hope

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)

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)

What Cannot Be Crushed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed… struck down, but not destroyed.”

I’ve read those words before and heard resilience.

Lately, I hear something else.

I hear preservation.

Paul doesn’t deny the pressing.
He doesn’t pretend the blows don’t land.
He simply draws a line between what touches the outside
and what reaches the inside.

Hard pressed — but not crushed.
Struck down — but not destroyed.

There is something in the believer that cannot be flattened.

Not because we are strong enough.
But because Christ in us is.

Life can press.
People can misunderstand.
Plans can shift.
Expectations can collapse.

But the Spirit of God within you?
Untouched.

That’s the miracle.

The world can affect your circumstances.
It cannot dismantle your identity.

It can exhaust your body.
It cannot erase your belonging.

It can knock you down.
It cannot take what God has planted.

Maybe that’s what this verse is really about —
not grit.
Not toughness.
Not proving how much you can endure.

But the quiet truth that there is something eternal in you.
Something anchored.
Something held.

You may feel pressed.
But what matters most in you
is not crushable.

“Christ in you, the hope of glory.”
— Colossians 1:27 (NIV)

Not Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Someone told me today, “God is saying not yet.”

And it’s been sitting with me all day.

Not yet is a strange answer.
It’s not a no.
But it’s not the relief you’re begging for either.

It makes you ask hard questions.
Why now?
Why wait?
How much longer can I hold this?

When God says not yet, it doesn’t mean He’s absent.
But it does mean surrender looks different than we hoped.

It means trusting Him when you don’t get to see the work yet.
It means believing He’s still moving — even when all you feel is the ache of standing still.
It means learning how to breathe in the waiting.

I don’t have clarity tonight.
And I don’t feel peace.

But I do have a quiet resolve to keep showing up —
even when not yet feels heavier than I know how to carry.

So for now, I’m not rushing God.
I’m not pretending this doesn’t hurt.
I’m holding onto the belief that not yet doesn’t mean never.

And while I wait,
I will do what I can:
be strong,
take heart,
and trust the Lord with what I cannot yet see.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
— Psalm 27:14 (NIV)

Hope, Defined

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The dictionary defines hope as
a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

I’ve always found that definition a little fragile.

Because feelings change.
Expectations disappoint.
And desire doesn’t always mean fulfillment.

If hope is just wishful thinking — just wanting things to turn out a certain way — then it’s easy to lose when life doesn’t cooperate.

But Scripture speaks about hope differently.

Biblical hope isn’t rooted in circumstances or outcomes.
It isn’t dependent on how things look today, or whether prayers are answered quickly, or whether the story unfolds the way we imagined.

Biblical hope is confidence — not in what will happen, but in Who is holding it all.

It’s the kind of hope that remains when the waiting is long.
The kind that stays when answers don’t come right away.
The kind that doesn’t collapse when life feels uncertain.

This kind of hope isn’t passive or naïve.
It’s anchored.

It doesn’t say, “Everything will work out the way I want.”
It says, “God is still good, even here.”

And sometimes, that’s the difference between despair and endurance.

On days when hope feels thin, I’m learning to come back to this truth:
Hope isn’t pretending things are easy.
It’s choosing to trust that God is faithful — even when things are not.

That kind of hope doesn’t fade when circumstances change.
It deepens.

And that’s the kind of hope I want to hold onto.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
— Hebrews 6:19 (NIV)

I’m Learning to Leave the Light On

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I don’t always know what’s coming next.
Some days, I don’t even feel certain about what’s right in front of me.

There are moments when it would be easier to shut the door,
to turn the lights off,
to wait in the dark until something makes sense again.

But I’m learning not to do that.

I’m learning to leave the light on —
not because I’m fearless,
but because I don’t want uncertainty to harden me.

For myself.
For hope.
For the parts of me that are still becoming, still healing, still learning how to trust without a clear outline of what’s ahead.

Leaving the light on looks like staying open.
It looks like choosing presence over retreat.
Like believing that clarity isn’t the only sign of faith.

Some nights, faith doesn’t look like confidence at all.
It looks like keeping the room warm.
Like refusing to shut myself off.
Like making space for what might still arrive.

Tonight, I don’t have answers.
But I’m still here.
Still open.
Still trusting that light, even when it’s small, is worth keeping on.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”
— Psalm 56:3 (NIV)

God Has a Plan for It All

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Oftentimes, we confuse the idea of “it’s all a part of God’s plan” with “God has a plan for it all.”

And that confusion matters.

Because when we tell ourselves that everything is part of His plan, it can make suffering feel unbearable to reconcile.
If God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving — why didn’t He step in?
Why didn’t He stop it?
Why did He allow me to live through this?

Those questions are deeply human. And they’re honest.

But reframing it this way changes something in me:

God has a plan for it all.

Not that He authored the pain.
Not that He desired the tragedy.
But that He is able to redeem it.

God has a plan to use our suffering.
A plan to use our brokenness.
A plan to take the scars we never asked for and turn them into places of compassion.

He meets us in our pain — and then, through it, gives us the ability to meet others in theirs.

Not because the suffering was good.
But because He is.

“For you, God, tested us; you refined us like silver…
we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance.”
— Psalm 66:10–12a (NIV)

Faith, Defined

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for,
the conviction of things not seen.”

I’ve read that verse so many times.
But lately, it feels less like a definition
and more like a description of how I’m living.

Faith isn’t certainty.
It’s not clarity.
It’s not having the outcome in hand.

It’s waking up and choosing hope anyway.
Trusting something is forming,
even when you can’t see it yet.
Standing on ground that feels steady
only because you believe it is.

Faith is quiet like that.
Unimpressive.
Unseen.
But strong enough to hold a life together.

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
— Hebrews 11:1 (ESV)

Held by His Faithfulness

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some weeks remind me just how fragile I am.
How easily shaken.
How much I want certainty, protection, assurance that nothing will slip through my fingers.

And then I remember this truth:

I am not held by my own strength.
I am held by His faithfulness.

Scripture doesn’t promise that life will be easy or predictable.
But it does promise something better — something steadier.

God is faithful.
Not occasionally.
Not when circumstances cooperate.
But always.

He strengthens us not just for what we can see,
but for what we can’t.
For fears we don’t yet have language for.
For discouragement that creeps in quietly.

There is comfort in knowing that even when I feel unsure,
even when my footing feels unsteady,
even when I don’t trust myself to hold it all together —

He does.

So this Sunday, I’m not asking for perfect peace or clear answers.
I’m resting in the kind of security that doesn’t depend on either.

The faithfulness of God is enough to stand on.
Enough to trust.
Enough to carry me through whatever comes next.

“But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen you and protect you from the evil one.”
— 2 Thessalonians 3:3 (NIV)