in the way someone feels held—just as they are. Kesem’s time here is a living reminder that God’s love shows up wherever we make room for it.
This place is holy ground. Not because it’s perfect, but because it holds so much love.
And every summer, we are unbelievably grateful that Kesem chooses to bring part of their story here.
I Miss The Servant Heart
I’ve spent eleven summers working at camp. That’s most of my life. Most people don’t do something that long unless they really care about it—and I do. I care about this place deeply. I’ve poured myself into it, year after year. I’ve cleaned toilets and hauled trash. I’ve scrubbed moldy showers, filled water jugs until my arms were numb, and worked through thunderstorms, stomachaches, and heartbreaks. I’ve done it all, not because it was easy, but because I believed in what we were doing. Because I believed in Jesus. Because I believed that being a servant was the most important job anyone could have.
But something has changed.
It didn’t happen all at once, but I’ve been watching it happen for years now. Slowly, quietly, almost without anyone noticing. The servant’s heart is disappearing.
There used to be a culture of willingness here. If something needed to be done, someone jumped up to do it. If a job was hard, someone took it anyway. People didn’t ask, “Is this my responsibility?” They asked, “How can I help?” And it wasn’t for attention. No one expected praise. People served because they loved—because they genuinely wanted to reflect Jesus, who made himself nothing and washed his disciples’ feet.
Now I hear things like, “That’s not my job,” or “Do I have to?” Now people are quicker to pull out their phones than to pull on gloves. There’s more standing around than stepping in. There’s more frustration than initiative.
And it breaks my heart.
Because camp doesn’t run on convenience. It doesn’t run on vibes, or performances, or big personalities. It runs on people who are willing to do the work no one sees. It runs on sacrifice. On quiet, behind-the-scenes, messy work. On the counselor who cleans the bathroom for their co-counselor. On the support staff member who doesn’t complain when they’re assigned to the worst job. On the person who says yes, even when they’re tired.
Jesus never chased the spotlight. He didn’t wait for people to ask him to serve—he just did. He stepped into the dirt. He touched the sick. He fed the hungry. He knelt low and washed feet that were cracked and filthy. If Jesus could serve in that way, then who are we to act like we’re above any job?
I’m not saying this out of judgment. I’m saying it because I’m grieving. Because I remember what it felt like to be part of a team where everyone gave their all. Where the hardest jobs got done first, not last. Where people raced to help, not to hide. Where service wasn’t something we did—it was who we were.
And I know we can get back there. I still believe in this place. But something has to shift.
We have to talk about it. We have to model it. We have to stop glorifying only the fun parts of camp and start honoring the hard parts, too. We have to remind each other that scrubbing a bathroom can be holy. That taking out the trash can be worship. That filling a water jug can be an act of love.
Because the Gospel isn’t just preached in the chapel. It’s preached when you show up, when you stay late, when you serve someone who doesn’t even know you did it. That’s the heart of Jesus. That’s what this place is supposed to be about.
So yes—I miss the servant’s heart.
But more than that, I want it back.
I want us to remember what it means to serve like Jesus did—fully, humbly, and without needing to be seen.
Because this place won’t survive without servants.
And Jesus doesn’t need our performance.
He needs our yes.
Even if no one else hears it but Him.
The Stars Take Note 