Faith

I Didn’t Sit Through the Sermon

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I was walking around the church with my son during service.

Our building is set up in a circle,
with the auditorium in the center.

So as I followed him around—
passing by the doors,
catching glimpses of everyone sitting inside—

I had a thought I didn’t expect.

This is hard right now.

Not being able to sit through a full sermon.
Not being in the room the whole time.
Not experiencing church the way I used to.

But it would be so much harder
if this looked different later.

If he were older
and I was trying to convince him to come.

Trying to get him to sit.
Trying to get him to care.

Because right now?

He loves it.

He loves going to church.
He loves going to Bible class.
He wants to be here.

And I realized something in that moment.

Even though I haven’t sat through a full sermon
in quite some time…

I’m still being taught.

Just not in the way I expected.

Not from a stage.
Not from a seat.

But in the middle of following him around,
in the middle of these small, shifting moments—

there’s still something to take in.

And maybe I’m learning just as much as he is.

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
— Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

Tired in a Way I Didn’t Expect

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Do you ever feel guilty for being tired?

Not just tired from doing too much.
But tired from doing something
you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

Something that matters.

Something you don’t even get to do every day.

And somehow, that makes the tiredness feel heavier.

Because it doesn’t feel like something
you’re allowed to be worn down by.

It feels like something you should just be grateful for.

And I am.

I am grateful.

But I’m also tired.

And I’m starting to realize
those two things can exist at the same time.

That being thankful
doesn’t cancel out being human.

That doing something meaningful
doesn’t mean it won’t still take something out of you.

And maybe the guilt
comes from thinking it’s supposed to feel easier than it does.

But maybe it’s not.

Maybe it’s just something I’m learning how to hold.

Gratitude
and exhaustion
at the same time.

“Let us not become weary in doing good…”
— Galatians 6:9 (NIV)

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)

I Keep Reaching for an Answer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I keep reaching for an answer.

Not out loud.
Not in a way anyone would notice.

Just internally —
trying to line things up in a way that makes sense.

If I think about it long enough,
if I look at it from enough angles,
maybe I’ll find the piece that explains everything.

But I don’t.

And I’m starting to notice that I do this
almost automatically.

Something doesn’t make sense,
and my first instinct is to solve it.

To understand it.

To make it feel settled in my mind
so I can feel settled in myself.

But some things don’t give you that.

Some things stay unresolved
longer than you want them to.

Longer than feels comfortable.

And I think that’s the part I’ve been wrestling with.

Not the situation itself.

But the fact that I can’t make it make sense.

Because faith, for me, has always felt connected to understanding.

Like if I trust God,
things should eventually come together in a way I can follow.

But lately, it hasn’t looked like that.

It’s looked like continuing
without the explanation.

Letting things sit unfinished
without forcing them into something they’re not.

And trusting — not that I’ll figure it out —
but that I don’t have to.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.
— Isaiah 55:8–9 (NIV)

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)

Before Sunday Comes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a part of the story we don’t rush through.

The part where everything looks like it’s over.

Where what was hoped for
what was prayed for
what was believed in

is now… gone.

Good Friday isn’t a hopeful day.

It’s not a day of answers.
It’s not a day where things make sense.

It’s the day everything falls quiet
after the worst has already happened.

And if I’m honest,
I think that’s the part I recognize the most.

Not the resurrection.
Not yet.

This part.

The part where you’re left standing
in the reality of what is
with no clear picture of what comes next.

Where faith doesn’t feel strong
it just feels… present.

Still there.
But quieter.

Not fixing anything.
Not explaining anything.

Just staying.

Good Friday doesn’t rush to meaning.

It doesn’t try to redeem anything yet.

It simply holds the weight of what has happened.

And maybe there are moments in life
that look more like this day than we want them to.

Moments where nothing feels good
and nothing feels resolved
and nothing is being put back together yet.

But the story doesn’t end here.

Even if it feels like it does.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
— Luke 23:46 (NIV)

Not Everything Gets Given Back

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I read something today about Job.

That God didn’t give him his old life back —
He gave him a new one.

That some pain isn’t explained,
it’s redeemed.

And I’ve been sitting with that.

Because if I’m honest,
I think part of me still expects life to circle back.

To return what was lost.
To restore things the way they were.
To make it all make sense in a way I recognize.

But that’s not always how it works.

Sometimes what’s gone
doesn’t come back the same way.

Sometimes there isn’t a clear explanation.
No moment where everything is tied together neatly.

And that’s the part that’s hard to sit with.

Because redemption doesn’t always look like replacement.

It doesn’t always feel like more.
It doesn’t always come in a way you can immediately recognize as good.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like continuing.
Like rebuilding without having all the pieces.
Like learning to hold both what was
and what is now
at the same time.

I don’t know that I fully understand redemption yet.

But I’m starting to see
that it isn’t always about getting something back.

Sometimes it’s about becoming someone
who can keep moving forward
even without it.

“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…”
— Joel 2:25 (NIV)

Holding On by a Thread

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I read something today that caught me off guard.

“I might be hanging on by a thread,
but it’s the thread of His garment.”

I don’t think I’ve ever thought about faith like that before.

We talk about strong faith.
Confident faith.
Faith that doesn’t waver.

But that’s not always what it looks like in real life.

Sometimes it looks thin.

Like you’re not holding everything together —
you’re just holding on.

And not even tightly.

Just enough to stay connected.

That’s what stood out to me.

Not the strength of it.
The smallness of it.

Because the woman who reached for Jesus’ garment
wasn’t making a statement.

She wasn’t trying to prove anything.

She was just trying to reach Him
in the only way she could.

And somehow, that was enough.

Not because her faith was impressive.
But because it was directed at the right place.

I think that’s what I forget.

That it doesn’t have to feel big.
Or strong.
Or even steady.

Sometimes it just has to be there.

A thread.

Not holding everything together —
just holding on to Him.

“If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.”
— Mark 5:28 (NIV)

This Is Where I Am Today

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Nothing feels especially clear today.

Not in a bad way.
Not in a heavy way.

Just… not defined.

There are things I could sit down and try to sort through.
Things I could probably put words to if I gave it enough time.

But I don’t feel the need to do that right now.

I think sometimes I rush to understand everything
because it makes me feel more in control.

Like if I can name it,
organize it,
make sense of it —

then I’m handling it well.

But today doesn’t feel like a day for that.

Today feels like a day to just exist in it.

To not rush to conclusions.
To not force clarity.
To not try to wrap everything up into something meaningful.

Just to be where I am
without needing it to become something else.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

“Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from him.”
— Psalm 62:1 (NIV)

The Way Time Feels Lately

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been noticing something I can’t quite explain.

Time doesn’t feel the same.

Some days move quickly —
full, busy, gone before I realize it.

And other days stretch in a way that feels almost unfamiliar.

Longer.
Quieter.
Heavier in a way that isn’t obvious, but still there.

Nothing about the clock has changed.

But the way I experience it has.

There are moments that pass without much thought.
And then there are moments that linger —
that I can feel while I’m inside them.

Not because anything big is happening.

Just because I’m more aware.

Of where I am.
Of what I’m carrying.
Of how different things feel than they used to.

I don’t know if time is actually moving differently
or if I’m just paying attention in a way I didn’t before.

But I can tell something has shifted.

I’m not rushing through everything the same way.
I’m not trying to get to the next thing as quickly.

I’m noticing more.

Even the in-between parts.

The parts of the day that don’t really have a name.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Not a change in time.

Just a change in how I’m living inside of it.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12 (NIV)