Healing

When I Leave My Heart Behind

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a kind of quiet that follows certain goodbyes.

Not the kind that signals rest —
but the kind that hangs in the space where presence used to be.
Where laughter echoed just an hour ago.
Where tiny feet ran from room to room.
Where arms wrapped around my neck like they never wanted to let go.

And then, in an instant, it’s quiet again.

When I leave my heart behind,
I hold my breath until I get it back.

Not because I don’t trust.
Not because I’m falling apart.
But because love this deep —
the kind you carry in your bones —
doesn’t know how to exhale when part of you is missing.

Still, I’m learning…

How to breathe in the waiting.
How to find peace in the pause.
How to let the ache be evidence of love — not lack.
How to trust that what God holds, He holds well.

Some days feel heavier than others.
Some goodbyes stretch a little longer.
Some quiets echo a little louder.

But even here,
in this space between letting go and holding on again —
there is grace.

Anchor Verse:
“The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand.”
Psalm 121:5 (NIV)

It’s Okay to Feel It All

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“There is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:4)

I think about that often — especially when my heart doesn’t seem to know which one it’s doing.

Because sometimes, healing feels like both.

Like crying in the car but smiling at the checkout line.
Like praying with gratitude while still aching with grief.
Like holding a hope so fragile, you don’t even have words for it yet.

I was talking recently with a group of young women, and we started sharing what we do when we’re afraid. Some said they speak truth over themselves. Others breathe deeply or write things down. I told them that sometimes, I just let myself feel it.

Because Scripture doesn’t tell us to pretend we’re fine.
It tells us there is a time for everything.
Even fear.
Even sorrow.

Even the kind of ache you thought you should’ve outgrown by now.

So if today you find yourself smiling through tears, or laughing with something heavy still in your chest — that’s okay.

You’re allowed to feel the joy and the sorrow.
The peace and the ache.
The hope and the hurt.

Both can be holy.
Both can be part of your becoming.

Anchor Verse:
“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

To Everything I’ve Ever Lost

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Not just what I’ve lost—but what I’ve found because of it.

We don’t always get to choose what’s taken from us. But we do get to choose what we do with the empty space that’s left behind.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, it’s not until we’re brought to our knees by loss that we look up and remember who’s been standing there all along.

That’s what this photo reminded me of:

“To everything I’ve ever lost, thank you for bringing me closer to Jesus.”

It stopped me in my tracks because it’s true. I wouldn’t wish some of the heartbreak I’ve walked through on anyone, but I also wouldn’t trade what it gave me—an intimacy with Jesus I might’ve never known otherwise.

Loss can strip us of our plans, our people, our sense of stability. But it can’t take the One who walks us through the fire.

So maybe the most unexpected gratitude we can offer is this: Thank You for the losses that led me here.

To trust. To surrender. To deeper healing. To Jesus.

Anchor Verse

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”
Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)

The Nearness We Need

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There’s a verse that always finds its way back to me when I need it most:

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

It’s tucked in the middle of a psalm filled with struggle and deliverance, fear and faith.
Just a few verses before, we’re told that God’s eyes are on the righteous.
That His ears are attentive.
That He hears, and He rescues.

But it’s this part that stills me:

He’s near.

  • Not distant.
  • Not indifferent.
  • Not waiting for you to pull yourself together.

Near.

To the brokenhearted.
To the crushed in spirit.
To the ones who don’t know what to say, but feel the ache just the same.

Sometimes we don’t need answers.
We just need assurance.

  • That we’re not alone.
  • That He sees.
  • That He stays.

And this verse — this quiet promise — is exactly that.

Anchor Passage:

“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are attentive to their cry…
The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:15,17–18 (NIV)

The Things I Want to Remember About Right Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are things I want to remember —
not just for the sake of memory,
but because this season is shaping me as much as it’s shaping you.

So I’m writing them down here —
quietly, softly,
like a whisper I can return to
when the house is quiet
and my arms feel too empty
or my eyes too tired
to recall the sacred weight of now.

I want to remember how small your fingers still feel in mine.
How you hand me books and sit in my lap without words.
How your whole body leans into love like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I want to remember your laugh —
the one that bubbles up from your belly when something truly delights you.
The way it catches me off guard and heals something in me every time.

I want to remember how we dance in the kitchen,
how you ask for music and raise your arms in the air
like you already know joy is meant to be embodied.

I want to remember the way your head rests on my shoulder,
not because you’re tired —
but because you’re home.

I want to remember this version of me too.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
But present.

The woman who is healing in real time.
Who cries at night and prays in whispers.
Who stretches herself thin to make sure you’re whole.

The one who is learning to slow down —
to soak in the mess, the noise, the ache and the awe of it all.

Because this isn’t just your childhood.
It’s my becoming.

Anchor Verse:

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.”
Psalm 91:4 (NIV)

Level Ground and Loud Praise

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“From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly; before those who fear you I will fulfill my vows.”
Psalms 22:25 NIV

“My feet stand on level ground; in the great congregation I will praise the Lord.”
Psalms 26:12 NIV

These two verses are sitting on my heart.

These words feel like a declaration of steady worship — the kind that rises not from ease, but from endurance.

Because let’s be honest: sometimes praise doesn’t come from a mountaintop moment. Sometimes it comes from the middle — from the steadying after the storm, from the ache that is somehow still standing, from the places where we’ve vowed to keep going when it would’ve been easier to give up.

That’s what these verses remind me of.

They remind me that God is not only worthy of praise in private, quiet places — but in the presence of others, too. In the great assembly. Even when we feel vulnerable. Even when the scars are still visible. Even when the story isn’t over yet.

And they remind me that there is such a thing as level ground — even when life has felt like a landslide. God steadies our feet when we couldn’t steady ourselves. He fulfills His promises when we’ve been too tired to remember our own.

So if you’re in a season where praise feels more like a choice than a feeling — you’re not alone.

Stand on the ground He’s leveled for you.
Lift your voice anyway.
And know this: He’s not just listening — He’s present.

Anchor Verse:

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
Psalm 40:2 NIV

The Season Before the Bloom

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Nothing blooms without first going through a season.

Not the flowers.
Not the trees.
Not us.

We look at the petals and forget about the process.
The dirt.
The dark.
The slow stretching of roots beneath the surface where no one sees.

But that’s where it begins.
In the hidden places.
In the quiet.
In the parts that don’t look like growth — but are.

The truth is: God often does His deepest work in the seasons that feel still.
And stillness is not the same as stuck.
Waiting is not the same as wasted.

Just because it hasn’t bloomed yet doesn’t mean it won’t.

You might feel like nothing is happening,
like everything is stalled,
like this season is all delay and detour…

But maybe you’re not behind —
you’re right on time
for what’s growing beneath the surface.

And maybe the ache you feel isn’t the end of something —
maybe it’s the beginning of something that just hasn’t bloomed yet.

You’re allowed to be in a season of unseen growth.
You’re allowed to take root before you rise.
You’re allowed to honor the slow work of God in your life.

Because the bloom will come.

Not when you force it.
Not when you rush it.
But when it’s time.

And friend — it will be time.

Anchor Verse:

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

Closing Reflection:

If it feels like you’ve been buried lately,
maybe you’re not buried at all.
Maybe you’ve been planted.

Planted in grace.
Planted in mercy.
Planted in the very soil where new life will come.

So don’t lose heart in this season.
Something beautiful is growing here.

You may not see it yet,
but God does.

And He never wastes a season.

When Pain Speaks Louder

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quote by C.S. Lewis that’s been echoing in my spirit:

“God whispers to us in our pleasures,
speaks in our conscience,
but shouts in our pains:
it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

I used to think pain meant something had gone wrong.
That it meant God was far.
That something was broken beyond repair.

But I’m starting to see it differently.
Maybe pain doesn’t mean God is absent — maybe it means He’s speaking louder.
Not to punish.
Not to push us away.
But to draw us in.

Because sometimes, pain is the pause we didn’t know we needed.
It’s in the ache that we finally slow down enough to listen.
We stop running.
We stop striving.
We stop pretending we’re fine.

And in that stillness — in the ache — we hear Him differently.
Not always clearly.
Not always right away.
But somehow, deeply.

Maybe pain isn’t the place we find all the answers —
but it might be the place where we finally let go of needing them.

And in that letting go…
there’s finally space —
for Presence.
For peace.
For Him.

Anchor Verse

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

Maybe the pain hasn’t left…
but neither has He.

But It Is

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a phrase I haven’t been able to shake today:
“It’s not supposed to be this way. But it is.”

It keeps circling in my mind — not in bitterness, but in truth.
There are things I’m walking through right now that feel out of place.
Unfair.
Heavy.

It’s not how I imagined this season would look.
Not what I thought I’d be carrying.
Not the way the story was supposed to go.

But it is.

And I’ve realized… this is the part of my life that feels like Lamentations.
A chapter full of grief and unanswered questions.
The kind of chapter you don’t post about — but you live in.
One breath at a time.

But even Lamentations has this reminder tucked inside it:

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
Lamentations 3:22–23 (ESV)

There will always be pain in this life.
But there will also always be mercy.
Even in the middle of the grief — not just after it ends —
God is still present.
Still steady.
Still love.

So no… it’s not supposed to be this way.
But it is.
And even here, He is.

The Light We Already Carry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are moments when everything feels heavy —
when the world feels dark,
and I find myself whispering,
“It’s really dark, God. Can You help shine some light?”

And I feel Him answer,
softly but clearly:
“My child, you are to be the light.”

I’ve stood in the dark before, wishing for a flashlight — only to realize there was a light switch within reach.

Maybe it’s the same in life.
What we’re asking for might already be within us.
What we’re craving, we might already carry.

This world has always known darkness.
But that’s why the light matters.

Even a small light can change what feels overwhelming.

Maybe today, it begins with you.

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
Matthew 5:14 (ESV)