Author: Baylee Snelling

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.

A Letter to the Present Moment

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I used to think healing meant moving forward —
quickly, cleanly, clearly.
But I’ve come to realize,
some of the most important parts of healing
happen when I’m not going anywhere at all.

Just here.
Still.
Sitting in the slow stretch of the present moment.

It’s not always comfortable.
I find myself reaching for distractions,
searching for answers,
wishing for resolution.

But I’m learning not to rush this season.
Not to escape it,
fix it,
or numb it.

Just…
to be in it.
To breathe through it.
To let it shape me
without stealing me.

There’s something sacred here —
in the pause,
in the waiting,
in the not-yet-knowing.

So tonight, I’m practicing presence.
Letting today be enough.
Letting now be holy.

They say, “the most beautiful skies come after the worst storms.”
Who they are, I’ll never know.
But I do know this —
it’s true.
And I can’t wait to see just how beautiful the sky is.

When You’ve Already Prayed for This

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There’s a prayer I’ve whispered so many times,
I don’t even need the words anymore.
It lives in my breath —
in the pause between heartbeats,
in the tears that come without warning.

Sometimes, I feel embarrassed to bring it up again.
Like I should’ve moved on by now.
Like maybe God is tired of hearing the same request
from the same voice
with the same ache.

But then I remember:
God is not like us.
He doesn’t grow weary of repetition.
He doesn’t keep score.
He just keeps listening.

So I bring it again.
Not because I don’t trust —
but because I do.

Because when you keep praying for the same thing,
you’re not being weak.
You’re being brave.

You’re believing
that even silence can be holy
and that maybe, just maybe,
this prayer is forming something in you, too.

He still hears you.
Even now. Even again.

When Words Don’t Come Easily

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some days, it’s harder to show up with open hands —
especially when you still have open wounds.

Some days, things happen that don’t make sense.
Some days, the ache gets a little louder —
and the silence that follows it feels heavier than usual.

But I’m here.
Still breathing in the hope and promises of God.
Still believing that healing isn’t undone by disappointment.

Maybe you’ve had a day like that too.

So I won’t pretend tonight.
I’ll just light this small candle in the window
and whisper —
you’re not alone… and neither am I.

The Prayer I Keep Whispering: A Quiet Breath for the Week Ahead

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

God,
You already know —
but I’ll say it anyway.

Because something in me
needs to say it out loud.
To bring the ache to You
instead of just carrying it around inside me.

I don’t have anything profound today.
No bold declarations.
No polished prayers.
Just a quiet whisper
from a tired heart.

Hold me steady.
Keep us safe.
Help me trust what I can’t yet see.
Remind me that I’m not lost in this.

Some days I feel brave.
Other days, I feel like I’m barely holding on.
But You’ve never needed my strength to stay close.

So I’ll stay here.
Soft.
Honest.
Open.

Still whispering —
and still believing
that You’re listening.

Amen.

In the Stretch Between

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a certain kind of quiet
that lives in the in-between.
After what’s been planned —
before what makes sense.

It’s not quite peace.
Not quite panic.
Just… waiting.
A stretch of time
where clarity feels far away,
and trust becomes a choice
you keep making in the dark.

That’s where I am right now.

And I don’t have anything polished to say.
No deep revelation.
No strength to spare.
Just this: I’m here.

Still praying.
Still breathing.
Still trusting the One who sees what I can’t.

Because I don’t know what’s next —
but I know who’s holding me.
And sometimes that has to be enough.

So if you’re in the stretch too —
between the ache and the answer,
between the weight and the relief —
you’re not alone.

This space might not feel holy,
but I believe it is.

And even here,
you are still held.