Words have never been my problem.
Knowing when, and where and what words to use.
That’s been the challenge.
When I was growing up my report cards would often say “Krystle is a joy to have in class, but she talks too much.”
I was that kid on the school playground introducing my friends to Jesus as they lined up by my giant tire I’d turned into a makeshift chapel. I was in 2nd grade.
It’s like I’ve always had a fire in my belly. Something stirring in me, always at the boiling point. For better or worse.
Before Trevor and I got married someone said to him, “Just know, she has a lot of words to get out!” It’s true.
I’m a verbal processor. I feel deeply. And I have words.
I’ve used my words to advocate for the marginalized, to bring light to causes and people who just needed their own voices amplified. Whether through my work with Teen Moms, Trades of Hope or Foster Care, I used my words and conviction to get things done. My words have been published in books and blogs and shared on podcasts. My words have allowed others to not feel alone, whether it was losing a baby, fostering, or enduring cancer. My words have prompted people to adopt, get counseling, get a colonoscopy, find hope, and find Jesus…
But I’ve also unintentionally wounded people with my words.
Social media provided me with the vehicle for a long time, when I had no other vehicle to use. I could argue I wasn’t given one, but it was my choice to use my platform the way I did.
I once used my voice in social media spaces as a platform to state my opinion on many different matters.
Even before Covid.
I made the assumption that most people agreed with me and that my sharing would only collectively unite us.
I saw a two dimensional space as an equal to a conversation over coffee or in my living room.
As the world shut down and we no longer had the option to meet face to face, it became the only platform we had to talk, to converse and to dialogue. And it was the beginning of the end for many relationships. Many of mine included.
Maybe those were destined to end at some point. But the speed and vitriol with which it happened induced whiplash that still stings.
I lament those losses. I lament being misunderstood. I lament that I thought I could fix things over Facebook. I lament that my quick wit and quick fingers created walls where I hoped they’d create tables. I lament the friendships I lost. Whether or not they played a part in it. I lament them.
It has been a humbling, sanctifying, painful and yet hopeful journey. The idea that God is truly not done working on me.
I’ve been given a gift.
I don’t say that in a prideful way, but with a realistic understanding that the fire that burns in my belly spreads. It will catch other things on fire, and I get to decide what that looks like.
It either lights a fire in others or it consumes them in its path.
It is increasingly hard to not become cynical when we look at the state of our culture, our politics, our leaders, our churches, our schools and our systems. It’s hard to not see sides. It’s hard to remain steadfast. It’s hard to wrestle quietly with things. Did you know that not everyone thinks like you do?! It was a shock to me too. I think there is space to deeply disagree on important things and still move forward in love. I’m just choosing to believe that.
In my life and vocation I feel that I have a responsibility to do two things:
Be stubbornly hopeful, despite what I see around me, and
Be incredibly careful of how I use my public platform, whether online or in person.
I will never shy away from telling the truth about my own story. I don’t think I’m meant to tame that. Not everyone feels that same need to share the hard parts of their lives, like cancer for instance, but for me that’s part of the wisely using my words.
But the rest of it? The fire that burns?
It gets tamed. Sanctified. Maybe drizzled on. It gets wrestled with and cooled. I learn to live with the tension, the ache and the humility that comes with not getting to be the one that has a take on something and instead faithfully shows up to the places that might be far less shiny, but no less holy.
Fires can be devastating. The last few years especially have shown us that. But, a controlled burn is different. It’s still fire, with the potential for it to get out of hand, but it’s done on purpose, with wisdom and council and planning and it’s done for the good of the land, not to harm it.
I’m a work in progress. Never arriving, always learning. Thankful (most of the time but rarely at the time) for the painful process of seeing the shadow side of myself.
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