Faith

Nothing Is Wasted

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Even the broken pieces can grow something beautiful

I used to look back at the hard things and wonder what the point of it all was.
Why the pain, the waiting, the silence.
Why the breaking.

But slowly, in the quiet work of healing,
I’ve come to believe this —
that nothing is wasted in the hands of a God who sees the whole story.

Not the quiet tears I tried to hide.
Not the long, quiet stretches of uncertainty.
Not the prayers I barely had words for.
Not even the things I’d rather forget.

Because somehow,
the soil that held the most sorrow
is the same soil where something sacred began to grow.

No, I wouldn’t choose to walk through it again.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found on the other side:

A deeper strength.
A quieter kind of hope.
A faith that doesn’t need the full picture to trust the Painter.

So if you’re in the middle of it —
wondering if anything good could come from what’s been lost —
hold on.

What feels broken today
may one day bloom with beauty
you couldn’t imagine from here.

Nothing is wasted.
Not in His hands.

When It’s Both

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

When It’s Both

Sometimes the ache and the beauty show up at the same time.

A smile while your chest still feels tight.
A moment of peace — and a lump in your throat right behind it.
A baby laughing in your arms, while part of your mind drifts to all that you’ve lost.

We talk about “letting go” and “moving on” like healing is a clean break.
But what if it’s not?

What if healing is the moment you can finally hold joy and sorrow in the same hand —
and not feel like one cancels out the other?

I’m learning that I don’t have to wait until everything feels light to receive joy.
And I don’t have to push joy away just because something still hurts.

They can sit together.
They can belong together.
And maybe that’s what it means to be honest with our hearts —
making space beside the ache.

If your heart is holding both today —
joy and ache, hope and heaviness —
you are not alone.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the one holding both joy and ache in her heart tonight —
would You remind her she doesn’t have to choose?

Help her feel Your nearness in the tension,
Your tenderness in the in-between,
and Your comfort in the spaces where sorrow and beauty sit side by side.

Thank You for being the kind of God who stays —
not just in the celebration,
but in the quiet, complicated middle, too.

Let her know she is not alone.
Let her rest in the truth that You see it all —
and You’re holding her through every bit of it.

Amen.

The Story I’m Still Learning to Tell

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

On Saturday, I sat among a room full of women carrying stories of their own.
Stories still unfolding.
Stories still healing.
Stories still being written by a faithful God.

The theme for the day was simple but powerful:
The Story — Everyone Has One.

As I listened, I thought about the lies I’ve believed over the years — about who I am and what my story says about me.

The voice that whispers:
You’re unworthy.
You’re not enough.
You’re too much.
You’re too broken to be used.

And yet — God’s truth answers back, quiet and steady:
You are worthy.
You are more than enough.
You are held, not disqualified.
You are Mine.

I thought about the parts of my story I’m still handing over to Him —
things I cannot really share right now,
the pieces of my life that feel uncertain, unfinished, still tender in His hands.

It’s easy to believe that the broken chapters disqualify me.
But God reminds me: the broken places are where He ministers most tenderly.

There was a moment Saturday when the speaker said,
“We learn the most in the valleys.”
And something inside me just… stilled.

I’m learning to stop asking why the valley exists —
and instead start asking what God wants to grow in me while I’m here.

I’m learning that:

  • Rest doesn’t have to be earned.
  • Joy doesn’t have to be postponed until everything is fixed.
  • Healing doesn’t erase the story — it reclaims it.

I’m learning — slowly, quietly — that my circumstances don’t get to decide who I am.
God already did.

I am not the valley.
I am not the lie.
I am not the wreckage.
I am the one He is still writing — tenderly, patiently, faithfully.

And so are you.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the woman who feels like her story is too broken, too messy, too painful to be worth telling —
remind her today that her story is not over.
Remind her that You are still writing in the margins.
Still weaving beauty out of the pages she wanted to tear out.
Still calling her by her real name: beloved, chosen, held.

Give her courage to hand You every chapter.
Even the ones still stained with tears.
Even the ones still waiting for redemption.

Thank You for not wasting a single line of our stories.

Amen.

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.