Easter

Something Is Alive

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s been a year since I started writing here.

At the time, I wasn’t writing from clarity.
I wasn’t writing from the other side of anything.

I was writing from the middle.

And if I’m honest,
I still am.

I used to think Easter would feel like resolution.

Like the kind of moment
where everything makes sense
and everything is made right.

But I don’t think that’s what it is.

Because if I’m honest,
there are still things in my life that don’t feel resolved.

Things that didn’t turn out the way I thought they would.
Things that haven’t been restored.
Things I still don’t fully understand.

And yet…

something has changed.

Not everything.

But something.

There are parts of me that are still healing.
Still learning.
Still walking through things I never expected to carry.

But there are also parts of me
that are no longer where they used to be.

Quieter.
Stronger.
More grounded than I was before.

Not because everything got easier.

But because something in me
didn’t stay where it was.

And I think that’s what Easter is.

Not the erasing of what happened.
Not a return to what was.

But life
where there wasn’t life before.

Not loud.
Not immediate.

But real.

And maybe that’s what I’m holding onto today.

Not that everything is finished.

But that something is alive in me
that wasn’t before.

And maybe that’s what this past year has been teaching me.

Not that everything changes overnight —
but that life can begin again,
even in the middle of it.

“Just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too may live a new life.”
— Romans 6:4 (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.

Leaving the Service, Finding the Stillness

/ Baylee Snelling / 5 Comments

A reflection on the Easter Sunday I stepped out — and still found grace.

I could feel the sensory overload pulsing through both of us.
The lights, the noise, the crowd.
The pressure to keep him calm.
The unspoken fear that everyone around us might be thinking, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

My dad took him for a moment. Then my mom.
He always wanted to come back to me — and I wanted him too.
But even in my arms, he wouldn’t settle.
I knew he was tired. I knew he was overstimulated.
And truthfully, so was I.

He didn’t have the words for it,
but somehow I think Beckett knew I needed something too —
a break, a breath, a quieter place to hold him without the weight of so many eyes.

We both needed out. So we left.

I stepped into the quiet lobby with him pressed against my chest, and I felt a mix of relief and shame.
I had wanted so badly to stay in the service, to worship, to feel present in the message of resurrection and hope.
But instead, I found myself holding my toddler in a hallway, wondering if people saw a mom who didn’t have it together.
Wondering if they thought, “She doesn’t know how to handle him. She doesn’t have him every Sunday. She doesn’t know what he needs.”

That thought stung more than I wanted to admit.

But as I swayed with him in the stillness, something shifted.
He was restless — but I was still his safest place.
Even when I felt unsure. Even when I didn’t have all the answers.
He kept coming back to me.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe being a good mom isn’t about having flawless moments in the pews.
Maybe it’s about leaving the room when your child needs quiet — and letting that be holy too.
Maybe it’s about knowing you’re doing your best with what you have.
About whispering “you’re okay” to your baby while learning to whisper it to yourself, too.

I’m still learning how to mother through the insecurity.
Still learning that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Still learning to trust that love isn’t always soft and settled — sometimes, it’s messy and loud and stretching and real.

And maybe that’s the kind of grace we need most —
the kind that meets us in the hallway, not just at the altar.