hope

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)

When It All Feels Like Too Much

/ Baylee Snelling / 3 Comments

You know when life feels like one giant snowball — rolling faster and heavier with every hit of bad news?

Like you barely catch your breath from one thing, and the next thing knocks you down again?

Yeah. Me too.

But I’m starting to believe that those seasons — the ones that feel like too much — might actually be the very ground God uses to prepare us for what’s coming.

Not because He’s punishing us.
But because He’s forming us.

Because without the hard, we don’t always know how to recognize the holy.
Without the ache, we don’t always appreciate the abundance.

And I think He really wants us to be able to appreciate what’s coming.

Not just survive it.
But savor it.

So if you’re in the middle of what feels like a relentless season —
where the good feels distant and the hits just keep coming —
don’t give up hope.

This isn’t the end of your story.

This might just be the stretch of road that softens your heart enough
to fully receive the beauty that’s ahead.

Hold on.
He’s not done.

Anchor Verse

“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore He will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for Him!”
Isaiah 30:18 (NIV)

Stronger Than What’s Standing in Front of You

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are days when the thing in front of you feels too big to move.
Too heavy to carry.
Too complicated to untangle.

The obstacle might be a person.
Or a wound.
Or a door that just won’t open no matter how hard you push.

And it’s easy to believe that this is the thing that will finally undo you.
That maybe this is the end of the road.
That prayer doesn’t work.
Or God’s not listening.
Or you’re just too tired to keep saying the same thing again and again.

But lately, I’ve been reminded of something:

Prayer is not powerless.
It’s not passive.
It’s not some backup plan we use when everything else fails.

Prayer is the most powerful thing we’ve been given.
Because prayer isn’t just words — it’s connection.
It’s alignment.
It’s surrender and authority woven together in the same breath.

It’s not always flashy.
It’s not always instant.
But it is always working.

Because prayer invites God into places we can’t reach on our own.
And there is no obstacle that outranks His presence.

So if what’s standing in front of you feels too big —
remember who’s standing beside you.

“The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.”
James 5:16 (NIV)

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)

The Place My Soul Calls Home

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

There’s a kind of homesickness I can’t explain.

Not for a house or a city —
but for something deeper.
A nearness. A Presence. A peace that settles in the bones.

“How lovely is Your dwelling place, Lord Almighty.
My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.”
— Psalm 84:1–2 (NIV)

I read that — and I don’t just understand it,
I feel it.

Because more than answers,
more than comfort,
more than clarity or resolution —
what I really ache for is God Himself.

To feel close to Him again.
To remember what it’s like to rest in His presence,
not rushing past it
or reaching for it like it’s still far away.
But to dwell in it.

To breathe it in like oxygen for a soul that’s been holding its breath.

Maybe you’ve felt it too.

That quiet pull toward the sacred.
That longing to feel seen,
held,
not alone.

The world offers distractions.
But nothing satisfies that ache like Him.

Not a new chapter.
Not a healed circumstance.
Not even peace in your situation.

The ache you feel?
It’s holy.

Because what your soul longs for most —
is the One who made it.

And He’s not far.
He’s right here, closer than you think.

The Miraculous May Be Just Ahead

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Joseph had no idea that one day, he’d be released from prison and become second in command over all of Egypt.
Elizabeth had no idea that, long after her childbearing years had passed, she would carry the one who would prepare the way for the Lord.

So if your situation feels impossible —
if you’re waiting, wondering, aching to see what God is doing —
let their stories remind you:
He is never late. He is never absent. He is never done.

God may be about to do something miraculous.

You don’t have to be loud to be loved.
You don’t have to be noticed to be known.
You don’t have to be praised to be precious.

God hears the quiet.
He sees the faithful.
And He calls it beautiful.

“Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”
— Matthew 6:6 (ESV)

A Love Letter to My Future

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I haven’t met you yet —
not fully.
Not the way I hope to.
Not the way I will.

But I think about you often.

I wonder how your laugh sounds now,
freer than before.
How your eyes rest softer
because you no longer flinch at love that stays.

I wonder what peace feels like in your body —
if your shoulders sit a little lower,
if your breath comes easier,
if joy has found a home in the spaces where grief once settled.

You are who I’m becoming,
but some days, I still feel far away from you.
Still in the middle.
Still aching, healing, hoping.

So I write to you not as someone who’s arrived,
but as someone still on the road.
Still limping forward with faith in one hand
and surrender in the other.

You are the proof that the story didn’t end in the valley.
That I was not buried by what tried to break me.
That resurrection was more than just a word I whispered on Sundays.

You are the woman who gets to love from wholeness.
Who walks in rooms without apology.
Who trusts God — not just for others,
but for herself too.

I don’t need to rush to you.
You’re not running out of time.
And I am not too late.

We’re just becoming.
One breath at a time.
And I’m already so proud of you.

Love,
The version of you who’s still holding on.

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.

The Mountain in Front of Me

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

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.