Author: Baylee Snelling

The Strength Fear Tries to Steal

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I’ve wasted so many todays
worrying about tomorrow.

Not intentionally.
Not because I wanted to.
But because anxiety is sneaky like that —
convincing you that if you think it through just one more time,
you’ll feel better.

Spoiler: you don’t.

I read something recently that really stuck out to me:
“What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties today of its strength.”
— Alexander McLaren

And I felt it.

Because fear doesn’t just whisper worst-case scenarios —
it drains the light from moments that were meant to hold joy.
It robs us of the strength we do have for right now,
by convincing us we need to hoard it for what might come later.

But we weren’t made to live that way.
Not crouched in fear.
Not rehearsing pain that hasn’t even happened.

Today is still here.
And it still matters.

God didn’t promise we’d be fearless.
But He did promise He’d be with us.
And that is more than enough.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of what we fear —
but the presence of the One who knows how to carry us through it.

So for today —
not tomorrow, just today —
I’m choosing presence over panic.
Trust over spirals.
And strength over fear.

What I Want to Remember About Right Now

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If you had asked me a few months ago,
I probably would’ve said I wanted amnesia for this season of my life.

But now?

I want to remember
the way Beckett and I can make each other belly laugh —
even when all we want to do is cry.

The way we snuggle when he first wakes up,
before greeting the rest of the world.

I want to remember the time I’m getting with my parents,
and the special bond they’re building with their grandson.

How I’ve grown comfortable with my thoughts
and where they lead me.

How I trust myself now —
to know who’s safe, and who isn’t.

I want to remember
the way I’ve learned to see God in the details.
To feel His presence in every room.
To look to Him to light even the darkest of days.

This isn’t a season to forget.
It’s a season that reminds me
just how much I have to be thankful for.

So, what do I want to remember about right now?

Everything.

The Prayer I Was Afraid to Pray

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Lament.

A word I recently wrote about.
A word I’ve been seeing almost every day since then.

To lament is to feel, show, or express grief, sorrow, or regret.
Biblically, lament is a form of prayer that expresses deep sorrow, grief, or pain to God.

So that’s what I’ve been doing.

It’s unprocessed and messy.
I’m saying things to Him that I didn’t even know I had in me —
emotions that have been long hidden.

I hesitate to start,
afraid that voicing it might somehow pull me away from God.

But it’s been quite the opposite.

I’m being drawn closer to Him —
as if He’s surrounding me in the quiet.

I see Him in the daily, the mundane.
I feel Him in the ache and the uncovering.
He is the wisest Counselor —
helping me name the lies I’ve carried too long,
gently exposing what needs healing,
and holding every part of my heart while He restores it.

The Turn I Almost Missed

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I thought about writing today —
about joy in the storm.
But I hesitated.
It felt like something I’d written too many times before.
Like maybe I should find a new angle,
a different message.

So I got up.
Did some laundry.
Checked a few boxes off the list.
And opened my devotional —
Watching for the Morning by Vaneetha Rendall Risner.
A liferaft of a book in this season.

The title for today?
“The Greatest Turn in Scripture.”

And beneath it, these words:

“Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
—Lamentations 3:21–23

I stopped.
Because I knew.
God was speaking to me — again.
Through a verse I’ve read a hundred times.
Through a theme I thought I’d already written to death.

But maybe that’s the point.

Even Jeremiah —
mid-anguish, breathless and undone —
stopped.

He didn’t forget the pain.
He didn’t pretend it didn’t exist.
But he remembered something deeper.
“Yet this I call to mind…”
That even when everything felt lost,
God’s mercies were not.

And suddenly, hope entered the story.

I almost didn’t write this.
I almost brushed past the very word I needed.
Because I thought I’d already said it.

But today reminded me —
some truths are worth repeating.
Some mercies are new, even in familiar form.

I’ll never forget the storms.
But I’ll also never stop looking for the joy
that rises in the middle of them.

“I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for Him.’”
—Lamentations 3:24

The Song I Didn’t Expect

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I wasn’t trying to have a moment.

I was just in the car with Beckett, letting a children’s playlist play on Pandora — not even a worship station. Just music to keep the car ride calm and light.

But then these words came through the speakers:

“If you’re hurting, I know someone who heals your wounds…”
“If you’re broken, I know someone who broke for you…”

I paused.

Not because I planned to —
but because something holy had just entered the space.

It didn’t make me cry.
But it did catch me off guard — in the best kind of way.
Like grace tapping on the window.
Like peace arriving before I even asked for it.

“They couldn’t keep Him on the cross.
Couldn’t keep Him in the tomb.
His name is Jesus — and He’s in the room.”

The song is “In the Room” by Forrest Frank — a Christian artist I’ve heard before.
But I’ve never heard this song and I wasn’t expecting to hear it in that moment.
And maybe that’s what made it hit different.

Because sometimes God doesn’t wait for the worship station.
Sometimes He meets you in the in-between —
the errands, the car rides, the daily rhythms of motherhood.

Sometimes He shows up right where you are,
before you even think to reach for Him.

That’s the kind of Savior He is.
Not reserved for Sunday mornings.
Not only found in quiet time or devotionals.

But present.
Personal.
In the room.

When Grief Becomes a Prayer

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“Pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord.” — Lamentations 2:19

We don’t talk about Lamentations very often.

It’s not the book we memorize.
Not the one we highlight in bright yellows and pinks.
It’s messy.
Heavy.
It aches in a way that doesn’t tie up neatly with a bow.

But I’ve found comfort there —
not because it fixes anything,
but because it feels like the inside of my own heart sometimes.

There’s this idea I read recently,
by Clint Watkins:
“You may feel that God is being unloving or unmerciful.
But instead of turning those feelings into a conclusion,
lament helps you turn them into a conversation.”

That line stopped me.

Because how often do we rush past our ache,
afraid it will make us unfaithful?
How often do we silence our sorrow,
thinking God can’t handle it?

But Lamentations tells a different story.
It invites the ache to speak.
It gives language to the weary.
It shows us that grief can belong in prayer —
not as something to hide,
but something to hold.

Lament doesn’t mean you’ve lost your faith.
It means you’re bringing your pain to the only One
who can sit with it fully.

You don’t have to explain it all.
You don’t have to tie it up in theology.
You’re allowed to simply say:
“This hurts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Where are You in this?”

And He listens.

So if you’re carrying questions too heavy for answers —
you’re not alone.
And you’re not faithless.

You’re lamenting.

And that… is still prayer.

Maybe This Is the Post

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I didn’t plan a post tonight.
I didn’t come with a title or a theme or a tidy truth to wrap everything together.

I sat down to write —
and nothing came.
Just a tired kind of quiet,
the kind that doesn’t ask to be explained.

But maybe this is the post.
The one that doesn’t offer clarity or closure,
but simply shows up.

Maybe this is the kind of honesty we all need sometimes —
to admit we don’t always have the words,
or the answers,
or the strength to keep unpacking what still hurts.

Maybe the miracle isn’t always in what we say.
Maybe it’s in the showing up anyway.
In being present to the moment — even when the moment feels like not enough.
Even when you feel like not enough.

And maybe
this is the kind of space
where we quietly remember
that even when the words won’t come,
He still does.

That He doesn’t need eloquence
to meet us.

He just needs us.

So if you’ve arrived here —
empty-handed, weary, unsure of what you’re even looking for —
you’re not alone.

Let’s sit here for a while.
Not searching for the right thing to say.
Just resting in the comfort that we’re seen anyway.

“…for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”
— Matthew 6:8

What Is Your Only Comfort?

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I’ve spent most of my life in church — Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesdays too.
I was raised on Scripture, shaped by the quiet rhythm of pews and communion trays, and taught early on that the Word of God is enough. It still is.

So when I recently came across something called The Heidelberg Catechism, I wasn’t looking for new theology or creeds. I just happened upon a phrase — one that reached into my heart and wrapped its arms around something I didn’t know needed holding.

“What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
That I am not my own… but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I had to read it again.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying a lot — grief that lingers, questions that don’t resolve neatly, and moments that make me feel a little too small for the weight of this world.

But those words.
I am not my own… I belong.

Not to my pain.
Not to my past.
Not to what others say about me, or even what I sometimes believe about myself.

I belong to Christ.

Not because I’ve earned it.
Not because I always feel it.
But because He said so. Because He gave everything to make it so.

That line from the Catechism isn’t Scripture — but the truth behind it is echoed all throughout the Bible:

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price…”
—1 Corinthians 6:19–20

That’s what I want to remember on the days I feel unseen.
On the nights I question if I’m doing enough, being enough, holding together enough.

I want to remember that comfort — the kind of comfort that can only be found in Scripture, the kind that the Heidelberg Catechism question offered me.
Not found in perfect understanding, but in the unwavering truth that I belong to Him.

A Quiet Turning

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There are moments
when I feel it rising —
a quiet tug toward old thoughts,
familiar patterns that once promised safety
but only ever gave me silence and shame.

It doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You’ll never get it right.

And for a moment,
I believe it again.
Not because it’s true —
but because it’s been loud for so long.

I carry those echoes
into rooms where I smile.
Into the spaces where I show up,
even when I feel unsteady.

But lately, I’m learning
to pause before the story runs away with me.
To ask:
What am I feeling?
Where is this coming from?
And what’s the truth I know beneath the noise?

I remember:
I am loved.
I am not a burden.
I am not the sum of my worst days.

And from that place —
even if it’s just a small step forward —
I respond differently.
More gently.
More freely.

This is what healing sounds like sometimes.
Not loud or linear —
just a quiet turning toward peace
when the pull of the past returns.

And I carry this quiet work of healing into the way I love — gently, intentionally, even on the hardest days.

The Things I Can’t Explain

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Some parts of my story
don’t fit into sentences.

There are moments I carry
that have no language —
just a quiet ache
I’ve learned how to live beside.

I’ve tried to name them before.
Tried to trace the edges,
make them make sense,
offer them in neat, careful paragraphs.

But some grief is shapeless.
Some memories blurry,
not because they weren’t real,
but because they were too much to hold with open eyes.

Still, they live in me.
In how I flinch at certain words.
In how I love more tenderly now.
In how I pause before trusting again.

I used to think everything had to be told
to be healed.
That I had to find the words
or I’d never be free.

But I’m learning —
even the things I can’t explain
are seen by the One who made me.

Even the wounds without language
are held by a God who doesn’t need a translation
to understand.

So if you’re carrying things too heavy for words —
you’re not alone.
You don’t have to explain them to be worthy of healing.
You don’t have to speak them out loud to be seen.

He already knows.

And still, He stays.

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26 (NIV)