Faith

Consider the Lilies

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Jesus once told His followers to consider the lilies.

I’ve read those words before.

But lately, I’ve been wondering what it actually means to consider something.

Not glance at it.

Not admire it.

Consider it.

Look closely.

Pay attention.

So I did.

And the thing that struck me wasn’t simply that the lilies are beautiful.

It’s how little of their growing they actually control.

They don’t manufacture their own beauty.

They don’t control the rain.

They don’t command the sun.

They don’t determine the season in which they bloom.

And still…

they grow.

Jesus says,

“Look at them.”

I wonder if I’ve spent too much of my life believing that if something matters to me, I should somehow be able to control how it turns out.

So I plan.

I prepare.

I work.

I try to anticipate what comes next.

None of those things are necessarily wrong.

But somewhere along the way, responsibility can quietly become control.

Even growth can become something we anxiously measure.

Am I doing enough?

Am I far enough along?

Am I becoming who I’m supposed to become?

And then there are the lilies.

They remind me that there are things God has asked me to tend…

and things He never asked me to control.

There are things that belong to me.

Showing up.

Being faithful.

Caring well for what God has placed in my hands.

And there are things that don’t.

The timing.

The outcome.

The rain.

The season.

Maybe wisdom is learning the difference.

Maybe considering the lilies isn’t an invitation to care less about our lives.

Maybe it’s an invitation to stop believing everything depends on us.

Jesus didn’t tell us to become lilies.

He simply told us to consider them.

Maybe because creation remembers something we so easily forget:

God is responsible for things I was never meant to carry.

So today…

I’m considering the lilies.

And trusting God with the growing.

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.”

— Matthew 6:28 (NIV)

Come, Lord Jesus

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Sometimes life just really sucks.

There.

I said it.

I could probably find a prettier way to write that.

Something about difficult seasons.

Or valleys.

Or storms that eventually pass.

But sometimes I think we rush so quickly to make suffering sound beautiful that we forget Scripture never asks us to pretend this world isn’t broken.

It is.

People hurt each other.

Bodies fail.

Families break.

Children suffer.

People we love die.

Terrible things happen to people who did nothing to deserve them.

We pray prayers that seem to go unanswered.

We watch things happen that make absolutely no sense.

And sometimes I don’t want another explanation for why.

I just want Jesus to come back.

I want Him to make right everything we have spent generations breaking.

I want the world Revelation describes.

No more death.

No more mourning.

No more crying.

No more pain.

No more wondering why God allowed something.

No more trying to find meaning in something that simply hurts.

Just Jesus.

Maybe that sounds dramatic.

I don’t think it is.

I think sometimes we’ve become so determined to find beauty in this life that we’ve forgotten Christianity gives us permission to admit that this world is not as it should be.

There is beauty here.

So much of it.

There are people I love fiercely.

There are ordinary days I wish I could keep forever.

There is laughter and wonder and goodness and evidence of God everywhere I look.

But none of that changes the fact that creation itself is groaning.

And if I’m honest…

some days I am, too.

Maybe that’s why the promise of Jesus returning means more to me now than it once did.

When I was younger, heaven felt far away.

Something to think about someday.

Now?

I understand the longing a little more.

Not because I don’t love this life.

But because I’ve lived enough of it to know it cannot save us.

No amount of success can.

No relationship can.

No perfectly constructed life can.

We need Jesus.

We have always needed Jesus.

And one day, He is coming back.

One day, everything broken will finally be made right.

Until then, we love.

We serve.

We laugh.

We raise our children.

We notice the beauty.

We keep showing up.

We keep believing.

But we don’t confuse the glimpses of goodness here with the fullness of what we’ve been promised.

This isn’t home in its finished form.

So on the days when the weight of this world feels particularly heavy, maybe the most faithful prayer isn’t always a beautiful one.

Maybe sometimes it’s simply:

Come, Lord Jesus.

Please.

Come.

“He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”

— Revelation 22:20 (NIV)

Yet This I Call to Mind

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There is a moment in Lamentations 3 that I think I’ve read past too quickly.

Before the familiar words about God’s mercies being new every morning, there is this:

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope.”

I keep coming back to the word call.

Because it sounds intentional.

The writer doesn’t say hope suddenly found him.

He says he called something to mind.

And if you read what comes before it, that matters.

He’s hurting.

He’s remembering everything that has gone wrong.

His soul is downcast.

Nothing about his circumstances appears to change before the next sentence.

And yet…

“This I call to mind.”

He remembers who God is.

His love.

His compassion.

His faithfulness.

And then hope enters the story.

I think I’ve spent a lot of my life assuming hope is something I’m supposed to feel.

But maybe sometimes hope is something I have to remember.

Not because the pain isn’t real.

Not because remembering God’s faithfulness suddenly fixes what’s hurting.

But because pain has a way of narrowing our vision.

It can make this moment feel like the whole story.

Maybe that’s why remembering matters so much.

Sometimes we have to deliberately bring back into view what suffering has pushed to the edges.

The prayers God has already answered.

The places He has already carried us.

The mercy that met us yesterday.

The faithfulness that existed long before whatever we’re facing today.

And maybe that’s what I love most about Lamentations 3.

Hope doesn’t require the writer to pretend.

He can acknowledge the grief…

and still remember God.

Maybe faith looks like that sometimes.

Not forcing ourselves to feel hopeful.

Just choosing, once again, to call His faithfulness to mind.

And letting hope meet us there.

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope.”

— Lamentations 3:21 (NIV)

A Breath of Fresh Air

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until you finally exhale.

Not literally.

But there’s a way we can move through life slightly braced.

Waiting for the next problem.

Preparing for the next difficult conversation.

Wondering what might change.

Trying to stay one step ahead of whatever could come next.

After a while, you get so used to carrying yourself that way that you don’t even notice you’re doing it.

Until something feels different.

Nothing extraordinary has to happen.

You just catch yourself laughing without thinking about what comes after it.

Enjoying something without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Making plans because you’re excited about them, not because you’re trying to prepare for every possibility.

And suddenly…

you realize you’re breathing differently.

I wonder if sometimes we become so accustomed to asking God to carry us through difficult things that we forget He’s also allowed to lead us beside quiet waters.

We’re comfortable praying,

“Lord, give me strength.”

But maybe we also need to learn how to receive the moments when He says,

“Rest.”

Not every season is meant to test our endurance.

Not every good moment needs to be followed by suspicion.

Sometimes grace looks like being carried through the storm.

And sometimes…

it feels like finally noticing the air is still.

Maybe that’s part of faith, too.

Not only trusting God when life becomes difficult…

but trusting Him enough to enjoy when it isn’t.

To loosen our grip.

To stop anticipating what might go wrong.

To receive what is good without demanding to know how long it will last.

And to breathe.

Deeply.

Freely.

Gratefully.

Because sometimes a breath of fresh air isn’t an escape from life.

It’s finally allowing yourself to live it.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.”

— Psalm 23:2–3 (NIV)

What If the Blessing Was No?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve thanked God for a lot of yeses.

The prayers that were answered.

The doors that opened.

The things I hoped for that eventually found their way into my hands.

Those are easy to recognize as blessings.

But lately I’ve wondered about the noes.

The doors that stayed closed.

The plans that fell apart.

The things I prayed desperately for that never happened.

The things I was certain I needed…

and didn’t receive.

I’ve spent plenty of time asking God why.

I’ve spent far less time wondering if the answer itself was mercy.

Because I only know the life I can see.

God knows the one I can’t.

He knows what was behind the door I begged Him to open.

He knows where the road I desperately wanted would have led.

He knows what would have happened if the answer had been yes.

I don’t.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of faith.

Sometimes I’ll get to look backward and understand.

I’ll see the protection.

The redirection.

The reason something had to end.

But I wonder how many times I won’t.

How many prayers will I spend my entire life believing went unanswered…

when no was the answer all along?

Not punishment.

Not absence.

Not God withholding something good from me.

Just a Father who could see farther than I could.

Maybe one day I’ll understand all the things He protected me from.

Maybe I won’t.

But I’m beginning to think gratitude shouldn’t belong only to the yeses.

Sometimes the blessing is the open door.

Sometimes it’s the one that never opened.

And sometimes faith is thanking God before I know the difference.

“For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.”

— Psalm 84:11 (NIV)

Motherhood Did Make Me Soft

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Someone recently joked about the idea that motherhood makes women soft.

And I thought…

It did.

Motherhood did make me soft.

Softer toward tears.

Softer toward fear.

Softer toward little hands reaching for mine.

Softer toward mistakes.

Softer toward the parts of another person that need patience instead of correction.

It made me notice things I might have once walked past.

A tired face.

A trembling lip.

The difference between someone misbehaving and someone simply needing comfort.

Motherhood softened me in ways I didn’t know I needed.

But somewhere along the way, we’ve confused softness with weakness.

And motherhood has taught me they aren’t the same thing at all.

Because there is something almost fierce about tenderness when you love someone deeply enough.

The same arms that hold gently can hold tightly.

The same voice that comforts can speak firmly.

The same woman who kneels to kiss a scraped knee can stand taller than she ever knew she could when someone she loves needs protecting.

Maybe that’s what surprised me most.

Motherhood didn’t ask me to choose between being soft and being strong.

It made me both.

The softness gave my strength somewhere to belong.

And the strength gave my softness somewhere safe to live.

Maybe motherhood did make me soft.

Thank God it did.

“He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.”

— Isaiah 40:11 (NIV)

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)