Motherhood

What I Hope He Remembers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I won’t be a perfect mother.
But I hope he remembers the kind of love that stayed.

I hope he remembers arms that held him close,
even when the world felt unsteady.
A voice that whispered comfort,
even when mine was tired.
A presence that didn’t walk away —
not in the chaos,
not in the quiet,
not in the mess.

And maybe, just maybe,
that kind of love will remind him of God’s.

Because if I’ve learned anything,
it’s that His love shows up the same way —
not waiting for the mess to be cleaned up,
not holding back until we’re stronger,
but entering in, again and again,
with kindness, patience, and grace.

That’s the kind of love I want to model.
Not flawless,
but faithful.
Not perfect,
but present.

So no, I won’t get it all right.
But I hope he sees the reflection —
of a God who stays.
Of a love that never leaves.
Of grace that shows up in the middle and calls it holy.

“God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”
— 1 John 4:16 (NIV)

The Things I Want to Remember About Right Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

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)

When the Fire Flickers

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Some days, it feels like my candle is burning out.
And other days, I swear I could light up a whole city.

I’ve learned to pay attention to what fuels the flame.
And today — it was him.

It was the moment I held my busy toddler in my arms at church,
and he suddenly stilled.
His head nestled into my shoulder,
his little eyes focused on the woman singing behind us.
The stillness.
The wonder.
The quiet awe that washed over him — and me too.

And now, it’s this moment,
as I rock him to sleep, singing gently over his tired frame.
My voice may not be beautiful, but he doesn’t mind.
And neither does God.

He fills my heart.
He overflows my cup.
He ignites something holy in me.

When he’s not here, everything feels a little off —
my home isn’t messy in a way that I love,
and my to-do lists aren’t full of things I want to be doing.
There’s just… space. And longing.

But even in that longing, I’m reminded of a Father who feels the same.
A God who simply wants to be acknowledged when He draws near.
A Father who welcomes us into His home,
mess and all.
A Father who delights in the songs we sing —
even the off-key ones.
Even the tired ones.
Even the whispered ones.

These moments…
they’re sacred.
And I think He calls them beautiful, too.

“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness;
He will quiet you by His love;
He will exult over you with loud singing.”
— Zephaniah 3:17 (ESV)

For Now, We Leave It

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Last night after Beckett’s bath, I caught sight of the wall behind me in the mirror—a scatter of foam letters clinging in every direction, left exactly the way he placed them.

I almost picked them up. That’s what I usually do—tidy things, put them back where they belong. But something about this scene made me stop.

The bright reds and yellows. The upside-down twos. The jumbled alphabet, full of joy and nonsense all at once.

So instead of cleaning, I took a picture. And I left it.

Because one day, I’ll put these letters away for good.

One day, the tub will stay clean.

The walls will stay bare.

The toys will stop showing up in places that don’t make sense.

And while I love order, I know I’ll long for this more.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

Psalm 90:12

It isn’t about counting time as much as noticing it—treasuring the little, ordinary moments that are easy to overlook. The jumbled letters on the wall. The bedtime routines. The small traces of a little boy who won’t always be little.

These moments are fleeting, but they are holy in their own way. They remind me to hold onto the beauty of right now—not just the milestones or the tidy, picture-perfect versions, but the messy, imperfect, ordinary ones too.

So last night, the letters stayed.

The mess stayed.

The reminder stayed.

For now, we leave it.

The Table Set Before Me

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This morning felt like holy chaos.

My sister came with her four little ones,
and I had Beckett.

We spilled across multiple rows in the Father’s house —
passing babies from arm to arm,
slipping in and out of the pews,
quieting cries,
sharing smiles.

It was loud and unpolished,
and yet somehow,
it was perfect.

Because even here —
in the bustle and the noise,
in the interruptions and the laughter —
I could feel it:

“You prepare a table before me.”
— Psalm 23:5

Not a table set with silver and stillness,
but one overflowing with family,
with joy,
with the sacred sound of being together.

This is the feast I didn’t know I was hungry for.
And this is the house where my cup runs over.

What I Want to Remember About Right Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

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 Mother Made of Mosaic

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The Mother Made of Mosaic

I want you to close your eyes for a moment.
Picture mosaic tiles —
in every shade of blue.
Soft cerulean. Deep navy. Hints of sky and sea.
All broken, all different.
Light and dark, side by side.

Now imagine building a mother from those tiles.
She’s tired —
on her knees —
cradling her baby close.

She’s fragile.
She’s breathtaking.
She’s made of sorrow and strength,
held together in a way that almost doesn’t make sense.

But look closer…

What’s holding her together?
What keeps all those tiny pieces from falling apart?

The grout.
The in-between.
The part no one pays attention to.

That’s her village.
The hands that check in.
The arms that hold her when she’s too tired to stand.
The voices that speak truth when the sadness tries to steal her name.

Without that —
without the grout —
she wouldn’t hold.

And yet…
because of it,
she becomes art.

A living mosaic.
A mother made of grief and beauty,
of breaking and belonging.

And in the quiet moments —
when the light hits just right —
she glows.

 

What Stayed Becomes the Legacy

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I could make a list of all the things that left.
The people.
The promises.
The versions of life I thought I’d get to live.

But maybe it matters more to name what stayed.

The quiet strength I didn’t know I had.
The still, small voice that kept whispering, “Keep going.”
The arms that held my child even when mine were trembling.
The Presence that never walked out — even when everything else did.

What stayed wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand attention.
It didn’t come with guarantees.

But it carried me.

And now?
Now I see it for what it is —
a legacy.

Because this love —
the one that stayed,
the one that steadied,
the one that kept showing up when no one was watching —
that’s what I get to pass on.

Not a perfect story.
But a faithful one.

He may not remember every hard day.
He won’t know how many battles I fought silently —
But he will carry the way I loved him.
Steady. Present. Unshaken by what tried to undo me.

This isn’t just healing.
This is inheritance.
This love — this staying —
is the legacy I leave.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:13

Motherhood Is the Mirror

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“The most profound thing we can offer our children is our own healing.”— Anne Lamott

They say motherhood changes you —
and it does.
But not always in the ways you expect.

It doesn’t just stretch your body.
It stretches your heart.
Your limits.
Your sense of self.
And some days, it stretches your faith.

Motherhood has become a mirror I didn’t know I was standing in front of.
It reflects everything back to me:
my tenderness,
my triggers,
my hope,
my hurt.

There are moments that undo me —
not because they’re hard,
but because they’re holy.
Because he looks at me with eyes full of trust,
and it makes me wonder if I’ve ever looked at myself that way.

He doesn’t care if I got everything done.
He doesn’t care if I cried in the shower.
He just wants my presence — not my perfection.

And somehow, that’s healing me.

Because in showing up for him,
I’ve had to learn how to show up for me, too.
To hold space for the version of myself I’ve tried to outrun.
To mother the child I used to be,
even as I mother the one God placed in my arms.

It’s not easy.
But it’s sacred.

Motherhood hasn’t made me flawless.
It’s made me honest.

It’s revealed the cracks —
and the grace that holds them together.

And maybe that’s the point.
Not to raise a perfect child…
but to love them so well
that they never question if they were worth it.

Just like God is doing with me.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…”
— Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

Motherhood: The Gift and the Grief

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There are days when I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be —
rocking him in the quiet,
kissing his forehead,
hearing “mama” and knowing it means me.

And then there are days when motherhood feels like something I’m still learning how to hold —
not because I’m absent from it,
but because some parts look different than I imagined.

No one tells you how much letting go is wrapped up in loving.
How much loss lives inside of even the most beautiful things.

And yet, this is what I know:

I am his mother.
Fully. Deeply. Undeniably.
Whether I’m holding him or waiting for him.
Whether it’s loud laughter or quiet ache.
Whether the world understands it or not — I know it in my bones.

This isn’t just a Hallmark holiday.
It’s a sacred tension.
It’s a joy and a heartbreak.
It’s both.

And somehow, I get to live in that middle space —
the one where gratitude and grief sit at the same table,
and I’m learning not to rush either of them away.

Because maybe this, too, is motherhood:
Not picture-perfect.
Not easy to explain.
But honest. Holy. Still mine.