I Don’t Have All the Answers

I’ve always found it strange the people most open to other points of view – most accepting of other religions, ideas, or world views – have never been Christians.

The people most likely to support tolerance, who preach acceptance in their everyday actions, haven’t been followers of Christ.

And yet the most divisive, judgmental, exclusive people I know all claim to be members of the Church. The ones who automatically deem a view wrong because it is different than their own apparently follow the same Jesus I do. The people who condemn freely and extend grace selectively apparently adhere to the same gospel as I.

Maybe you’ve had different experiences.

But this is what I know. Read More

24

24 has been my favorite number since before I can remember – always finding its way onto my softball jerseys or into my screen names growing up. 24 is one of the best TV shows to grace our generation (…and make us wish David Palmer could actually run for president). 24 is a fantastic Switchfoot song. And, as of yesterday, 24 is how old I am.

That feels so surreal. I can’t possibly be 24 – that seems far too old for the girl who still eats cheerios for dinner, for the girl who refuses to pay for matching furniture. 24 is officially “mid-twenties”; at least when I was 23 I could argue that I was still in my early twenties. I had an excuse for my actions. At 24, there’s no fighting it – I’m in my mid-twenties and should probably be meal prepping or whatever adults these days are doing. Is that what adults these days are doing?? That’s the lack of 24-level-maturity I have. Read More

I Am White

Just about a year ago – halfway through my time in Malawi – I was driving to Chinsapo with a group of our volunteer mentors, the only non-Malawian in our big van. My presence in the back seat was noticed by every passerby, and “azungu!!” was called out countless times. It was always strange to me to be instantly viewed differently than my Malawian friends; it bothered me more than I realized.
I’m not sure what to do with white privilege. I’m not sure what the answers are. But I think honestly sharing our experiences is a place to start…

I am white.
Back home, I’m considered ‘olive skinned’ on a spectrum from sunkissed to fake tanned. But here? I might as well be pale as snow for how much I stand out. If my skin doesn’t already glow bright enough, my hair instantly gives me away.
I am not from here; this place is not my home.60409_10200240339466856_949625932_n

I am white.
In town I’m seen as having endless money and endless answers; in the village I’m viewed as a celebrity from a faraway land.
Yet I am none of these. I am just Krysti – don’t they know? Do they care to know? I have never before been pre-judged simply by the color of my skin.

Is this a curse? Read More