discernment

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

Sitting in the Wilderness

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about something lately.

About solitude.

Not in a lonely way.
Not in a way that feels empty or disconnected.

But the kind of solitude Jesus stepped into
when He was led into the wilderness.

There’s something about that
that I don’t think I’ve fully understood before.

Because it wasn’t random.

He was led there.

And it was in that place—
quiet, alone, stripped of distraction—
that He was met with temptation.

And if I’m honest,
that’s the part that makes me hesitate.

Because I don’t find stillness easy.

Not physically.
And definitely not mentally.

When everything gets quiet,
my mind doesn’t always follow.

It wanders.
It replays things.
It reaches for thoughts that don’t lead anywhere good.

And it makes me want to avoid it.

To stay moving.
To keep filling the space.
To not sit still long enough
for those thoughts to surface.

But I can’t live that way forever.

I can’t stay in motion
just to avoid what might come up in the quiet.

Because Jesus didn’t avoid the wilderness.

He entered it.

And what I’m starting to realize
is that the discomfort of stillness
isn’t something to run from.

It’s something to learn how to sit in.

Not perfectly.
Not without resistance.

But long enough
to recognize that God is there too.

Not just the thoughts.
Not just the tension.

But Him.

And maybe that’s where the strength comes from.

Not from avoiding the quiet—
but from staying in it
long enough to know
you’re not alone there.

“Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, left the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness.”
— Luke 4:1 (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)

The Version of Me I Don’t Show

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a version of me that moves through the day just fine.

She answers texts.
She smiles at the store.
She gets things done.
She sounds steady.

And then there’s the version of me that sits in the car for an extra minute before going inside.

The one who replays conversations.
The one who wonders if she said too much — or not enough.
The one who is tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

Both versions are real.

I think we underestimate how much energy it takes to carry yourself well when life feels heavier than usual.

Not because you’re pretending.
But because you’re choosing not to unravel in public.

And that’s not dishonesty.
That’s discernment.

Not everyone gets access to your processing.
Not everyone needs to witness the unraveling.
Some spaces are for composure.
Some are for collapse.
Some are just for you and God.

I’m learning that strength isn’t the absence of struggle.
It’s knowing where to lay it down.

Maybe that’s just what it looks like to keep going.

There’s nothing wrong with the version of you that keeps going.
And there’s nothing wrong with the version of you that needs a minute.

You’re allowed to hold both.

“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.”
— Psalm 139:1–2 (NIV)

I’m Learning What I Can Carry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are some things I’ve realized I carry without even noticing.

Other people’s expectations.
Their discomfort.
Their silence.
Their need for things to stay easy.

And in a lot of ways, it’s not accidental.

Sometimes, people do ask you to carry it.
Sometimes it’s implied.
Sometimes it’s expected.

Carry this so things don’t get harder.
Carry this so we don’t have to talk about it.
Carry this quietly — and preferably without complaint.

And for a long time, I did.

I told myself it was kindness.
That it was maturity.
That this was just what you do when you love people or want peace.

But there’s a difference between being generous
and being weighed down.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a quieter, braver question:
Is this something I can carry without losing myself?

Because some burdens don’t just make you tired —
they slowly teach you to disappear.

I’m learning that it’s okay to name discomfort.
That it’s okay to acknowledge the weight.
That carrying something doesn’t mean I’m required to carry it forever.

I can still be compassionate without being silent.
Faithful without being compliant.
Present without absorbing what was never mine to hold alone.

That’s the work right now.

Not rejecting responsibility —
but choosing honesty.

Learning what I can carry.
And trusting God with the rest.

“For each one should carry their own load.”
— Galatians 6:5 (NIV)

What I Don’t Owe an Explanation For

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

I’ve noticed something about myself lately.

How quickly I start explaining.
Softening.
Adding context.
Filling in gaps no one actually asked me to fill.

As if my choices need to be justified to be valid.
As if my boundaries need a backstory to be respected.
As if my silence needs a footnote.

But the truth is — not everything in my life requires an explanation.

Not my pace.
Not my decisions.
Not what I’m holding close.
Not what I’m choosing to keep private.

Some things are allowed to just be.
Allowed to exist without permission.
Allowed to make sense only to the ones living them.

I’m learning that constant explanation is often rooted in fear —
fear of being misunderstood,
fear of disappointing,
fear of being seen as too much or not enough.

And I don’t want to live from that place anymore.

I want to trust myself enough to let my “no” stand on its own.
To let my “yes” be simple.
To let my life speak without me narrating every chapter.

This isn’t about becoming closed off.
It’s about becoming settled.

Because the more honest I am with myself,
the less I feel the need to convince anyone else.

And that kind of quiet confidence?
It feels like peace.

“A person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense.”
— Proverbs 19:11 (NIV)

Signs or Messages

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the difference between a sign
and a message from God.

A sign feels external.
Something you notice.
Something that makes you pause.

A message feels quieter.
More internal.
Something that settles instead of startles.

For a long time, I was searching for signs —
something obvious enough to remove doubt.

But I’m learning God doesn’t always speak that way.

Sometimes what He offers isn’t direction,
but discernment.

Not an answer —
but awareness.

A peace that doesn’t make logical sense.
A hesitation that asks you to slow down.
A nudge that doesn’t shout,
but doesn’t go away either.

Maybe signs point outward.
And messages draw us inward.

And maybe the work isn’t deciphering everything,
but learning to listen
to what quietly brings peace.

“After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.
And after the fire came a gentle whisper.”
— 1 Kings 19:12 (NIV)

Honesty, Lately

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I chose my word for the new year to be honesty —
and honestly, I’ve been seeing life through a more honest lens just by setting that intention.

I’ve been more honest with myself about how I’m actually feeling.
More honest with others, too.
Not forcing myself to push through when I know I need to be still.

That honesty has softened things.
It’s made room for rest instead of resistance.

And it’s shifted the way I see people.

I feel like I notice intentions more clearly now —
not in a suspicious way,
just with awareness.

Whether someone is being honest or not.

And instead of trying to correct it or carry it,
I’m learning to simply see it…
and respond accordingly.

“Yet you desired faithfulness even in the womb;
you taught me wisdom in that secret place.”
— Psalm 51:6 (NIV)

The Boundary of Grace

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

We’re called to give.
To serve.
To love freely and fully.

But what happens when the giving leaves us empty?
When our “yes” becomes so stretched that it starts to break us?
When helping starts to feel more like being used than being useful?

Scripture tells us to give without expecting anything in return —
but it never says to give without wisdom.

Even Jesus — fully God, fully love — stepped away to rest.
He said no to the crowd, so He could say yes to the Father.
He gave, but He didn’t give Himself away recklessly.

There is a kind of giving that reflects God’s heart.
And there is a kind that forgets He gave you one, too.

So if you’re in a season where it feels like your love is being taken for granted,
where your kindness keeps getting confused with availability,
where your serving has started to hurt —

you’re allowed to pause.

Not from love.
Not from grace.
But from saying yes to what God never asked of you.

Protecting your peace doesn’t make you selfish.
It makes you a good steward of the one life He’s given you.

So give —
but don’t pour from an empty cup.
Love —
but not at the cost of losing yourself.
Serve —
but let it come from a place of overflow, not obligation.

Your worth isn’t proven by how much you can stretch.
It’s held — always — in the hands of the One who stretched Himself for you.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
— Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)

Learning to See What’s Holy

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Discernment means spiritual understanding.
It’s the ability to sense or recognize what is true, right, or aligned with God —
even when things are confusing or painful.

It’s not just about decision-making.
It’s about seeing with wisdom instead of emotion alone.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if God is teaching me this.
Not by handing me answers,
but by letting me wrestle with what peace feels like.
By letting me feel the difference between what’s real and what just looks good.
By staying near while I learn how to tell the difference.

In this kind of season, discernment often doesn’t come all at once.
It’s something God shapes slowly —
in the quiet, in the questions, and in the in‑between places.

It looks like learning to tell the difference between peace and pressure.
To feel what’s rooted in Him, and what’s driven by fear or control.
It’s recognizing His presence even in hard places —
remembering that just because something hurts doesn’t mean He’s absent.
And it’s trusting His timing, even when waiting feels like a wilderness.
Because sometimes clarity grows best in the pause.

So when I asked, “Why would God allow this?”
Or, “What could He possibly be doing with this?”
Maybe part of the answer is:
He’s helping me see what’s holy in the middle of it.

Not just what’s happening,
but what He’s shaping in me as it happens.

And maybe that’s what discernment really is —
not just clarity, but closeness.

Anchor Verse
“Teach me good judgment and discernment, for I rely on your commands.”
Psalm 119:66 (CSB)