Sky

Color At The Edge Of A Barren World

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

Tonight’s sunset wasn’t the boldest I have ever seen.
It didn’t streak across the sky in wild ribbons of fire or paint the clouds in colors that demand you stop everything just to feel alive. But after a week swallowed by grey, a week of barren fields and frozen winds and a world that looked like it had forgotten how to breathe, this small burst of color felt like a hand reaching out of the cold.

The kind of cold we had today doesn’t lend itself to beauty.
It bites through coats and gloves and makes your eyes water the second you step outside. It turns every inhale into a sting and makes even short walks feel like a punishment. The days have been long and heavy, the kind where the sky barely changes and everything feels muted or asleep.

That kind of winter wears on you.
It settles into the quiet places.
It makes you wonder if the sun remembers how to rise for you at all.

So when it finally pushed through tonight, just a thin line of orange pressed against the horizon, just enough pink and gold to soften the clouds, I felt something loosen inside me. Not joy. Not relief. More like a reminder. A small, almost trembling insistence that even the bleakest stretches eventually break.

There is something tender about sunsets like this.
The quiet ones.
The ones that don’t announce themselves.
The ones that look like they are offering whatever little light they have left, hoping it will be enough.

It hit me harder than I expected.
Maybe because everything has felt so dim lately.
Maybe because I am tired in the way winter makes you tired, tired in the way that comes from carrying invisible things for too long.
Maybe because every day has felt like it blends into the next, all of them silver and silent and cold.

But tonight, the sky remembered color.

It was not spectacular.
It was not loud.
But it was present.

And presence alone can feel like a miracle after so many days of nothing but grey. After so many hours of wind that cuts through you and fields that look lifeless and mornings that never fully brighten.

I stayed longer than I needed to, watching the last thin glow disappear behind the line of trees. The air stung my face. The cold settled deeper. But it felt worth it.

Because even if tomorrow returns to grey, even if the frozen world closes in again, at least I had this one moment. This one quiet offering of beauty. This one reminder that winter does not get the final word.

For a brief moment, color pushed through the cold.
For a brief moment, the world softened.
For a brief moment, I remembered that I am still here too.

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.

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.

Me and the Moon (We’re Not on Speaking Terms)

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I know she’s beautiful.
I know.

The way she rises over the trees, soft and gold like something out of a story. The way people talk about her like she’s this gentle, steady presence. Like she’s comforting. Like she belongs in poems and lullabies and quiet prayers.

And maybe she does.

But sometimes, I hate her.

I do astrophotography. And I love the stars, really love them. Not in a casual, “oh that’s pretty” kind of way, but in the kind of way that keeps you breathing when everything else feels too heavy. In the way where the night sky becomes a place to rest. A place where you don’t have to smile, don’t have to speak, don’t have to be okay. You just look up and remember that you’re still here.

And I wait for those nights. I wait for clear skies like some people wait for answers. I watch the forecast. I watch the clouds. I stand outside barefoot, camera in hand, hoping this will be the night the stars show up for me.

But if the moon is full, it’s over before it starts.

Her light spills everywhere. It’s too loud, too much. It drowns out the stars like they never mattered. Like they were never even there.

And I hate that feeling.
Knowing they’re out there, just hidden.
Like something I love is being kept from me.

I’ve tried to work around her. I’ve adjusted settings. Changed angles. I’ve tried to make peace with it. But the truth is, she ruins it. She takes what I came for and washes it away. And it’s not even her fault. She’s just doing what she does. Reflecting. Glowing. Showing up.

But it still feels personal.

Because I came out here for quiet. For wonder. For that ache that feels a little bit like hope. And instead I get this brightness that won’t let me in. And maybe it’s just a sky problem. Maybe it’s just photography.

But it feels like more than that.

It feels like every time I try to show up for something—something small, something sacred—it gets overshadowed. Like I get overshadowed. Like I’m always chasing the thing I love most, and something bigger, louder, brighter comes and takes up all the space.

I know it’s not fair to blame the moon.
But sometimes I do anyway.

And I know people would tell me to see her beauty too. To love the glow. To take pictures of her instead. But that’s not what my heart came looking for. My heart came looking for stars. For the hush. For that quiet kind of magic that reminds me I’m not alone.

And some nights, the moon makes me feel lonelier than anything.

But still, I keep going out.

Even when I know she’s there. Even when I know I won’t get the photo I want. I still step outside, still look up, still try. Because maybe there’s love in the trying. Maybe there’s something sacred in standing beneath a sky that doesn’t bend for you and loving it anyway.

Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to hold both.
The moonlight and the missing.
The soft and the sharp.
The ache and the beauty.

But for now, me and the moon?
We’re not speaking.

And honestly, I think that’s okay.

I’ll wait for the dark.
I always do.
The stars are worth it.