Blog

knowing God intimately: an interview with Kris Camealy

She doesn’t mess around, in the best way. As a sequin-wearing, homeschooling mother of four–a woman who adores Jesus, people, and words–Kris Camealy loves to go deep. In relationships. In the pursuit of Christ. In leading women to be raw and vulnerable and open to God changing their hearts. She’s beautiful in her authenticity, her willingness to surrender and trust God in making us brand new.

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rescue from self-contempt

Her eyes are big, gentle and kind. Her music is beautiful, her fingers upon keys, her body dancing, her voice singing out. In her words, her glory–I glimpse the more that is here. But she tells me she doesn’t see it. Her beauty. Her value.

She is displaced, feeling separate from the exquisiteness of her own soul even while she creates beauty, and is loved, so loved, here.

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broken wide Holy Spirit

It is in the dark that I hear him. A voice confident. Robust. Jocular even. He fills the room, his response to my simple question so immediate, it is without question He was there all along.

I leave off the lights so there is nothing else I see. I want my heart to see. I want my heart to hear. There it is–my spirit inviting my soul to wake: Wake up! Wake up!

I love that sound. A declaration of a soul awaking.  A warrior call to live, to not stay sleeping. It is my favorite sound.

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tuning into God, an interview with Kristen Kludt

She texts me before her trip to the Santa Cruz Mountains, a grove of beauty and respite where she’ll lead women in hearing the voice of God.

I am going right through your town on Friday! Do you have time for coffee?

I adore her heart, her quiet boldness in leaning with Holy Spirit, the exquisite vulnerability and strength she offers when she paints and teaches and writes.

Yes! Absolutely! I can’t wait!

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what happens when you claim her: daughter

Her room smells of sweetness. Fruit soap, from her shower. Citrus-sugar, from the pink candle, unlit, on her dresser. She is a tangled lump, a mound of cotton comforter and sheets.

The room is dark. I crack the shutters open. And still, just the beginning of sunlight, shy and rosy, peeks slow. I open the shutters wider. I invite light further in.

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