My name is Krysti.
My name is Krysti.
My pencil skirt is itching, and my blazer really needs to be dry cleaned. (Am I now the type of person that gets things dry cleaned?? Note to self to ponder later.) I’m covered in goosebumps, as I wish for the 50,000th time over the past few months that women’s office clothes came with a few more layers, that ‘office chic’ involved wearing a blanket, because even with my space heater hidden under my desk I’m always freezing in this office. Then I have to remind myself all the times I promised myself, as I was melting to death in Malawi, that I would never again complain of being cold…
And just like that, I’m reminded of what my life used to look like, what my future used to seemingly hold. Glancing around my office – complete with hardwood floors and a headset, a desk of post it notes and print outs – I’m quickly reminded none of this was in the plan.
I was the non-profit girl for so long. And then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t. Which was fine, really, I’m fine, I would tell people. Because I was. I was still the youth leader girl, after all. I still had one of my passions, after all. And then, all of a sudden, I didn’t. All of a sudden, I wasn’t sure who I was. Read More
It’s no secret this election season has been… interesting. The primaries were rough. The RNC was basically a circus. The DNC definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I’ve really, really tried to keep my mouth shut around stupid people, tried to stay out of Facebook debates, tried to keep my distance and, therefore, my sanity.
Buuut there are just a few things I really, really need to get off my chest. Mostly if you’re going to enter into a political debate where you laugh at or mock other people’s points of views and deem any other opinion than yours as inferior, consider proof reading before you press “post” (the future of America is not at steak, this isn’t the worst election in historu, and your really not write). These are not political stances, not any kind of endorsements. Simply things I have wanted to, again and again, comment back to people, yell at others, or politely voice my thoughts on. This isn’t me being pro one party over another, pro one candidate over another. This is simply pro common sense. Read More
My office building caught on fire Wednesday.
Well, we weren’t sure it was a fire, the man pointed out, as there was smoke pouring out of his suite and fire fighters rushing in. There was just a lot of smoke.
It was a normal afternoon. I was stressed out, trying to prioritize too many tasks given to me at the same time, trying to figure out a way to make everyone happy. I really had to pee, but sometimes I ignore my bladder for the sake of getting work done. Healthy, I know.
I finally got up to walk to the bathroom down the hall, and smelled smoke. Not a lot, not a scary amount, but definitely smoke. I walked past a suite with the door open, smoke wafting out, and some people in the hallway. Awkward smiles, no explanations offered, I kept walking. Weird, I thought. Maybe someone blew something up in the microwave.
Until, a few minutes later, as I excited the bathroom, and I immediately smelled smoke. A lot, a scary amount, of definite smoke. I walked back and hesitantly asked, “Do we know what’s going on…?”
“Oh, there’s a fire,” a woman answered nonchalantly. Almost as if I simply asked what color her shoes were. Read More
This is very unedited and very raw. Sorry for any unprocessed ramblings, but I’m not processed right now. I’m grieving.
I get it.
I get it. I get that you may have grown up in a bubble, that all of your interactions with police officers were safe, friendly, lawful. Maybe your experience with minorities is limited (no, having “one black friend” does not count). Maybe your racism has gone long unchecked, because it was simply an unknown byproduct of your upbringing. Maybe your privilege has gone long unnoticed, because you’ve been lucky enough for no one to pop that bubble just yet. I get that you might not understand.
I get it. I get this is a scary reality to accept, I get that reasoning it away seems much safer. Hiding behind arguing over facts, debating the the unknowns, making it into a political statement – that is a whole lot less uncomfortable for you. Empathy involves pain. Empathy involves feeling. Maybe the names are too hard for you to read, the faces are too hard for you to see. Maybe the videos of crying children, grieving parents, lost widows is to much for you. Like not making eye contact with that homeless person on the corner, it’s easier to drive on through this. I get that you might try to reason it all away. Read More
“Hey, have you been losing weight?”
I’ve been getting this a lot lately. Which makes me smile, because in some cultures it would be the rudest thing one could say. Yet America deems it the highest compliment. Eye roll.
It makes me smile, because it’s usually men. And they’re usually trying to be nice! But it’s a reminder that women’s bodies are always on display, always being evaluated, always open to be commented on. It’s a reminder that our society sees no problem with this.
It makes me smile, because although I have been at the gym more and eating healthier recently, I’ve invested so much more in personal growth. As much as my outer appearance may have altered, I feel like my inner person is completely different. I’ve valued self care at an all time high, and I can see the results. It makes me laugh, because the inward improvements don’t show to the naked eye. Can you imagine if they did?? We’d care far more about our personalities than our hair. We’d spend far more hours in therapy, and less at the gym. We’d be far nicer to other people – and probably nicer to ourselves.
People comment on my outward appearance, “Good for you! Hard work pays off!” I smile, thinking of my inward self, You have no idea… Read More
Although wedding season is about to consume my life (hi, 5 weddings in one summer. This feels like deja vu…) for a quick second my world has revolved around another kind of celebration: graduations.
As I was planning Flood Youth’s senior night (easy) and processing the fact that my girls are graduating (much more difficult), I kept thinking back to senior Krysti. Little, naive, thought-she-knew-it-all, senior Krysti. Facebook was so kind as to remind me of my senior night at my youth group, seemingly a life time ago.
I still remember it. I still remember being the last to be called on stage. I still remember some of the words my youth pastor spoke over me – making fun of my obsession with mylifeisaverage.com but ending with, “Your life is far from average”. I remember the 5 of us – together since middle school! – each so different, each heading somewhere so different. And now, looking at the picture, realizing with a smile we really did end up all over the place. Different corners of the globe, figuratively and literally. I remember it so well, which made me stop and think about where my students will be years from now, as they think back onto their senior night. What will have changed? How will they have grown? What will still be exactly the same? Read More
It was February 2014.
I was at winter camp with Flood Youth, I was standing outside in the dark, and I was mad.
I had been with these students for a year and a half, seeing how far God had brought them in such a short time, seeing small glimpses of the work He was doing in their lives. I cried – me! crying! – during our church time, when girls who barely opened up to anyone stood up and shared vulnerably to the group. I held their hands as they shook from nerves, I stood next to them and belted out “Oceans” during worship, I stayed up far too late giggling with and affirming girls who had come to mean more to me than I’ll ever understand. It was a beautiful weekend, in so many ways, and I was pissed at God. Read More
I’m mad because last month we were so worried about bathrooms. Bathrooms.
I’m mad because NOW people care about rape culture – when a very white, very privileged, very athletically gifted person made headlines for something that goes on everyday in this country. Only after a very educated, very well-articulated victim was given a platform, do we stop and listen.
I’m mad because NOW people care about the LGBT community – only after a massacre. Only after a senseless act of violence so horrible that we can’t even fathom it; we can only grieve it.
I’m mad because NOW people care – while it’s in the spotlight, while there’s a hashtag, while it’s still news. But we won’t care next week or next month. We won’t care enough to actually change anything; we won’t care when there’s hard work involved. We won’t really care until its our brother or our sister or our child or our neighbor – we won’t really care until its too late. Read More
On January 17th, 2015, Brock Allen Turner sexually assaulted an unconscious woman. In March, Brock Allen Turner was convicted of 3 felonies of sexual assault. Facing a maximum of 14 years in jail, Brock Allen Turner has since been sentenced to 6 months in jail – although the reality is he will probably spend far less than 180 days behind bars. Brock Allen Turner is now a registered sex offender – he will be for the rest of his life. And Brock Allen Turner still has yet to admit to any wrong doing – except drinking too much that night.
America is outraged – understandably so. What an injustice. What a gross joke. Reading all the articles has been devastating. Reading the victim’s own words is truly heart breaking. This whole situation is – to quote the majority of people in my Facebook newsfeed – unbelievable. Yet you know whats the worst part about all of this?
This is the best case scenario. Read More