Grace

The Cart in Front of Me

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

We were at the store today.

The kind with oversized carts and bulk everything.
Long lines.
Bright lights.
People moving in every direction.

It was ordinary.
Unremarkable.

And yet I found myself noticing the carts in front of me.

An older couple walking slowly together.
A dad with his child perched up front, one small hand gripping the handle.
Moms with theirs tucked close, little feet kicking against the metal bar.

Everyone pushing something.

And it struck me —
we never really know what someone is carrying.

Not just what’s stacked in their cart.
But what’s stacked in their life.

We see the cereal boxes.
The paper towels.
The cases of water.

We don’t see the schedules.
The grief.
The exhaustion.
The quiet prayers whispered in parking lots.

We move around each other.
Offer small smiles.
Shift our carts to make room.

But every person in that building was holding something invisible.

And so was I.

There’s something steadying about remembering that.

It makes me softer.
Slower to assume.
Quicker to extend grace.

Because the world is full of people carrying more than we can see.

And sometimes,
all we can do
is push what’s in front of us
and trust that God sees the weight of it all.

“The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
— 1 Samuel 16:7 (NIV)

Not a Resolution

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Every year around this time, we’re encouraged to dream big.
Pick a word.
Set a goal.
Decide who you’re going to be by December.

So we do.

And then, quietly, we find ourselves standing at the corner of
“This was too lofty”
and
“I’ve already let myself down”
by the time February rolls around.

I’m learning that maybe the problem isn’t our lack of discipline —
it’s the pressure to become someone overnight.

This year, I’ve gone back and forth between words like steadfast and courageous.
Both good. Both meaningful.

But the word that keeps returning —
the one that feels less like a goal and more like a posture —
is honesty.

Honesty about what I’m carrying.
About what I can give.
About where I actually am, not where I think I should be by now.

So instead of asking who I want to be by the end of the year,
I’m asking something smaller, quieter, and more livable:

How do I want to live today?

And right now, the answer looks like this:
with honesty — toward God, toward others, and toward myself.

That feels like enough to begin.

“Surely you desire truth in the inner parts; you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.”
— Psalm 51:6 (NIV)

Meet Me Where I Am

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Lately, I’ve been learning what it means to meet myself where I am.

Not where I wish I were.
Not where I think I should be by now.
Just… here.

It’s harder than it sounds.

I’m quick to extend grace outward, but slower to offer it inward.
Quick to trust that God meets me in my weakness —
but hesitant to sit honestly with that weakness myself.

So often, I rush past the present moment.
I tell myself to be stronger, more healed, more settled.
As if becoming requires skipping over where I actually stand.

But maybe growth doesn’t start with pushing forward.
Maybe it starts with staying.

Staying long enough to acknowledge the tiredness.
The questions.
The ache that hasn’t fully lifted yet.

Meeting myself where I am doesn’t mean giving up.
It means telling the truth.
And trusting that God is already there — not waiting for a better version of me to arrive.

When I slow down enough to be honest with myself,
I find that grace doesn’t feel so far away.
It feels close.
Gentle.
Steady.

And maybe that’s the work of this season —
learning to stand where I am, without shame,
and letting God meet me there too.

“For He knows how we are formed; He remembers that we are dust.”
— Psalm 103:14 (NIV)

What I Hope He Remembers

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I won’t be a perfect mother.
But I hope he remembers the kind of love that stayed.

I hope he remembers arms that held him close,
even when the world felt unsteady.
A voice that whispered comfort,
even when mine was tired.
A presence that didn’t walk away —
not in the chaos,
not in the quiet,
not in the mess.

And maybe, just maybe,
that kind of love will remind him of God’s.

Because if I’ve learned anything,
it’s that His love shows up the same way —
not waiting for the mess to be cleaned up,
not holding back until we’re stronger,
but entering in, again and again,
with kindness, patience, and grace.

That’s the kind of love I want to model.
Not flawless,
but faithful.
Not perfect,
but present.

So no, I won’t get it all right.
But I hope he sees the reflection —
of a God who stays.
Of a love that never leaves.
Of grace that shows up in the middle and calls it holy.

“God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”
— 1 John 4:16 (NIV)

The Boundary of Grace

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

We’re called to give.
To serve.
To love freely and fully.

But what happens when the giving leaves us empty?
When our “yes” becomes so stretched that it starts to break us?
When helping starts to feel more like being used than being useful?

Scripture tells us to give without expecting anything in return —
but it never says to give without wisdom.

Even Jesus — fully God, fully love — stepped away to rest.
He said no to the crowd, so He could say yes to the Father.
He gave, but He didn’t give Himself away recklessly.

There is a kind of giving that reflects God’s heart.
And there is a kind that forgets He gave you one, too.

So if you’re in a season where it feels like your love is being taken for granted,
where your kindness keeps getting confused with availability,
where your serving has started to hurt —

you’re allowed to pause.

Not from love.
Not from grace.
But from saying yes to what God never asked of you.

Protecting your peace doesn’t make you selfish.
It makes you a good steward of the one life He’s given you.

So give —
but don’t pour from an empty cup.
Love —
but not at the cost of losing yourself.
Serve —
but let it come from a place of overflow, not obligation.

Your worth isn’t proven by how much you can stretch.
It’s held — always — in the hands of the One who stretched Himself for you.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
— Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)

When You Show Up Anyway

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I wasn’t fully prepared.
I didn’t train the way I thought I should.
But I showed up anyway.
And somehow, I made it through.
Not just made it — I finished stronger than I expected.

This morning, I ran a half marathon.
And no, this isn’t a post about mileage or pace.
This is about something quieter —
something that happens when you keep going,
even when your mind tells you that you can’t.

It’s about showing up under-equipped,
under-prepared,
and still being met by a strength that wasn’t your own.

Because here’s the thing I’m still learning:
You don’t always need to feel ready to begin.
You don’t need the perfect plan, or the perfect mindset.
You just need willingness.
And God can work with that.

Sometimes the most sacred victories aren’t the loud ones —
they’re the ones that feel small at first.
They happen in a moment you could’ve tapped out,
but you didn’t.
When you kept going,
and something holy met you in the middle of your lack.

Anchor Verse

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)

Rooted

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s not a loud kind of confidence.
Not the kind you have to announce.

It’s the kind that settles in
when you remember who made you…
and who holds you still.

I don’t feel the need to prove anything right now.
Not because I have it all together —
but because I know I’m already known.
Already loved.
Already His.

That changes how I carry myself.
Not with striving.
Just with peace.

“In Him we live and move and have our being.”
Acts 17:28 (NIV)

The Things I Can’t Explain

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Some parts of my story
don’t fit into sentences.

There are moments I carry
that have no language —
just a quiet ache
I’ve learned how to live beside.

I’ve tried to name them before.
Tried to trace the edges,
make them make sense,
offer them in neat, careful paragraphs.

But some grief is shapeless.
Some memories blurry,
not because they weren’t real,
but because they were too much to hold with open eyes.

Still, they live in me.
In how I flinch at certain words.
In how I love more tenderly now.
In how I pause before trusting again.

I used to think everything had to be told
to be healed.
That I had to find the words
or I’d never be free.

But I’m learning —
even the things I can’t explain
are seen by the One who made me.

Even the wounds without language
are held by a God who doesn’t need a translation
to understand.

So if you’re carrying things too heavy for words —
you’re not alone.
You don’t have to explain them to be worthy of healing.
You don’t have to speak them out loud to be seen.

He already knows.

And still, He stays.

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26 (NIV)

Motherhood Is the Mirror

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“The most profound thing we can offer our children is our own healing.”— Anne Lamott

They say motherhood changes you —
and it does.
But not always in the ways you expect.

It doesn’t just stretch your body.
It stretches your heart.
Your limits.
Your sense of self.
And some days, it stretches your faith.

Motherhood has become a mirror I didn’t know I was standing in front of.
It reflects everything back to me:
my tenderness,
my triggers,
my hope,
my hurt.

There are moments that undo me —
not because they’re hard,
but because they’re holy.
Because he looks at me with eyes full of trust,
and it makes me wonder if I’ve ever looked at myself that way.

He doesn’t care if I got everything done.
He doesn’t care if I cried in the shower.
He just wants my presence — not my perfection.

And somehow, that’s healing me.

Because in showing up for him,
I’ve had to learn how to show up for me, too.
To hold space for the version of myself I’ve tried to outrun.
To mother the child I used to be,
even as I mother the one God placed in my arms.

It’s not easy.
But it’s sacred.

Motherhood hasn’t made me flawless.
It’s made me honest.

It’s revealed the cracks —
and the grace that holds them together.

And maybe that’s the point.
Not to raise a perfect child…
but to love them so well
that they never question if they were worth it.

Just like God is doing with me.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…”
— Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

Love Letters in Black-Edged Envelopes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Finding grace in what once felt like grief

There are days I wonder how I ever make it through.
Not because I’m prideful —
but because I’m constantly reminded of how deeply I ache,
how lost I feel,
how certain I am, at times, that the pain will never ease.

But it does.
Slowly. Quietly.
And in ways I still have yet to fully see.

I came across this quote by Charles Spurgeon, and it stopped me:

“I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days.
And when God has seemed most cruel to me He has then been most kind…
Our Father’s wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of His grace…
Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes.”

It’s a hard truth to hold —
that some of the most tender mercies arrive dressed as heartache.
That the pain that almost unravels me
is also what softens me,
what refines me,
what keeps making room for something deeper.

There were nights I cried out to God with no reply.
Moments I felt abandoned.
Parts of my story that felt unfair — even unredeemable.

But He is here.
In the silence.
In the stretch.
In the storm.

And the very things I begged to be taken away
are slowly becoming the places where I see Him most clearly.
Not always in answers —
but in presence.

I don’t say this lightly:
I wouldn’t have chosen this pain.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found in the wreckage.

Because it’s here —
in the rebuilding,
in the quiet grace of a still-standing soul —
that I’ve seen the truth of Spurgeon’s words:

This storm isn’t breaking me.
It’s bringing me home.