christian living

I Know Better Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are things I used to believe with absolute certainty.

Things I defended.

Things I thought I understood.

Opinions I would have argued for.

Choices I was convinced were right.

And now?

I see some of them differently.

I used to think changing my mind meant admitting I had been wrong.

And technically, sometimes it does.

But I don’t think that’s something to be embarrassed by anymore.

Because what is the alternative?

To learn something new and refuse to let it change me?

To experience more of life and insist on seeing it exactly as I did before?

To ask God for wisdom and then cling to the person I was before He gave me any?

I don’t want to do that.

I want to reserve the right to know better now.

To say,

I understand that differently than I used to.

I wouldn’t make that choice today.

I was wrong about that.

Not with shame.

With gratitude.

Because there should be things I see differently at this point in my life.

There should be beliefs that have softened.

Assumptions I’ve questioned.

Convictions that have deepened.

Things I’ve had to unlearn.

If I believe God is still shaping me, then I can’t also expect every version of me to think exactly the same way.

Growth should leave some old opinions behind.

Wisdom should change something.

Grace should, too.

So I’m becoming less interested in defending who I used to be.

She knew what she knew.

She did what she could with it.

And now I know more.

I hope ten years from now I can say the same thing about the person I am today.

Because maybe one of the clearest signs that we’re still growing is being able to look back occasionally and say,

I know better now.

And then live like we do.

“Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance.”

– Proverbs 1:5

The Race I Thought I Was Running

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

For a long time, I lived as though life was a race.

A race to accomplish more.

To become more.

To get there first.

To catch up.

To stay ahead.

To prove something.

And if I’m honest, I didn’t even realize I was running.

I just assumed that’s what everyone was doing.

Then I started paying closer attention to Scripture.

Paul tells us to run the race.

But he never tells us to race each other.

Somewhere along the way, I confused the two.

I measured my life against other people’s timelines.

Their opportunities.

Their marriages.

Their highlights.

No wonder I was tired.

I wasn’t just running.

I was competing.

You can’t faithfully run your race while constantly looking sideways at someone else’s.

Hebrews tells us to:

“Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us…”

That phrase stopped me.

The race marked out for us.

Not the race I wish I had.

Not the race someone else is running.

Not the race culture says I should be winning.

The one God marked out for me.

Maybe faithfulness has never been about finishing first.

Maybe it has always been about staying the course.

About keeping my eyes on Christ instead of constantly looking over my shoulder.

I’ve started wondering how much peace we would find if we stopped asking,

“Am I keeping up?”

and started asking,

“Am I being faithful?”

Because one question breeds comparison.

The other invites contentment.

The race was never about beating the person beside us.

It has always been about following the One in front of us.

Maybe the finish line was never the goal.

Faithfulness was.

“Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.”

— Hebrews 12:1–2 (NIV)

Stewarding My Life

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The older I get, the more I think about stewardship.

When I was younger, I thought stewardship was mostly about money.

Giving.

Managing.

Being responsible.

But I’m beginning to realize stewardship reaches so much further than that.

My life itself has been entrusted to me.

My words.

My time.

My relationships.

My gifts.

My opportunities.

Even the difficult seasons I never would have chosen.

None of them were ever truly mine to begin with.

They’re all things God has placed in my hands for a little while.

That changes the questions I ask.

Instead of asking,

“How much can I accomplish?”

I find myself asking,

“Am I being faithful with what’s already been entrusted to me?”

Because one day I won’t give an account for someone else’s life.

Only my own.

How I loved.

How I spoke.

How I forgave.

How I used the gifts God gave me.

How I cared for the people He placed in my path.

How I responded to both joy and suffering.

I’ve realized stewardship isn’t about perfection.

It’s about faithfulness.

It’s waking up each morning and quietly praying,

“Lord, help me care well for everything You’ve placed in my hands today.”

Not because I’m trying to earn His approval.

But because everything I have has always been His.

Maybe living faithfully isn’t about chasing a bigger life.

Maybe it’s about stewarding this one well.

“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

— 1 Peter 4:10 (NIV)

The Weight of Words

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Our preacher spoke from James 3 this morning, and I’ve found myself thinking about it ever since.

James compares the tongue to a bit in a horse’s mouth.

A rudder on a ship.

A tiny spark that can set an entire forest ablaze.

It’s remarkable that something so small can carry so much power.

And yet…

I think most of us know that’s true long before we ever read it in Scripture.

We’ve all experienced words that stayed with us.

Some became a source of courage.

Others became wounds.

Sometimes a sentence spoken in just a few seconds can echo in someone’s heart for years.

I’ve also realized something.

The words spoken to us have a way of becoming the words we speak to ourselves.

If we’re told we’re not enough often enough,
we begin to believe it.

If we’re constantly criticized,
our inner voice slowly learns the same language.

That’s why James isn’t simply warning us to be careful with our words.

He’s reminding us that our words have the power to give life.

Or to leave wounds that linger long after they’ve been spoken.

Not only in the lives of the people around us,
but sometimes in our own hearts as well.

And maybe that’s why I’ve been asking God to do something deeper than helping me choose kinder words.

I’ve been asking Him to reshape my heart.

Because I want the words that leave my mouth—and the words that stay in my mind—to reflect the One who gave me both.

After all, words don’t just reveal what’s in our hearts.

Given enough time…

they begin to shape them, too.

Anchor Verse

“Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.”

— James 3:5 (NIV)

When Grief Becomes a Prayer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“Pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord.” — Lamentations 2:19

We don’t talk about Lamentations very often.

It’s not the book we memorize.
Not the one we highlight in bright yellows and pinks.
It’s messy.
Heavy.
It aches in a way that doesn’t tie up neatly with a bow.

But I’ve found comfort there —
not because it fixes anything,
but because it feels like the inside of my own heart sometimes.

There’s this idea I read recently,
by Clint Watkins:
“You may feel that God is being unloving or unmerciful.
But instead of turning those feelings into a conclusion,
lament helps you turn them into a conversation.”

That line stopped me.

Because how often do we rush past our ache,
afraid it will make us unfaithful?
How often do we silence our sorrow,
thinking God can’t handle it?

But Lamentations tells a different story.
It invites the ache to speak.
It gives language to the weary.
It shows us that grief can belong in prayer —
not as something to hide,
but something to hold.

Lament doesn’t mean you’ve lost your faith.
It means you’re bringing your pain to the only One
who can sit with it fully.

You don’t have to explain it all.
You don’t have to tie it up in theology.
You’re allowed to simply say:
“This hurts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Where are You in this?”

And He listens.

So if you’re carrying questions too heavy for answers —
you’re not alone.
And you’re not faithless.

You’re lamenting.

And that… is still prayer.

What Is Your Only Comfort?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve spent most of my life in church — Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesdays too.
I was raised on Scripture, shaped by the quiet rhythm of pews and communion trays, and taught early on that the Word of God is enough. It still is.

So when I recently came across something called The Heidelberg Catechism, I wasn’t looking for new theology or creeds. I just happened upon a phrase — one that reached into my heart and wrapped its arms around something I didn’t know needed holding.

“What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
That I am not my own… but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I had to read it again.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying a lot — grief that lingers, questions that don’t resolve neatly, and moments that make me feel a little too small for the weight of this world.

But those words.
I am not my own… I belong.

Not to my pain.
Not to my past.
Not to what others say about me, or even what I sometimes believe about myself.

I belong to Christ.

Not because I’ve earned it.
Not because I always feel it.
But because He said so. Because He gave everything to make it so.

That line from the Catechism isn’t Scripture — but the truth behind it is echoed all throughout the Bible:

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price…”
—1 Corinthians 6:19–20

That’s what I want to remember on the days I feel unseen.
On the nights I question if I’m doing enough, being enough, holding together enough.

I want to remember that comfort — the kind of comfort that can only be found in Scripture, the kind that the Heidelberg Catechism question offered me.
Not found in perfect understanding, but in the unwavering truth that I belong to Him.