Mountain

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.

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.

The Stars Take Note

Stitched Into the Story

The Mountain Holds Their Story