It’s weird to mourn the death of someone you’ve never met.
It’s weird to be so sad over the loss of someone who you’ve never shared words with… but whose words you hold so dear. A friend put it best, after the tragic passing of Rachel Held Evans this weekend – writers feel like mentors. Their words matter to us, their lives feel intertwined with ours. Their joy, our joy. Their pain, our pain. Their death… it’s unimaginable.
It feels unfair. It feels unjust. A women so godly – surely, God would heal? A woman so prayed for, surely God would answer the prayers of thousands across the world? She had so much more work to do. She had babies to raise. She had a marriage to see age. She had conferences to plan and people to mentor and – selfishly – she had more books to write for people like me to read. She had thoughts that still needed sharing, words still in her our world needed to hear. Read More
February has always been a big deal in the life of Krysti. I’m not sure why, I’m not sure how, but these special, note-worthy moments somehow all land in the shortest month of the year.
It was the month, years ago, I found out I had been accepted to go on a two week trip to a small country in south eastern Africa. The month, a year later, I decided to return and lead a two month internship. The same month, a year after that, I finally told the world my plans of moving there after graduation – inviting people into the very sacred and vulnerable dreams I had been harboring for a while.
It was the month I wrote my very first blog post (not linked here because, eish, that thing is embarrassing). It was the month I agreed to step onto the very scary stage of Flood College and share a part of my story most friends had no idea about. It was the month, two years later, I stepped onto another scary stage and gave a TEDx talk. Read More
The music was taking me back to another time, as music tends to do. Lyrics that hold so much hope, so much truth. Lyrics that shaped my middle school angst, my high school worries. Lyrics that hold more memories than I know what to do with. They were all coming flooding back as Relient K and Switchfoot switched from new stuff to old stuff to really old stuff to the somewhat new stuff. It took me on the sweetest trip down memory lane, but it also reminded me how much words matter. How much artists putting words to feelings matter. How much these specific words have mattered to me, in different seasons of life.
It was four days before my 25th birthday – the tickets a birthday present from my brother. 25 is a strange year, as you’re a legitimate adult now and should probably know and do lots of adult-y things… and yet you’re kinda just making it up as you go (I hear most of adulthood is like this, I’ll keep you posted). You feel a little on the young side still – you aren’t 30, after all. But you feel a little on the old side – it only takes 20 minutes with 20 years olds to make me crave an 8:00pm bed time.
I haven’t been dreading turning 25 at all – I think life is a gift and another year older is never something to complain about. But I have been feeling this upcoming birthday. 25. Quarter of a century. Halfway to 50. It’s been drawing near and I can’t help but start asking questions. Is this it? Am I doing it right? Should I change anything?
In the midst of these questions, seven days before my birthday the unthinkable happened. The week leading up to my birthday was a strange twilight zone: a time warp of memories of my youth and proof that I’ve aged, dreaming big dreams and settling for lower standards, so much celebrating and so much mourning. Read More