Kesem

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.

There’s always one week that stays with me more than the rest.

Not because it’s louder.
Not because it’s easier or harder or flashier. But because there’s something about it that slows time a little. Something sacred in the air.
Like even the trees pay closer attention.

That’s what it feels like when Kesem shows up.

For the past ten summers, UVA’s Kesem chapter has made their home at Crossroads. William & Mary has joined for the last two. I’ve worked eight of those ten summers, and still—every time they return, something shifts in me. Something settles. Something opens.

They serve kids who’ve been impacted by a parent’s cancer. That sentence alone holds more weight than most of us know what to do with. And yet they meet that weight with joy. Not the surface kind. Not the forced kind. But the deep kind—the kind that makes room for both laughter and grief in the same breath.

And they do it so well.

I don’t work program. I’m not in the cabins or leading the chants. I’m just… there. Background support. I haul things, fix what breaks, fill water coolers, and make sure tables and chairs show up where they’re supposed to. Most of it goes unnoticed. That’s okay. It’s not about being seen.

But I do see. And after eight summers of watching from the sidelines, I can say this:
Kesem doesn’t just change kids. It changes places. And it changes the people who make space for it.

There’s something about how they hold their week that feels different. Intentional.
Like every moment matters. Every kid matters. Every memory they create is stitched together with love and glitter and safety and purpose.

They use nicknames—every camper and counselor—and that’s not just a fun tradition, it’s a boundary. A shield. A way to let kids just be, without the pressure of the real world pressing in. No last names. No labels. Just who you are that week, in that space. Free.

And because of that, there are no names in this post. Just love.

I’ve watched campers show up small and unsure, and leave loud and sunburnt and covered in face paint. I’ve watched counselors pour themselves out without complaint, building joy from scratch, holding pain with reverence, letting kids be loud or quiet or both at once.

I’ve watched the way they love.
And I’ve tried to match it, in my own quiet way.

Maybe that’s the part that stays with me the most—the way everything they do holds space for both grief and wonder. The way no one has to choose between the two. The way they never pretend the hard parts don’t exist—but they don’t let them have the final say, either.

There’s a kind of sacred that happens when people show up like that.
And I think we forget how rare that is.

So to the UVA and William & Mary chapters—thank you. For coming back. For trusting us. For letting us be part of something this beautiful.

To the counselors—thank you for showing up fully, even when you’re tired. For dancing and crying and staying present in every in-between.

To the campers—you carry more than most people ever will. And still, you choose joy. You choose to come. You choose to laugh.

And that… that is brave.

This week always moves something in me. It reminds me why this work matters.
Why camp matters.
Why kindness and play and glitter and trust still have a place in the world.

Kesem means magic.
And after eight summers, I still believe it.

The Stars Take Note

The Mountain Holds Their Story

Kesem: What Magic Leaves Behind