Reflections

What Cannot Be Crushed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed… struck down, but not destroyed.”

I’ve read those words before and heard resilience.

Lately, I hear something else.

I hear preservation.

Paul doesn’t deny the pressing.
He doesn’t pretend the blows don’t land.
He simply draws a line between what touches the outside
and what reaches the inside.

Hard pressed — but not crushed.
Struck down — but not destroyed.

There is something in the believer that cannot be flattened.

Not because we are strong enough.
But because Christ in us is.

Life can press.
People can misunderstand.
Plans can shift.
Expectations can collapse.

But the Spirit of God within you?
Untouched.

That’s the miracle.

The world can affect your circumstances.
It cannot dismantle your identity.

It can exhaust your body.
It cannot erase your belonging.

It can knock you down.
It cannot take what God has planted.

Maybe that’s what this verse is really about —
not grit.
Not toughness.
Not proving how much you can endure.

But the quiet truth that there is something eternal in you.
Something anchored.
Something held.

You may feel pressed.
But what matters most in you
is not crushable.

“Christ in you, the hope of glory.”
— Colossians 1:27 (NIV)

Ready or Not

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

How do you prepare yourself for parts of your life you didn’t want or ask for?

Because, ready or not, life is happening.

There was a time when “fake it till you make it” felt motivating.
Now it just feels exhausting.

I don’t want to fake strength.
I don’t want to pretend I’m unbothered.
I don’t want to convince myself I’m fine if I’m not.

It’s okay to not be okay —
and still be okay.

Maybe preparation doesn’t look like bracing.
Maybe it looks like breathing.

Maybe it’s not about forcing courage —
but about letting trust take root in places we didn’t choose.

Some seasons aren’t something you gear up for.
They simply arrive.

And you either tighten up against them,
or you learn to stand quietly inside them.

I’m learning that strength doesn’t always look like certainty.
Sometimes it looks like surrender.
Like rest.
Like quiet trust in the middle of the unfamiliar.

“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:
‘In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength.’”
— Isaiah 30:15 (NIV)

Home

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Home is a strange word.

Sometimes it means a place.
Sometimes it means a feeling.
Sometimes it’s a person.

This week has reminded me that home isn’t always walls or routines or the familiar rhythm of noise in the background.

Sometimes home is absence.
Sometimes it’s waiting.
Sometimes it’s learning how to sit in a space that doesn’t feel like it fits quite right.

And then — sometimes — it’s return.

The way a room feels fuller without anything new added to it.
The way your chest softens without you telling it to.
The way something inside you settles quietly back into place.

There are seasons when we don’t get to define home the way we want to.
Seasons when the shape of it shifts.
When the rhythm changes.
When the quiet feels louder than it should.

But I’m learning something.

Home isn’t only where everything is easy.
Home is where love remains.

Home is where the door opens again.
Where laughter fills the air.
Where the pieces that felt scattered gather back together.

And maybe the deeper truth is this:

God is the constant home beneath all of it.
The steady foundation when the rhythm changes.
The One who holds what I can’t,
when the spaces feel too big.

Tonight feels like exhale.
Like warmth returning.
Like the kind of quiet that isn’t empty — but full.

Home.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.”
— Psalm 90:1 (NIV)

I Don’t Need to Know Yet

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There’s a strange pressure to have clarity.

To know where this is going.
To understand what it means.
To be able to explain it in a way that feels tidy and complete.

But sometimes life isn’t ready to be explained.

Sometimes it’s just being lived.

And I’m learning that not knowing doesn’t mean I’m lost.
It doesn’t mean I’ve missed something.
It doesn’t mean God is withholding.

It just means I’m still inside the story.

There are chapters you can only understand once you’ve turned the page.
And if I try to summarize too soon, I’ll miss the depth of what’s still unfolding.

So tonight, I’m loosening my grip on the need to define everything.

I don’t need to know yet.

“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us…”
— Deuteronomy 29:29 (NIV)

Holding Two Truths

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There are moments when my heart doesn’t know how to choose just one feeling.

Gratitude and grief.
Peace and resistance.
Trust and ache.

They show up together, uninvited, and sit side by side.

I’ve learned that faith doesn’t always resolve the tension.
Sometimes it simply gives you permission to hold it.

To admit that something can be right and hard.
That obedience doesn’t always feel peaceful.
That surrender can still hurt.

I think we’re often tempted to rush ourselves out of conflicted spaces —
to label one feeling as faithful and the other as wrong.

But Scripture is full of people who loved God deeply
and still wrestled with what obedience cost them.

So maybe this isn’t confusion.
Maybe it’s complexity.

Maybe it’s the holy work of learning how to trust God
while your heart is still catching up.

Tonight, I’m not asking for clarity.
I’m asking for steadiness.

The kind that holds both truths at once.
The kind that doesn’t force resolution too quickly.
The kind that believes God is near —
even when the feelings don’t agree.

“Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.”
— Psalm 62:8 (NIV)

Not Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Someone told me today, “God is saying not yet.”

And it’s been sitting with me all day.

Not yet is a strange answer.
It’s not a no.
But it’s not the relief you’re begging for either.

It makes you ask hard questions.
Why now?
Why wait?
How much longer can I hold this?

When God says not yet, it doesn’t mean He’s absent.
But it does mean surrender looks different than we hoped.

It means trusting Him when you don’t get to see the work yet.
It means believing He’s still moving — even when all you feel is the ache of standing still.
It means learning how to breathe in the waiting.

I don’t have clarity tonight.
And I don’t feel peace.

But I do have a quiet resolve to keep showing up —
even when not yet feels heavier than I know how to carry.

So for now, I’m not rushing God.
I’m not pretending this doesn’t hurt.
I’m holding onto the belief that not yet doesn’t mean never.

And while I wait,
I will do what I can:
be strong,
take heart,
and trust the Lord with what I cannot yet see.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
— Psalm 27:14 (NIV)

I’m Learning What I Can Carry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are some things I’ve realized I carry without even noticing.

Other people’s expectations.
Their discomfort.
Their silence.
Their need for things to stay easy.

And in a lot of ways, it’s not accidental.

Sometimes, people do ask you to carry it.
Sometimes it’s implied.
Sometimes it’s expected.

Carry this so things don’t get harder.
Carry this so we don’t have to talk about it.
Carry this quietly — and preferably without complaint.

And for a long time, I did.

I told myself it was kindness.
That it was maturity.
That this was just what you do when you love people or want peace.

But there’s a difference between being generous
and being weighed down.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a quieter, braver question:
Is this something I can carry without losing myself?

Because some burdens don’t just make you tired —
they slowly teach you to disappear.

I’m learning that it’s okay to name discomfort.
That it’s okay to acknowledge the weight.
That carrying something doesn’t mean I’m required to carry it forever.

I can still be compassionate without being silent.
Faithful without being compliant.
Present without absorbing what was never mine to hold alone.

That’s the work right now.

Not rejecting responsibility —
but choosing honesty.

Learning what I can carry.
And trusting God with the rest.

“For each one should carry their own load.”
— Galatians 6:5 (NIV)

Hope, Defined

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The dictionary defines hope as
a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

I’ve always found that definition a little fragile.

Because feelings change.
Expectations disappoint.
And desire doesn’t always mean fulfillment.

If hope is just wishful thinking — just wanting things to turn out a certain way — then it’s easy to lose when life doesn’t cooperate.

But Scripture speaks about hope differently.

Biblical hope isn’t rooted in circumstances or outcomes.
It isn’t dependent on how things look today, or whether prayers are answered quickly, or whether the story unfolds the way we imagined.

Biblical hope is confidence — not in what will happen, but in Who is holding it all.

It’s the kind of hope that remains when the waiting is long.
The kind that stays when answers don’t come right away.
The kind that doesn’t collapse when life feels uncertain.

This kind of hope isn’t passive or naïve.
It’s anchored.

It doesn’t say, “Everything will work out the way I want.”
It says, “God is still good, even here.”

And sometimes, that’s the difference between despair and endurance.

On days when hope feels thin, I’m learning to come back to this truth:
Hope isn’t pretending things are easy.
It’s choosing to trust that God is faithful — even when things are not.

That kind of hope doesn’t fade when circumstances change.
It deepens.

And that’s the kind of hope I want to hold onto.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
— Hebrews 6:19 (NIV)

I’m Learning to Leave the Light On

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I don’t always know what’s coming next.
Some days, I don’t even feel certain about what’s right in front of me.

There are moments when it would be easier to shut the door,
to turn the lights off,
to wait in the dark until something makes sense again.

But I’m learning not to do that.

I’m learning to leave the light on —
not because I’m fearless,
but because I don’t want uncertainty to harden me.

For myself.
For hope.
For the parts of me that are still becoming, still healing, still learning how to trust without a clear outline of what’s ahead.

Leaving the light on looks like staying open.
It looks like choosing presence over retreat.
Like believing that clarity isn’t the only sign of faith.

Some nights, faith doesn’t look like confidence at all.
It looks like keeping the room warm.
Like refusing to shut myself off.
Like making space for what might still arrive.

Tonight, I don’t have answers.
But I’m still here.
Still open.
Still trusting that light, even when it’s small, is worth keeping on.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”
— Psalm 56:3 (NIV)

What I Don’t Owe an Explanation For

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

I’ve noticed something about myself lately.

How quickly I start explaining.
Softening.
Adding context.
Filling in gaps no one actually asked me to fill.

As if my choices need to be justified to be valid.
As if my boundaries need a backstory to be respected.
As if my silence needs a footnote.

But the truth is — not everything in my life requires an explanation.

Not my pace.
Not my decisions.
Not what I’m holding close.
Not what I’m choosing to keep private.

Some things are allowed to just be.
Allowed to exist without permission.
Allowed to make sense only to the ones living them.

I’m learning that constant explanation is often rooted in fear —
fear of being misunderstood,
fear of disappointing,
fear of being seen as too much or not enough.

And I don’t want to live from that place anymore.

I want to trust myself enough to let my “no” stand on its own.
To let my “yes” be simple.
To let my life speak without me narrating every chapter.

This isn’t about becoming closed off.
It’s about becoming settled.

Because the more honest I am with myself,
the less I feel the need to convince anyone else.

And that kind of quiet confidence?
It feels like peace.

“A person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense.”
— Proverbs 19:11 (NIV)