Reflections

What Will I Be Remembered For?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

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 Beauty That Makes Us Shiver

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

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

The Season Before the Bloom

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Nothing blooms without first going through a season.

Not the flowers.
Not the trees.
Not us.

We look at the petals and forget about the process.
The dirt.
The dark.
The slow stretching of roots beneath the surface where no one sees.

But that’s where it begins.
In the hidden places.
In the quiet.
In the parts that don’t look like growth — but are.

The truth is: God often does His deepest work in the seasons that feel still.
And stillness is not the same as stuck.
Waiting is not the same as wasted.

Just because it hasn’t bloomed yet doesn’t mean it won’t.

You might feel like nothing is happening,
like everything is stalled,
like this season is all delay and detour…

But maybe you’re not behind —
you’re right on time
for what’s growing beneath the surface.

And maybe the ache you feel isn’t the end of something —
maybe it’s the beginning of something that just hasn’t bloomed yet.

You’re allowed to be in a season of unseen growth.
You’re allowed to take root before you rise.
You’re allowed to honor the slow work of God in your life.

Because the bloom will come.

Not when you force it.
Not when you rush it.
But when it’s time.

And friend — it will be time.

Anchor Verse:

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

Closing Reflection:

If it feels like you’ve been buried lately,
maybe you’re not buried at all.
Maybe you’ve been planted.

Planted in grace.
Planted in mercy.
Planted in the very soil where new life will come.

So don’t lose heart in this season.
Something beautiful is growing here.

You may not see it yet,
but God does.

And He never wastes a season.

When Pain Speaks Louder

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quote by C.S. Lewis that’s been echoing in my spirit:

“God whispers to us in our pleasures,
speaks in our conscience,
but shouts in our pains:
it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

I used to think pain meant something had gone wrong.
That it meant God was far.
That something was broken beyond repair.

But I’m starting to see it differently.
Maybe pain doesn’t mean God is absent — maybe it means He’s speaking louder.
Not to punish.
Not to push us away.
But to draw us in.

Because sometimes, pain is the pause we didn’t know we needed.
It’s in the ache that we finally slow down enough to listen.
We stop running.
We stop striving.
We stop pretending we’re fine.

And in that stillness — in the ache — we hear Him differently.
Not always clearly.
Not always right away.
But somehow, deeply.

Maybe pain isn’t the place we find all the answers —
but it might be the place where we finally let go of needing them.

And in that letting go…
there’s finally space —
for Presence.
For peace.
For Him.

Anchor Verse

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

Maybe the pain hasn’t left…
but neither has He.

Rooted

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s not a loud kind of confidence.
Not the kind you have to announce.

It’s the kind that settles in
when you remember who made you…
and who holds you still.

I don’t feel the need to prove anything right now.
Not because I have it all together —
but because I know I’m already known.
Already loved.
Already His.

That changes how I carry myself.
Not with striving.
Just with peace.

“In Him we live and move and have our being.”
Acts 17:28 (NIV)

The Light We Already Carry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are moments when everything feels heavy —
when the world feels dark,
and I find myself whispering,
“It’s really dark, God. Can You help shine some light?”

And I feel Him answer,
softly but clearly:
“My child, you are to be the light.”

I’ve stood in the dark before, wishing for a flashlight — only to realize there was a light switch within reach.

Maybe it’s the same in life.
What we’re asking for might already be within us.
What we’re craving, we might already carry.

This world has always known darkness.
But that’s why the light matters.

Even a small light can change what feels overwhelming.

Maybe today, it begins with you.

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
Matthew 5:14 (ESV)

Tracing the Face of God

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There are moments I find myself crying out, not because I don’t believe God is near — but because I desperately want to feel Him.

It happened when I was driving home after something had upset me. I was talking to God the way I do when I’m worked up — no script, no filter, just honest. And I said out loud, “Even though I’m alone… I know I’m not alone. I know You’re sitting right here with me.”

But still — I wanted more.
Not more proof, just more presence.

I wanted to feel Him.
I wanted to see Him.
I wanted to hear something from Him — not metaphorically, not spiritually… but tangibly.

And then something struck me:
What I really wanted… was to be able to touch Him.
To smell Him.
To reach for Him like a child does their parent.

That’s when this image came to mind — one I’ve seen a hundred times in my own house.
Me, rocking my baby to sleep…
His tiny hands gently reaching for my face — tracing my lips, my eyelashes, my nose.
Not because he’s trying to calm me…
But because he’s learning me.
Because he wants to know the features of the one who loves him.

And I realized — maybe that’s what God wants from us too.

Maybe He wants us to be so hungry to know Him, so desperate to recognize Him, that we would reach for Him like a child in the dark.
Not to fix anything.
Not to perform anything.
But just to discover.

To trace the lines of His face.
To wonder where His hair falls at the nape of His neck.
To feel the curve of His jaw, the arch of His brow, the kindness in His eyes.
To know: this is my Father.

We often think of God as the one tracing us — counting the hairs on our head, holding our tears in a bottle, never sleeping as He watches over us.

But what if the invitation has always been two-way?

What if He’s not hiding — just waiting?
Waiting for us to draw closer.
Waiting for us to cup His face in our hands — not because we need something from Him… but because we want to know Him.

I want to know the God who knows me like that.

“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
1 Corinthians 13:12 (NIV)

The Still Places We’re Afraid to Sit In

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are quiet places that don’t feel peaceful at first.
They feel empty.
They feel unfamiliar.
They echo too much.

Sometimes it’s the stillness itself that feels loud —
not because it’s actually noisy,
but because we’ve been moving so fast for so long
that stopping feels like something might catch up with us.

Maybe it’s grief.
Maybe it’s fear.
Maybe it’s the simple ache of being alone with your thoughts —
without the to-do lists, the baby monitor, the scrolling, or the noise of a world that never stops.

But stillness is not punishment.
It’s invitation.

It’s where God gently meets us when we’re no longer outrunning Him.
Not with reprimand —
but with presence.

Because He doesn’t need our productivity.
He wants our proximity.

He just wants us close enough to hear Him when He whispers,
“I’m still here.”
“I’ve been here.”

And the stillness begins to soften.
The silence turns holy.
And the ache doesn’t disappear —
but it rests.

Not because it’s fixed,
but because it’s finally held.

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