Author: Baylee Snelling

What Draws Me Closer

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There’s a quote I came across recently:

“Sadness that brings you closer to God is better than happiness that pulls you further away.”

It stung my heart in the best kind of way.

Because if I’m being honest — my life doesn’t look like what I thought it would two years ago.
It doesn’t even look like what I thought it would one year ago.
There’s a version of life I imagined, prayed for, maybe even tried to build myself.

But here I am… not at the end of the storm, but squarely in the middle of it.
And still — I’m more at peace than I’ve ever been.

Because this kind of peace?
It isn’t circumstantial.
It isn’t surface-deep.
It’s the kind that settles in when you’ve finally stopped chasing the kind of “happiness” that always leaves you empty.

I can look back now at moments that felt happy on the outside —
And realize that my heart still ached underneath it all.
I called it joy, but it was just distraction.
I called it peace, but it was just quiet tension.
I called it fulfillment, but I was starving inside for something real.

Something deeper.
Something truer.
Something eternal.

And so while there are things I still grieve —
Plans that changed.
People who left.
Parts of myself I had to let go of…

I celebrate what I’ve found in the aftermath:
A God who never walked away.
A presence that met me in my lowest moments.
A love that doesn’t depend on how happy I feel, but on how deeply I’m held.

So no — my life doesn’t look like what I pictured.
But it looks more like Jesus.
And that, I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Anchor Verse

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
John 14:27 (NIV)

When You’re Ready to Be Done

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Have you ever just… wanted to tap out?

Not in a dramatic way.

Not even in a crisis.

Just in that quiet, soul-deep sigh of

“I don’t think I can carry this anymore.”

Like you’re in a relay race, but your teammate is nowhere in sight.

Like you’ve been doing your part, and you keep looking back, hoping God’s about to step in and take the baton.

But He doesn’t.

Not yet.

And so you keep running.

But you’re not sure why.

We talk a lot about God’s timing.

But what about ours?

What happens when our timing says, “This season should be over by now”?

What do we do when our souls feel finished,

but the story hasn’t let us stop?

Maybe we wrestle.

Maybe we go silent.

Maybe we pray prayers we never thought we’d pray.

I don’t have a neat ending for this.

But I’m learning this:

Sometimes, what feels like a delay is actually a deepening.
And sometimes, the ache is what carves out room for something we weren’t ready for yet.

Anchor Verse:
“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

Exodus 14:14 (NIV)

It’s Okay to Feel It All

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“There is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:4)

I think about that often — especially when my heart doesn’t seem to know which one it’s doing.

Because sometimes, healing feels like both.

Like crying in the car but smiling at the checkout line.
Like praying with gratitude while still aching with grief.
Like holding a hope so fragile, you don’t even have words for it yet.

I was talking recently with a group of young women, and we started sharing what we do when we’re afraid. Some said they speak truth over themselves. Others breathe deeply or write things down. I told them that sometimes, I just let myself feel it.

Because Scripture doesn’t tell us to pretend we’re fine.
It tells us there is a time for everything.
Even fear.
Even sorrow.

Even the kind of ache you thought you should’ve outgrown by now.

So if today you find yourself smiling through tears, or laughing with something heavy still in your chest — that’s okay.

You’re allowed to feel the joy and the sorrow.
The peace and the ache.
The hope and the hurt.

Both can be holy.
Both can be part of your becoming.

Anchor Verse:
“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

To Everything I’ve Ever Lost

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There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Not just what I’ve lost—but what I’ve found because of it.

We don’t always get to choose what’s taken from us. But we do get to choose what we do with the empty space that’s left behind.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, it’s not until we’re brought to our knees by loss that we look up and remember who’s been standing there all along.

That’s what this photo reminded me of:

“To everything I’ve ever lost, thank you for bringing me closer to Jesus.”

It stopped me in my tracks because it’s true. I wouldn’t wish some of the heartbreak I’ve walked through on anyone, but I also wouldn’t trade what it gave me—an intimacy with Jesus I might’ve never known otherwise.

Loss can strip us of our plans, our people, our sense of stability. But it can’t take the One who walks us through the fire.

So maybe the most unexpected gratitude we can offer is this: Thank You for the losses that led me here.

To trust. To surrender. To deeper healing. To Jesus.

Anchor Verse

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”
Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)

When It All Feels Like Too Much

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You know when life feels like one giant snowball — rolling faster and heavier with every hit of bad news?

Like you barely catch your breath from one thing, and the next thing knocks you down again?

Yeah. Me too.

But I’m starting to believe that those seasons — the ones that feel like too much — might actually be the very ground God uses to prepare us for what’s coming.

Not because He’s punishing us.
But because He’s forming us.

Because without the hard, we don’t always know how to recognize the holy.
Without the ache, we don’t always appreciate the abundance.

And I think He really wants us to be able to appreciate what’s coming.

Not just survive it.
But savor it.

So if you’re in the middle of what feels like a relentless season —
where the good feels distant and the hits just keep coming —
don’t give up hope.

This isn’t the end of your story.

This might just be the stretch of road that softens your heart enough
to fully receive the beauty that’s ahead.

Hold on.
He’s not done.

Anchor Verse

“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore He will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for Him!”
Isaiah 30:18 (NIV)

What Will I Be Remembered For?

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There’s something I think about regularly —
not because I’m nearing the end, but because I want to live more intentionally in the middle of it all.

I think about the years ahead:
5, 10, 20, even 40 years from now.
What kind of life will I have built?
Will I look back with peace — knowing I gave my whole heart to the people who mattered most?
Will my child know how deeply he was loved?
Will my faith have shaped the way I showed up for others?

When I’m no longer here and I’ve returned to dust,
what will remain of me?

Will the people I loved still feel my love in how I made them feel?
Will the seeds I planted still be bearing fruit in someone else’s life?

I know that sounds heavy.
But maybe we all need to think about it sometimes.

Because legacy isn’t about fame or big moments.
It’s about presence.
Consistency.
Grace.

It’s in the quiet choices that no one sees.
The love we give freely, without condition.
The way we keep showing up — even when it’s hard.

So what do I hope I’m remembered for?

I hope I’m remembered as someone who gave her all
to the people who were entrusted to her care.
That when the sun sets and the moon rises,
you’ll still know that my love for Jesus was constant — not just in my words,
but in how I tried to love you, too.

Am I perfect? Certainly not.
But I want to live today — and every day I’m given —
with the kind of love that leaves something lasting behind.

Because in the end, that’s what I hope they remember:

That I knew Him.
And I tried to show you His love
in how I lived.

Anchor Verse:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
Psalm 90:12 (NIV)

The Nearness We Need

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There’s a verse that always finds its way back to me when I need it most:

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

It’s tucked in the middle of a psalm filled with struggle and deliverance, fear and faith.
Just a few verses before, we’re told that God’s eyes are on the righteous.
That His ears are attentive.
That He hears, and He rescues.

But it’s this part that stills me:

He’s near.

  • Not distant.
  • Not indifferent.
  • Not waiting for you to pull yourself together.

Near.

To the brokenhearted.
To the crushed in spirit.
To the ones who don’t know what to say, but feel the ache just the same.

Sometimes we don’t need answers.
We just need assurance.

  • That we’re not alone.
  • That He sees.
  • That He stays.

And this verse — this quiet promise — is exactly that.

Anchor Passage:

“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are attentive to their cry…
The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:15,17–18 (NIV)

The Things I Want to Remember About Right Now

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There are things I want to remember —
not just for the sake of memory,
but because this season is shaping me as much as it’s shaping you.

So I’m writing them down here —
quietly, softly,
like a whisper I can return to
when the house is quiet
and my arms feel too empty
or my eyes too tired
to recall the sacred weight of now.

I want to remember how small your fingers still feel in mine.
How you hand me books and sit in my lap without words.
How your whole body leans into love like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I want to remember your laugh —
the one that bubbles up from your belly when something truly delights you.
The way it catches me off guard and heals something in me every time.

I want to remember how we dance in the kitchen,
how you ask for music and raise your arms in the air
like you already know joy is meant to be embodied.

I want to remember the way your head rests on my shoulder,
not because you’re tired —
but because you’re home.

I want to remember this version of me too.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
But present.

The woman who is healing in real time.
Who cries at night and prays in whispers.
Who stretches herself thin to make sure you’re whole.

The one who is learning to slow down —
to soak in the mess, the noise, the ache and the awe of it all.

Because this isn’t just your childhood.
It’s my becoming.

Anchor Verse:

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.”
Psalm 91:4 (NIV)

The Beauty That Makes Us Shiver

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There’s a word I stumbled across recently that hasn’t left me since:

Frisson.

It’s that sudden wave of emotion.
A shiver down your spine.
A rush of goosebumps when something beautiful or true or overwhelming brushes past you.

It often happens when we hear a piece of music that moves us. Or when a film scene captures something so human it aches. Or when someone speaks a truth so deep it silences the room.

It’s beauty. But it’s more than that.

And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered:

What if the frisson we feel isn’t just emotion?
What if it’s a glimpse of glory?
What if it’s the evidence of God, brushing up against our earthly edges?

I don’t think it’s an accident that our bodies respond physically to beauty and truth. The goosebumps. The tear that wells up unexpectedly. The breath that catches in our throat. The stillness that follows.

What if those aren’t just reactions?
What if they’re reminders?

That we were made to recognize wonder.
That we were designed to be moved.

Because God is beauty. God is truth. God is presence.
And maybe frisson is what happens when our spirit remembers Him.

Maybe that moment where your heart swells, your skin tingles, and everything in you says, “This matters” — maybe that’s holy ground.

Not because the music was perfect.
Not because the words were eloquent.
But because, for just a second, you were aware of the Divine.

So the next time it happens—
When you hear something that gives you chills.
When you see something that steals your breath.
When you feel something that you can’t quite explain…

Pause.

Pay attention.

Don’t rush past it.

Ask: “God, was that You?”

Because maybe it was.
Maybe it always has been.

Anchor Verse:
“One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.”
Psalm 27:4 (NIV)

Level Ground and Loud Praise

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“From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly; before those who fear you I will fulfill my vows.”
Psalms 22:25 NIV

“My feet stand on level ground; in the great congregation I will praise the Lord.”
Psalms 26:12 NIV

These two verses are sitting on my heart.

These words feel like a declaration of steady worship — the kind that rises not from ease, but from endurance.

Because let’s be honest: sometimes praise doesn’t come from a mountaintop moment. Sometimes it comes from the middle — from the steadying after the storm, from the ache that is somehow still standing, from the places where we’ve vowed to keep going when it would’ve been easier to give up.

That’s what these verses remind me of.

They remind me that God is not only worthy of praise in private, quiet places — but in the presence of others, too. In the great assembly. Even when we feel vulnerable. Even when the scars are still visible. Even when the story isn’t over yet.

And they remind me that there is such a thing as level ground — even when life has felt like a landslide. God steadies our feet when we couldn’t steady ourselves. He fulfills His promises when we’ve been too tired to remember our own.

So if you’re in a season where praise feels more like a choice than a feeling — you’re not alone.

Stand on the ground He’s leveled for you.
Lift your voice anyway.
And know this: He’s not just listening — He’s present.

Anchor Verse:

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
Psalm 40:2 NIV