Devotional

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.

When the Question Finds You

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The other night,
I was talking with my mom —
words soft, the ache quieter than usual.
And without really planning to, I said it:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Not in anger. Not even in desperation.
Just honesty. Gentle, aching honesty.
Like something long held finally exhaled.

Later that evening,
I opened my Bible study,
not expecting anything —
just turning the page like always.

And there it was:

“Please, my Lord,” Gideon asked,
“if the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us?”
— Judges 6:13

I sat still.
Because it felt like He’d answered me —
not with a solution,
but with solidarity.

The very thing I had whispered
was echoed in ancient words.
Like the question had been waiting
for someone else to ask it too.

I didn’t need an explanation in that moment.
I just needed to know
that someone had stood in this place before me —
and God met them there.

This is the mystery of mercy:
that even the rawest ache
does not scare Him away.
It draws Him closer.

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.

When Joy Comes Back Quietly

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

No one really talks about the part where joy returns —
softly.
Unexpectedly.
Almost like it’s knocking on a door you didn’t think would open again.

You’re still in the middle of it.
Still waiting on answers.
Still holding pieces of things that haven’t healed.

And yet…

You find yourself laughing — really laughing —
and it doesn’t feel forced.
You notice sunlight filtering through the trees,
and it actually stirs something in you.
You start to feel curious again —
about life, about yourself,
about what could still be possible.

It’s disorienting, isn’t it?
After so much survival,
you almost feel guilty for coming alive again.

But this —
this is what healing starts to look like.
Not a finish line.
But little signs of life
breaking through the cracks of everything that tried to bury you.

You don’t have to apologize for the joy.
You don’t have to explain the strength.
You don’t have to wait for perfect to begin living again.

This moment is holy.
This joy is allowed.
And this life — right here — is still yours.

Scripture

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”
— John 10:10 (NIV)