Reflections

Beautiful, Quiet, and Not Yet Safe

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s snowing here.

Everything outside is white and quiet and beautiful —
the kind of beauty that makes you want to stop and stare.

But the conditions are hazardous.
The roads are slick.
The kind of beauty you admire from the window,
not the kind you rush out into.

So we stay inside.
Warm.
Still.
Watching.

And it strikes me how often life looks like this.

How something can appear peaceful,
gentle,
even inviting —
while underneath, it isn’t safe to move yet.

Not everything beautiful is meant to be touched.
Not every open door is meant to be walked through.
Not every season that looks calm is ready for forward motion.

Sometimes wisdom looks like staying put.
Like waiting.
Like trusting that stillness isn’t wasted time.

The snow will melt when it’s time.
The roads will clear.
Movement will come.

But for now, there is grace in staying inside.
In paying attention.
In letting beauty exist without demanding more from it.

Tonight, I’m not rushing the thaw.
I’m letting this be what it is.

Beautiful.
Quiet.
And not yet safe.

“In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15 (NIV)

God Has a Plan for It All

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Oftentimes, we confuse the idea of “it’s all a part of God’s plan” with “God has a plan for it all.”

And that confusion matters.

Because when we tell ourselves that everything is part of His plan, it can make suffering feel unbearable to reconcile.
If God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving — why didn’t He step in?
Why didn’t He stop it?
Why did He allow me to live through this?

Those questions are deeply human. And they’re honest.

But reframing it this way changes something in me:

God has a plan for it all.

Not that He authored the pain.
Not that He desired the tragedy.
But that He is able to redeem it.

God has a plan to use our suffering.
A plan to use our brokenness.
A plan to take the scars we never asked for and turn them into places of compassion.

He meets us in our pain — and then, through it, gives us the ability to meet others in theirs.

Not because the suffering was good.
But because He is.

“For you, God, tested us; you refined us like silver…
we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance.”
— Psalm 66:10–12a (NIV)

When I Come Back to Prayer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Sometimes prayer doesn’t begin with words.
It begins with a pause.

A moment where I stop moving long enough to notice
what I’ve been carrying without saying.

Lately, prayer has felt less like asking
and more like returning.

Returning to honesty.
Returning to stillness.
Returning to the simple truth that I don’t have to hold everything on my own.

I don’t always know what to say when I come.
Some days it’s just a sentence.
Some days it’s just a breath.
Some days it’s nothing more than staying.

And maybe that counts.

Maybe prayer isn’t measured by how clear or confident we sound.
Maybe it’s measured by our willingness to show up
without rehearsing,
without fixing,
without pretending we’re fine.

I’m learning that prayer doesn’t always change the situation right away.
But it changes where I stand inside of it.

And sometimes, that’s the quiet grace of it —
not answers,
not certainty,
just presence.

God meeting me where I am.
And me learning to stay there a little longer.

“Truly my soul finds rest in God;
my salvation comes from him.”
— Psalm 62:1 (NIV)

Signs or Messages

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the difference between a sign
and a message from God.

A sign feels external.
Something you notice.
Something that makes you pause.

A message feels quieter.
More internal.
Something that settles instead of startles.

For a long time, I was searching for signs —
something obvious enough to remove doubt.

But I’m learning God doesn’t always speak that way.

Sometimes what He offers isn’t direction,
but discernment.

Not an answer —
but awareness.

A peace that doesn’t make logical sense.
A hesitation that asks you to slow down.
A nudge that doesn’t shout,
but doesn’t go away either.

Maybe signs point outward.
And messages draw us inward.

And maybe the work isn’t deciphering everything,
but learning to listen
to what quietly brings peace.

“After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.
And after the fire came a gentle whisper.”
— 1 Kings 19:12 (NIV)

Honesty, Lately

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I chose my word for the new year to be honesty —
and honestly, I’ve been seeing life through a more honest lens just by setting that intention.

I’ve been more honest with myself about how I’m actually feeling.
More honest with others, too.
Not forcing myself to push through when I know I need to be still.

That honesty has softened things.
It’s made room for rest instead of resistance.

And it’s shifted the way I see people.

I feel like I notice intentions more clearly now —
not in a suspicious way,
just with awareness.

Whether someone is being honest or not.

And instead of trying to correct it or carry it,
I’m learning to simply see it…
and respond accordingly.

“Yet you desired faithfulness even in the womb;
you taught me wisdom in that secret place.”
— Psalm 51:6 (NIV)

Faith, Defined

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for,
the conviction of things not seen.”

I’ve read that verse so many times.
But lately, it feels less like a definition
and more like a description of how I’m living.

Faith isn’t certainty.
It’s not clarity.
It’s not having the outcome in hand.

It’s waking up and choosing hope anyway.
Trusting something is forming,
even when you can’t see it yet.
Standing on ground that feels steady
only because you believe it is.

Faith is quiet like that.
Unimpressive.
Unseen.
But strong enough to hold a life together.

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
— Hebrews 11:1 (ESV)

Things I Don’t Have Language For Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There are things in my life right now that I don’t have words for.

Not because I’m avoiding them.
Not because I’m pretending they don’t exist.
But because they haven’t settled into language yet.

They live somewhere deeper than explanation.
Somewhere between what’s happened and what I understand about it.
Somewhere I’m still learning how to sit with.

I’ve noticed how quickly we’re expected to name things.
To define them.
To explain how we feel and why and what it all means.

But not everything arrives with clarity.
Some things take time before they can be spoken honestly.

So for now, I’m letting a few things remain unnamed.
Not hidden — just unfinished.

I trust that when the words come, they’ll come gently.
And until then, it’s okay to live with what I don’t yet know how to say.

“In the same way, 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)

Still With Me

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quiet reassurance woven through Scripture that I keep coming back to —
the reminder that God doesn’t leave when life feels unsettled.

Not when faith feels steady.
Not when it feels thin.
Not when the questions linger longer than the answers.

He stays.

Sometimes I think we expect God’s nearness to feel dramatic —
a sudden clarity, a strong emotion, a sense of certainty.
But more often, His presence feels like something quieter.

Like endurance.
Like steadiness.
Like the ability to keep showing up even when the path isn’t clear.

This kind of faith doesn’t always announce itself.
It simply remains.

And maybe that’s what Sunday is for —
not to arrive with everything resolved,
but to remember that we’re not walking alone into the week ahead.

God is still with us.
Still faithful.
Still holding what we can’t.

That truth doesn’t remove the weight of life,
but it does make it a little more bearable.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

“The Lord is near to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth.”
— Psalm 145:18 (NIV)

Not a Resolution

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Every year around this time, we’re encouraged to dream big.
Pick a word.
Set a goal.
Decide who you’re going to be by December.

So we do.

And then, quietly, we find ourselves standing at the corner of
“This was too lofty”
and
“I’ve already let myself down”
by the time February rolls around.

I’m learning that maybe the problem isn’t our lack of discipline —
it’s the pressure to become someone overnight.

This year, I’ve gone back and forth between words like steadfast and courageous.
Both good. Both meaningful.

But the word that keeps returning —
the one that feels less like a goal and more like a posture —
is honesty.

Honesty about what I’m carrying.
About what I can give.
About where I actually am, not where I think I should be by now.

So instead of asking who I want to be by the end of the year,
I’m asking something smaller, quieter, and more livable:

How do I want to live today?

And right now, the answer looks like this:
with honesty — toward God, toward others, and toward myself.

That feels like enough to begin.

“Surely you desire truth in the inner parts; you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.”
— Psalm 51:6 (NIV)

I’m Not Waiting for Closure

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

For a long time, I thought closure was something I needed in order to move forward.
A conversation.
An apology.
An explanation that made everything make sense.

But life doesn’t always offer that.

Some stories don’t wrap up neatly.
Some questions stay unanswered.
Some endings come without the clarity we hoped for.

And waiting for closure can quietly turn into waiting on life to begin again.

Lately, I’ve been realizing that I don’t have to wait for everything to make sense before I keep living.
I don’t need every loose end tied.
I don’t need a final chapter before I turn the page.

There’s a different kind of peace that comes from accepting what is —
from releasing the need to understand it all
and choosing to move forward anyway.

Not because it didn’t matter.
But because I matter too.

So I’m not waiting for closure.
I’m choosing presence.
I’m choosing the next right step.
I’m choosing to live fully in the middle — even if some things remain unfinished.

And that feels like freedom.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!”
— Isaiah 43:18–19 (NIV)