Reflections

The Part We Want to Rush Through

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I came across something today that made me pause.

For a season, David was a shepherd.
The next, he was king.

For a season, Ruth was working in the fields.
The next, she was part of something she never could have arranged on her own.

For a season, Mordecai sat outside the palace.
The next, he was brought inside.

It’s easy to read stories like that
and focus on how everything changed.

How quickly things turned.
How differently it all ended.

But that’s not how they lived it.

They lived it in the middle.

In the parts that didn’t feel significant yet.
In the waiting.
In the uncertainty.
In the seasons that probably felt uncomfortable and unclear.

And if I’m honest,
that’s the part I struggle with the most.

I don’t like sitting in seasons that don’t make sense.
I don’t like the feeling of not knowing what God is doing.
I don’t like the stretch, the tension, the waiting.

I want to move through it.
Get to the next thing.
Understand it already.

But when I read stories like these,
I’m reminded of something I don’t always want to remember.

God does some of His deepest work
in the seasons I’m most tempted to rush through.

Not after them.
Not once everything is resolved.

But right there —
in the discomfort.

In the parts that feel slow.
In the places that don’t look like anything is happening yet.

The shepherding.
The field work.
The sitting outside.

None of it was wasted.

And maybe the part I’m standing in right now
isn’t something to escape as quickly as possible.

Maybe it’s something to pay attention to.

Because it might be the very place
God is doing the work I’ll one day be grateful for.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work
— James 1:2–4 (NIV)

What I Reach for Without Thinking

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been noticing something I don’t think about very often.

Not what I choose —
but what I default to.

The things I reach for
before I’ve had time to decide who I want to be in the moment.

Because there’s a difference.

There’s the version of me that is thoughtful, grounded, intentional.

And then there’s the version of me
that shows up without asking permission.

The one that reacts before I reflect.
The one that fills the silence too quickly.
The one that tries to smooth things over, explain, or carry more than I need to.

And I’m starting to see that those moments matter more than I thought.

Not because they define me —
but because they reveal what’s still unlearning itself in me.

It’s easy to focus on the big changes.
The visible growth.
The things you can point to and say, I’m different now.

But the quieter work?

It shows up in the split second
between what happens
and what I instinctively reach for.

And lately, I’ve been asking myself —

What am I reaching for there?

Control?
Understanding?
Approval?
Silence?

Or something steadier?

Something truer?

I don’t think this is about getting it right every time.

I think it’s about becoming aware enough
to notice the pattern
before it runs the whole moment.

Because maybe growth doesn’t always look like a dramatic shift.

Maybe it looks like a pause.

A breath.

A different choice —
right in the space
where the old one used to live.

“Let us test and examine our ways, and return to the Lord.”
— Lamentations 3:40 (ESV)

Faith in the Unseen Work

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

One of the hardest parts of faith
is believing something is happening
when you can’t see it.

We’re used to progress that shows itself.
Plans that unfold clearly.
Answers that arrive in ways we recognize.

But God often works differently than that.

The most important work in our lives
rarely happens where we can watch it.

It happens quietly.

In the slow reshaping of our hearts.
In the patience we didn’t used to have.
In the wisdom that grows without announcing itself.

Sometimes we want visible movement —
a clear sign that things are changing.

But faith often asks something else from us.

It asks us to trust that God is working
in places we can’t measure yet.

Beneath the surface.
Behind the scenes.
Inside the parts of us still being formed.

And maybe the real evidence of His work
isn’t always what changes around us.

Sometimes it’s the quiet awareness
that we’re learning to trust Him
even without seeing the outcome yet.

“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”
— Hebrews 11:1 (NIV)

Stepping Back

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Sometimes the most helpful thing you can do
is step back for a moment.

Not to solve anything.
Not to figure everything out.

Just to look at your life from a little farther away.

The things that felt urgent yesterday
don’t always feel the same today.

The thoughts that were loud
lose some of their volume.

And suddenly you realize
how much of life we experience up close —
nose pressed against the glass —
trying to make sense of every detail.

But every once in a while,
a little distance reminds you of something simple.

You’re still here.
Still moving forward.
Still held.

And sometimes that’s all the clarity you need.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10 (NIV)

When You Realize You’ve Changed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a strange moment that happens sometimes in life.

You’re in a conversation.
Or a situation.
Or maybe just a quiet moment by yourself.

And you realize something.

You’re not reacting the way you used to.

The things that once pulled you into long explanations don’t have the same grip.
The moments that once demanded your defense feel different now.
The urge to fix everything, to smooth every misunderstanding, to carry every tension — it’s just… quieter.

It’s not that life suddenly became easier.

It’s that something in you became steadier.

Change rarely arrives with an announcement.

Most of the time it shows up quietly.

In the pause before you speak.
In the decision not to chase every narrative.
In the realization that peace is worth more than being understood.

You don’t always notice growth while it’s happening.

But every once in a while, life gives you a small moment where you see it clearly.

Not because everything around you has changed.

But because you have.

And that kind of change doesn’t usually come from comfort.

It comes from the slow, unseen work of becoming someone who no longer needs to respond the way they once did.

“And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory.”
— 2 Corinthians 3:18 (NIV)

Observing the Moments

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been noticing something lately.

How easy it is to move through a day without really seeing it.

We rush from one thing to the next —
the errands,
the conversations,
the small responsibilities that quietly fill our hours.

And before we know it, the day has passed
without us ever really pausing inside of it.

But every once in a while, something slows me down.

A laugh that lingers a little longer than expected.
A quiet room at the end of the day.
The feeling of the house settling into evening.

Small moments.

The kind that would be easy to overlook if I wasn’t paying attention.

I’m learning that life isn’t only made up of the big milestones we remember.

It’s built quietly out of these smaller pieces —
the ordinary minutes that pass without ceremony.

And maybe the beauty of it all
is simply taking the time to notice them.

Not trying to capture them.
Not trying to turn them into something bigger than they are.

Just observing them.

Letting them be enough.

Anchor Verse

“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
— Psalm 118:24 (NIV)

Not Flesh and Blood

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood…”

I’ve been thinking about how often we misplace our battles.

How quickly we assign faces to frustration.
Names to tension.
Blame to proximity.

It’s easier to believe the problem is the person standing in front of us.

Easier to react.
Easier to defend.
Easier to harden.

But Scripture gently reframes the fight.

Our struggle is not against flesh and blood.

Which means the war isn’t really with the person.
It’s with the fear.
The pride.
The insecurity.
The lies.
The unseen pressures shaping both of us.

This doesn’t excuse harm.
It doesn’t ignore boundaries.
It doesn’t mean you tolerate what isn’t healthy.

But it does shift the posture of your heart.

It keeps you from confusing people with enemies.

Sometimes what feels personal is spiritual.
Sometimes what feels intentional is insecurity.
Sometimes what feels like attack is simply someone else fighting their own unseen battle.

And when you remember that,
you respond differently.

You pray instead of react.
You step back instead of strike.
You guard your peace instead of trying to win.

Not because you’re passive.
But because you understand where the real battle lives.

We wrestle differently when we know what we’re actually wrestling.

And sometimes the most powerful move
is refusing to make a person your enemy.

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”
— Ephesians 6:12 (NIV)

Unremarkable

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Today was unremarkable.

Nothing shifted.
Nothing broke.
Nothing dramatically healed.

No big conversations.
No clear answers.
No sudden peace.

Just laundry.
Errands.
A few quiet thoughts that didn’t lead anywhere.

And maybe that’s okay.

Not every day has to carry meaning.
Not every week has to move the story forward.

Some days are just days.

And after the kind of weeks that stretch you thin,
an unremarkable day can feel like mercy.

No fire to put out.
No mountain to climb.
No valley to survive.

Just breath.
Just movement.
Just enough.

There’s something steady about that.
Something grounding.

Maybe not every day is meant to be remembered.
Maybe some are meant to let your nervous system rest.

Today didn’t change anything.

But it also didn’t undo me.

And for now,
that feels like enough.

“But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.”
— Psalm 131:2 (NIV)

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)