Faith

The Turning Point I Can’t Yet See

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some days I feel stuck in the middle.
Between what I prayed for and what is.
Between the heartbreak and the healing.
Between the promise and the “But God…” moment.

I read stories in Scripture where everything shifts in a single verse.
Like Joseph — who was betrayed, abandoned, forgotten.
And yet one day, he looks back on it all and says:
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50:20)

I long for that clarity.
That redemptive hindsight.
That moment when the pain finally makes sense.

But I’m not there yet.
I’m still standing in the stretch.
Still aching for the shift.
Still wondering when the turn will come.

And still —
I’m choosing to believe in a God who works behind the scenes,
who writes stories that take time,
who brings beauty even from broken things.

The turning point may not have come yet.
But it’s not gone.
And my story isn’t finished.

He’s still writing.

The Mountain Where Trust Was Tested

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a story in Scripture that’s been close to my heart lately —
Abraham. Isaac. And a mountain no one wanted to climb.

God asked Abraham to lay down the very thing He had given him —
his long-awaited son.
And Abraham said yes.

Not because it made sense,
but because he trusted God’s heart,
even when the path didn’t look like provision.

Someone reminded me recently:
“I like to think the lamb was already on its way up the other side of the mountain.”

That stayed with me.

Because that’s what faith is, isn’t it?
Trusting that God is already providing —
even when all you can see is loss.

We may not understand the mountain,
but we can trust the One who meets us there.

He hasn’t forgotten.
He’s still writing the story.
And the thicket is never empty.

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.

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.

The Mountain in Front of Me

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I read something recently:
“You have been assigned this mountain to show others it can be moved.”

And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Because some days, the mountain looks impossible.
Too steep.
Too heavy.
Too unmovable.

And yet — here I am.
Still standing at its base.
Still taking steps toward the summit.

Maybe that’s the point.
Not that I have to move it all at once,
but that each small step is proof
that it can be moved.

That with God,
even the impossible shifts.

And maybe one day,
when I’m on the other side,
I’ll turn around and see
that the mountain was never just mine to climb —
it was my testimony.

The Table Set Before Me

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This morning felt like holy chaos.

My sister came with her four little ones,
and I had Beckett.

We spilled across multiple rows in the Father’s house —
passing babies from arm to arm,
slipping in and out of the pews,
quieting cries,
sharing smiles.

It was loud and unpolished,
and yet somehow,
it was perfect.

Because even here —
in the bustle and the noise,
in the interruptions and the laughter —
I could feel it:

“You prepare a table before me.”
— Psalm 23:5

Not a table set with silver and stillness,
but one overflowing with family,
with joy,
with the sacred sound of being together.

This is the feast I didn’t know I was hungry for.
And this is the house where my cup runs over.

When Restoration Looks Different

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Today my mom shared a verse with me:
“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

I’ve been thinking about what restoration really means.

I used to imagine it as getting back exactly what was lost —
like God would hand me the same dream,
only without the heartbreak attached.

But the more I sit with this,
the more I realize restoration often looks different than we expect.

It doesn’t always come as a perfect rewind.
It comes as something new.
Something reshaped by the breaking,
stronger because of what it’s been through.

Sometimes, it’s quieter than I imagined.
Sometimes, it’s not even in the same form.
And sometimes, it comes so slowly
I don’t recognize it until I’m already standing in it.

God doesn’t restore by replacing.
He restores by redeeming.

The years that felt wasted,
the dreams that felt devoured —
they may not come back the way I pictured.
But they will come back.

Not because I know how,
but because He promised they would.

If the Pages Could Talk

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

If the pages could talk,
they’d tell a story
not everyone saw.

Of nights where the only light
was the glow of the monitor
and the quiet hum of prayers
I never meant to say out loud.

They’d whisper of pages
tear-stained and half-written —
moments where I didn’t know what came next,
but still picked up the pen anyway.

They’d speak of healing that came slowly,
in margins and in pauses.
In prayers I scribbled sideways
when the ache was too heavy to carry upright.

They’d tell you about the girl
who kept writing,
even when the words were hard to find.
Who chose presence
over pretending.
Stillness
over striving.
Faith
over finality.

If the pages could talk,
they wouldn’t just tell you what happened —
they’d tell you what held me together
when everything else was falling apart.

The Prayer I Was Afraid to Pray

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Lament.

A word I recently wrote about.
A word I’ve been seeing almost every day since then.

To lament is to feel, show, or express grief, sorrow, or regret.
Biblically, lament is a form of prayer that expresses deep sorrow, grief, or pain to God.

So that’s what I’ve been doing.

It’s unprocessed and messy.
I’m saying things to Him that I didn’t even know I had in me —
emotions that have been long hidden.

I hesitate to start,
afraid that voicing it might somehow pull me away from God.

But it’s been quite the opposite.

I’m being drawn closer to Him —
as if He’s surrounding me in the quiet.

I see Him in the daily, the mundane.
I feel Him in the ache and the uncovering.
He is the wisest Counselor —
helping me name the lies I’ve carried too long,
gently exposing what needs healing,
and holding every part of my heart while He restores it.

The Song I Didn’t Expect

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I wasn’t trying to have a moment.

I was just in the car with Beckett, letting a children’s playlist play on Pandora — not even a worship station. Just music to keep the car ride calm and light.

But then these words came through the speakers:

“If you’re hurting, I know someone who heals your wounds…”
“If you’re broken, I know someone who broke for you…”

I paused.

Not because I planned to —
but because something holy had just entered the space.

It didn’t make me cry.
But it did catch me off guard — in the best kind of way.
Like grace tapping on the window.
Like peace arriving before I even asked for it.

“They couldn’t keep Him on the cross.
Couldn’t keep Him in the tomb.
His name is Jesus — and He’s in the room.”

The song is “In the Room” by Forrest Frank — a Christian artist I’ve heard before.
But I’ve never heard this song and I wasn’t expecting to hear it in that moment.
And maybe that’s what made it hit different.

Because sometimes God doesn’t wait for the worship station.
Sometimes He meets you in the in-between —
the errands, the car rides, the daily rhythms of motherhood.

Sometimes He shows up right where you are,
before you even think to reach for Him.

That’s the kind of Savior He is.
Not reserved for Sunday mornings.
Not only found in quiet time or devotionals.

But present.
Personal.
In the room.