Christian encouragement

When Fear Meets Peace

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

You get a call.

You receive a message.

You read something you weren’t expecting.

And before you’ve even had time to process it, your mind is already there.

The worst-case scenario.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Worry.

All of it arriving at once.

You feel it in your chest before you’ve even decided what to think.

Especially when it involves your heart.

And then something else happens.

Almost at the exact same time…

Peace.

Not because the fear wasn’t warranted.

Not because the circumstances suddenly changed.

Not because you received another message telling you everything was going to be okay.

Just peace.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe that feeling.

And the closest thing I can think of is two waves crashing into each other.

One coming from one direction.

The other meeting it head-on.

Fear says,

What if?

Peace says,

I am here.

Fear starts writing the ending.

Peace reminds me the story isn’t mine to finish.

Fear tells me to prepare for everything that could go wrong.

Peace somehow settles over the very place fear is trying to reach.

And suddenly I understand Philippians 4:7 a little differently.

Paul doesn’t say the peace of God will make everything understandable.

He says it transcends understanding.

And then he says it will guard our hearts and our minds.

Maybe that’s what I’ve felt.

Not fear disappearing.

But peace meeting it at the door.

Standing between the fear and my heart.

Guarding what matters most while my mind is still trying to make sense of what just happened.

I used to think experiencing God’s peace meant I wouldn’t feel afraid.

Now I think I had that wrong.

Maybe peace and fear can arrive in the same moment.

Maybe faith is what happens when they collide…

and peace is the one I allow to stay.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4:7 (NIV)

Evidence in the Waiting

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I think I’ve spent a lot of time looking for evidence of God’s faithfulness in endings.

The answered prayer.

The open door.

The moment everything finally makes sense.

The part of the story where I can look back and say,

There. That’s what God was doing.

But what about before that?

What about the middle?

What about when the prayer is still a prayer?

When the door hasn’t opened.

When the answer hasn’t come.

When you’re still waiting.

I’ve started wondering if maybe I’ve been looking for the wrong kind of evidence.

Because even in the waiting, there is evidence.

The strength that showed up when mine ran out.

The peace I couldn’t explain.

The person who called at exactly the right time.

The provision that wasn’t enough for the entire journey, but was enough for today.

The courage to take one more step without knowing where the next one would lead.

Maybe I’ve been treating those things like small mercies along the way to the answer.

But what if they are the answer, too?

Not the answer to when.

Or why.

Or how this ends.

But the answer to something perhaps even more important:

Are You still here?

Yes.

There is evidence everywhere.

Not always evidence of where God is taking me.

But evidence that He hasn’t left me while I get there.

Maybe that’s what waiting has been teaching me.

I don’t have to reach the other side before I can testify to God’s faithfulness.

I can find evidence of it here.

Right in the middle.

While I’m still waiting.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

— Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)

What Do I Believe About Myself?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Our preacher said something this morning that stayed with me:

“I am what I believe about myself.”

And immediately, I started thinking about all the things I’ve believed about myself over the years.

Some were true.

Some weren’t.

Some were things I decided on my own.

Others were handed to me by people whose words I trusted more than I should have.

And somewhere along the way, those beliefs became part of the way I saw myself.

That’s what makes the next thing he said so important:

The gospel restores what sin distorts.

Sin distorts.

Grace restores.

I can’t stop thinking about those two words.

Because distortion doesn’t necessarily change what something is.

It changes the way we see it.

A distorted mirror doesn’t change the person standing in front of it.

It changes the reflection.

And I wonder how many of us have spent years believing the reflection.

Not capable enough.

Not worthy enough.

Too much of this.

Not enough of that.

Defined by something we did.

Or something someone did to us.

But grace doesn’t ask the distorted reflection who we are.

God does.

And Scripture tells a very different story.

Chosen.

Loved.

Redeemed.

Forgiven.

His workmanship.

Made new.

Maybe grace restoring our identity isn’t about becoming someone we’ve never been.

Maybe it’s about finally seeing ourselves through the eyes of the One who knew exactly who He was creating.

That makes me reconsider the sentence:

“I am what I believe about myself.”

Because perhaps the more important question is:

What do I believe about myself—and who taught me to believe it?

If the answer isn’t consistent with what God says about me…

maybe that’s not an identity I was ever meant to carry.

Sin distorts.

Grace restores.

And sometimes restoration begins by looking into a different mirror.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

— Ephesians 2:10 (NIV)

Near

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about two words lately.

Near.

And draw.

Scripture says,

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…”

Then James writes,

“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.”

For years, I read those verses as though they were saying the same thing.

This week, I realized they aren’t.

One describes God’s posture.

The other describes ours.

God’s posture has always been nearness.

He moves toward us.

He remains with us.

He doesn’t abandon us when life becomes difficult.

His nearness isn’t something we earn.

It’s who He is.

Ours is different.

We’re the ones invited to draw near.

Not because God wandered away.

But because our hearts have a tendency to.

The more I sat with that thought, the more I realized something.

God’s posture has never been the problem.

Mine has.

I don’t drift because God becomes distant.

I drift because life becomes loud.

Because I become distracted.

Because I begin relying on myself instead of resting in Him.

The invitation has never been to convince God to come closer.

The invitation has always been to turn toward the God who already is.

That changes the way I read both verses.

Drawing near isn’t about shortening the distance between God and me.

It’s about becoming aware that the distance was never on His side.

Maybe that’s why James tells us to draw near.

Not because God needs to move.

Because sometimes I do.

And somehow…

there’s great comfort in knowing that every step I take toward Him is met by the One who has been near all along.

“Come near to God and he will come near to you.”
— James 4:8 (NIV)

The Prayer I Keep Coming Back To

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some prayers are long.

Some are carefully thought out.

Some are whispered through tears.

And some become so familiar that they begin to feel like home.

I’ve noticed that difficult seasons have a way of simplifying my prayers.

When life feels uncertain…

when I’m carrying more than I know what to do with…

when grief and hope somehow occupy the same space in my heart…

I don’t usually have eloquent words.

I have one prayer.

Not because it’s magical.

Not because repeating it changes my circumstances.

But because it reminds me of what I so easily forget.

It reminds me that grief and hope don’t have to compete with each other.

For a long time, I thought healing meant grieving less.

Now I wonder if healing isn’t grieving less… but learning to grieve without letting grief become the loudest voice in the room.

I’ve learned that it’s possible to miss what was…

while still believing God for what could be.

It’s possible to mourn what has been lost…

without losing sight of what God is still creating.

It’s possible to carry sadness in one hand…

and hope in the other.

Maybe that’s what faith looks like.

Not pretending everything is okay.

Not rushing past heartbreak.

Not forcing gratitude before we’re ready.

But trusting that God is still building something beautiful while we’re standing in the middle of what feels broken.

That’s why I keep coming back to this prayer.

Not because I’ve mastered it.

Because I still need it.

Almost every day.

Lord, help me grieve what I’ve lost without losing sight of what You’re still building.

Give me peace for today and hope for tomorrow.

Amen.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

Isaiah 43:18–19 (NIV)

What Are You Letting Dwell?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve read Philippians 4:7 more times than I can count.

I’ve memorized it.

Quoted it.

Clung to it.

But this week, one word stopped me.

Guard.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 4:7

Why guard?

Why not comfort?

Why not calm?

Why not reassure?

Why guard?

That word assumes something.

It assumes our hearts and our minds are vulnerable.

That there are thoughts trying to make themselves at home.

So I looked up the definition of worry.

One definition described it as dwelling on potential difficulties.

That word caught my attention.

Dwell.

Isn’t that exactly what worry does?

It doesn’t simply knock on the door.

It moves in.

It pulls up a chair.

It rearranges the furniture.

Before long, it begins convincing us that it belongs there.

We replay conversations that haven’t happened.

We imagine outcomes that may never come.

We carry tomorrow’s burdens before tomorrow ever arrives.

Worry has a way of settling into places it was never invited.

But Paul paints an entirely different picture.

He says the peace of God will guard our hearts and our minds.

A guard doesn’t promise that trouble won’t come.

A guard doesn’t pretend there isn’t danger outside the gate.

A guard simply decides what gets through.

That changes everything.

Peace isn’t pretending life is easy.

Peace isn’t the absence of uncertainty.

Peace is the presence of Christ standing watch over the places where worry longs to dwell.

Maybe that’s why Paul says this peace surpasses all understanding.

Because it isn’t dependent on understanding.

It isn’t waiting for every question to be answered.

It’s trusting the One who already knows the answers.

I don’t know what you’re carrying today.

Maybe it’s a diagnosis.

A relationship.

Your children.

Your future.

Your finances.

Or simply a thousand “what ifs” that keep circling your mind.

Whatever it is…

remember this:

Worry wants to dwell.

But peace stands guard.

And I’d rather have a guard at the door than another answer to every question.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Philippians 4:7 (NIV)

He’s Not Finished Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are days when hope feels like a stranger.
When everything I thought would be — isn’t.
When the pain feels louder than the promise,
and I wonder if this is where the story ends.

I think of Mary.
Weeping at the foot of the cross.
Heart shattered.
Hope buried beneath the weight of what she couldn’t make sense of.

What she didn’t realize was…
Easter was coming.

The silence wasn’t the final word.
The grief wasn’t the whole story.
And the cross wasn’t the end.

Sometimes, I find myself standing in the same kind of ache —
facing heartbreak I didn’t ask for,
surrounded by questions without answers,
unsure of what’s ahead
or if anything good can come from here.

But then I remember…

God doesn’t leave things undone.
He doesn’t abandon stories halfway through.
He doesn’t hand us the pen and walk away.

Even when I can’t see how He’s moving,
He is still writing.
Still redeeming.
Still resurrecting.

The hope I need today might not be in a happy ending —
but in the quiet truth that this isn’t the end.

Because even when all hope seems lost,
my story isn’t over.
And the Author of my life
isn’t finished yet.

Faith in the Flicker

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Faith in the Flicker

Some days, my faith isn’t loud.

It doesn’t rise with bold declarations or feel steady and unshakable.

It flickers —
like a candle near an open window,
trembling just to stay lit.

But I’m learning that God doesn’t measure my faith in volume.

He sees the quiet yes.
The whispered prayers.
The breath I take before I try again.
The tears I cry while still choosing to believe.

He doesn’t shame me when I’m unsure.
He doesn’t back away when I’m tired.
He doesn’t need me to be brave to stay close.

Even the smallest spark is enough for Him to work with.

Because He’s not waiting on my strength —
He’s offering me His.

And even when I feel like I’m barely holding on,
I’m still held.

The Strength Fear Tries to Steal

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I’ve wasted so many todays
worrying about tomorrow.

Not intentionally.
Not because I wanted to.
But because anxiety is sneaky like that —
convincing you that if you think it through just one more time,
you’ll feel better.

Spoiler: you don’t.

I read something recently that really stuck out to me:
“What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties today of its strength.”
— Alexander McLaren

And I felt it.

Because fear doesn’t just whisper worst-case scenarios —
it drains the light from moments that were meant to hold joy.
It robs us of the strength we do have for right now,
by convincing us we need to hoard it for what might come later.

But we weren’t made to live that way.
Not crouched in fear.
Not rehearsing pain that hasn’t even happened.

Today is still here.
And it still matters.

God didn’t promise we’d be fearless.
But He did promise He’d be with us.
And that is more than enough.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of what we fear —
but the presence of the One who knows how to carry us through it.

So for today —
not tomorrow, just today —
I’m choosing presence over panic.
Trust over spirals.
And strength over fear.

The Turn I Almost Missed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I thought about writing today —
about joy in the storm.
But I hesitated.
It felt like something I’d written too many times before.
Like maybe I should find a new angle,
a different message.

So I got up.
Did some laundry.
Checked a few boxes off the list.
And opened my devotional —
Watching for the Morning by Vaneetha Rendall Risner.
A liferaft of a book in this season.

The title for today?
“The Greatest Turn in Scripture.”

And beneath it, these words:

“Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
—Lamentations 3:21–23

I stopped.
Because I knew.
God was speaking to me — again.
Through a verse I’ve read a hundred times.
Through a theme I thought I’d already written to death.

But maybe that’s the point.

Even Jeremiah —
mid-anguish, breathless and undone —
stopped.

He didn’t forget the pain.
He didn’t pretend it didn’t exist.
But he remembered something deeper.
“Yet this I call to mind…”
That even when everything felt lost,
God’s mercies were not.

And suddenly, hope entered the story.

I almost didn’t write this.
I almost brushed past the very word I needed.
Because I thought I’d already said it.

But today reminded me —
some truths are worth repeating.
Some mercies are new, even in familiar form.

I’ll never forget the storms.
But I’ll also never stop looking for the joy
that rises in the middle of them.

“I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for Him.’”
—Lamentations 3:24