Author: Baylee Snelling

Still Working for My Good (Romans 8:28)

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The other day, I asked God to speak to me.
I told Him I’d be paying attention. That I didn’t want to miss it.
I wasn’t asking for a burning bush — just a whisper. A moment. Something only He could orchestrate.

And then, He did.

My daily devotional that morning opened with a verse I’ve always loved — Romans 8:28.
And later that day, without knowing, my counselor brought up the same exact verse.
“It reminds me of Romans 8:28,” she said.
I smiled — not because it was new, but because it was confirmation.
God saw me listening. And He answered.

That verse has been anchoring me lately:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Not just in the easy things. Not just in the visible ones.
In all things.

This season hasn’t felt good.
It’s felt raw and heavy and filled with waiting.
But He keeps reminding me — He’s not wasting any of it.
He’s still writing the story.
And He’s still working for my good.

Today, I read something else that hit me straight in the chest.
It said:
“Don’t settle for Ishmael when God has Isaac for you.”
That’s what I’ve been trying to hold onto — that God’s timing,
His ways, His purposes — are always worth the wait.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when I’m tempted to reach for something just to feel in control again.

I don’t want to rush what God is still preparing.
I don’t want to interrupt what He’s still unfolding.

Because what He has for me — for us —
isn’t second best.
It’s the very thing I’ve been trusting Him for.

If You’ve Found Yourself Here

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It’s interesting,
how when we know about something in advance, we plan for it.
If I’d known I would someday be carrying so much heartache,
I would’ve done anything to avoid it.

We don’t ever knowingly walk straight into pain.

But somehow —
God has taken the wreckage of what tried to undo me,
and turned it into a place where others can rest.

Not because I have all the answers.
Not because everything is healed.
But because I know what it feels like to wonder if it ever will be.

I know the silence.
The shame.
The desperate searching for someone — anyone —
who’s been there too.

And now?
I get to be that voice.
That pause.
That reminder:
You’re not alone.
You’re not too broken.
You’re not behind.

This isn’t polished ministry.
It’s sacred survival.
It’s presence.
And somehow, it’s purpose.

So if you’ve found yourself here —
in this quiet corner of the internet —
I hope you know this:

You can rest for a moment.
I’ve made space for you here.
From the wreckage I never planned for… to your weary heart…
thank you, for allowing my voice to offer you comfort.
You are welcome here.

No Room for the Lies

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“You will keep in perfect peace…” — Isaiah 26:3

There was a time
when I believed things that were never true.
Not because I was weak,
but because I needed to survive.

The lies came wrapped in voices I trusted.
They sounded like love.
Like protection.
Like truth.

But they weren’t.
They were cages.
They were chains.
And I didn’t even know I was choking.

It felt like living inside a story someone else wrote for me —
a version where I was always the problem,
always too much,
and never enough.

It was suffocation by lies.

But now?

Now, there’s no room for them.
Not here.
Not anymore.

Truth is quieter than shame,
but stronger.
And when it finally speaks,
it doesn’t argue — it frees.

The peace I feel now isn’t loud.
It doesn’t shout to be heard.
It just is.

When Joy Comes Back Quietly

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No one really talks about the part where joy returns —
softly.
Unexpectedly.
Almost like it’s knocking on a door you didn’t think would open again.

You’re still in the middle of it.
Still waiting on answers.
Still holding pieces of things that haven’t healed.

And yet…

You find yourself laughing — really laughing —
and it doesn’t feel forced.
You notice sunlight filtering through the trees,
and it actually stirs something in you.
You start to feel curious again —
about life, about yourself,
about what could still be possible.

It’s disorienting, isn’t it?
After so much survival,
you almost feel guilty for coming alive again.

But this —
this is what healing starts to look like.
Not a finish line.
But little signs of life
breaking through the cracks of everything that tried to bury you.

You don’t have to apologize for the joy.
You don’t have to explain the strength.
You don’t have to wait for perfect to begin living again.

This moment is holy.
This joy is allowed.
And this life — right here — is still yours.

Scripture

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”
— John 10:10 (NIV)

The Kind of Noise That Calms the Heart

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Sometimes the quiet comes in unexpected forms

It wasn’t a quiet weekend.
Not in the way I thought I needed.
The air was full —
of movement,
of moments overlapping,
of little feet and loud laughter
and lives brushing against each other.

But there was something in that fullness
that eased the ache.

Not by fixing it.
Not by filling it.
Just… by being louder than the thoughts
that usually linger too long.

Sometimes healing doesn’t arrive
in hushed tones and solitude.
Sometimes it’s wrapped
in the noise of other people’s joy
and making it a part of your own —
and that’s enough to steady what feels undone.

And maybe that was the grace of it all —
not silence,
but presence.
Not stillness,
but the steady rhythm of life carrying on.

The Road I Didn’t Choose

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This isn’t the ticket I purchased.
This isn’t the ride I signed up for.
And yet — here I am.

I cling to Isaiah 42:16 and feel steadied:

“I will lead the blind by a way they did not know;
I will guide them on paths they have not known.
I will turn darkness to light in front of them
And rough places into level ground.
This is what I will do for them,
And I will not abandon them.”

This road wasn’t part of my plan.
But maybe it was always part of His.

And now, I choose to believe:
This unfamiliar path is the one He is guiding.
I know He’s here.
I feel His nearness.

This new road —
unexpected, unchosen —
is the only one worth walking
because He walks it with me.

Nothing Wasted 

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I used to wonder if any of it mattered —
the long nights,
the unanswered prayers,
the pain I couldn’t explain.

I used to question
why I had to walk through certain things at all.
Why it hurt.
Why it was allowed.
Why it had to look like loss.

But slowly —
quietly —
I’ve learned this truth:

With God, nothing is wasted.

Not the tears no one saw.
Not the silent waiting.
Not the ache that made it hard to breathe.
Not even the seasons I thought had no purpose at all.

He gathers it all.
And somehow,
He brings beauty from it.

It might not look like I imagined.
It might not come quickly.
But His grace doesn’t leave things unfinished.

Even here —
in what felt like failure,
in what still feels tender —
He’s writing redemption into every line.

So I’ll keep going.
Trusting the One
who doesn’t waste a thing.

Strength in the Tenderness

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That ache in your chest?
It’s not weakness.
It’s your heart being honest.
It’s the weight of loving deeply
while walking through something impossibly unfair.

You’re not bitter —
you care.
You’ve carried so much,
stayed soft when life begged you to go hard.
You’ve loved well,
even when you weren’t loved back the same way.
You’re human —
and this hurts.

So if the tears fall tonight —
let them.
If the ache stirs —
let it speak.
It means your heart is still open.
Still tender.
Still beautifully alive.

That’s not a weakness.
That’s your strength —
whispering through the ache
that love still lives here.

Love Letters in Black-Edged Envelopes

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Finding grace in what once felt like grief

There are days I wonder how I ever make it through.
Not because I’m prideful —
but because I’m constantly reminded of how deeply I ache,
how lost I feel,
how certain I am, at times, that the pain will never ease.

But it does.
Slowly. Quietly.
And in ways I still have yet to fully see.

I came across this quote by Charles Spurgeon, and it stopped me:

“I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days.
And when God has seemed most cruel to me He has then been most kind…
Our Father’s wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of His grace…
Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes.”

It’s a hard truth to hold —
that some of the most tender mercies arrive dressed as heartache.
That the pain that almost unravels me
is also what softens me,
what refines me,
what keeps making room for something deeper.

There were nights I cried out to God with no reply.
Moments I felt abandoned.
Parts of my story that felt unfair — even unredeemable.

But He is here.
In the silence.
In the stretch.
In the storm.

And the very things I begged to be taken away
are slowly becoming the places where I see Him most clearly.
Not always in answers —
but in presence.

I don’t say this lightly:
I wouldn’t have chosen this pain.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found in the wreckage.

Because it’s here —
in the rebuilding,
in the quiet grace of a still-standing soul —
that I’ve seen the truth of Spurgeon’s words:

This storm isn’t breaking me.
It’s bringing me home.

Nothing Is Wasted

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Even the broken pieces can grow something beautiful

I used to look back at the hard things and wonder what the point of it all was.
Why the pain, the waiting, the silence.
Why the breaking.

But slowly, in the quiet work of healing,
I’ve come to believe this —
that nothing is wasted in the hands of a God who sees the whole story.

Not the quiet tears I tried to hide.
Not the long, quiet stretches of uncertainty.
Not the prayers I barely had words for.
Not even the things I’d rather forget.

Because somehow,
the soil that held the most sorrow
is the same soil where something sacred began to grow.

No, I wouldn’t choose to walk through it again.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found on the other side:

A deeper strength.
A quieter kind of hope.
A faith that doesn’t need the full picture to trust the Painter.

So if you’re in the middle of it —
wondering if anything good could come from what’s been lost —
hold on.

What feels broken today
may one day bloom with beauty
you couldn’t imagine from here.

Nothing is wasted.
Not in His hands.