Final Chapter

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.