identity in Christ

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.

What Is Your Only Comfort?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve spent most of my life in church — Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesdays too.
I was raised on Scripture, shaped by the quiet rhythm of pews and communion trays, and taught early on that the Word of God is enough. It still is.

So when I recently came across something called The Heidelberg Catechism, I wasn’t looking for new theology or creeds. I just happened upon a phrase — one that reached into my heart and wrapped its arms around something I didn’t know needed holding.

“What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
That I am not my own… but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I had to read it again.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying a lot — grief that lingers, questions that don’t resolve neatly, and moments that make me feel a little too small for the weight of this world.

But those words.
I am not my own… I belong.

Not to my pain.
Not to my past.
Not to what others say about me, or even what I sometimes believe about myself.

I belong to Christ.

Not because I’ve earned it.
Not because I always feel it.
But because He said so. Because He gave everything to make it so.

That line from the Catechism isn’t Scripture — but the truth behind it is echoed all throughout the Bible:

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price…”
—1 Corinthians 6:19–20

That’s what I want to remember on the days I feel unseen.
On the nights I question if I’m doing enough, being enough, holding together enough.

I want to remember that comfort — the kind of comfort that can only be found in Scripture, the kind that the Heidelberg Catechism question offered me.
Not found in perfect understanding, but in the unwavering truth that I belong to Him.