parenting

What I Hope He Remembers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

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)

Leaving the Service, Finding the Stillness

/ Baylee Snelling / 5 Comments

A reflection on the Easter Sunday I stepped out — and still found grace.

I could feel the sensory overload pulsing through both of us.
The lights, the noise, the crowd.
The pressure to keep him calm.
The unspoken fear that everyone around us might be thinking, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

My dad took him for a moment. Then my mom.
He always wanted to come back to me — and I wanted him too.
But even in my arms, he wouldn’t settle.
I knew he was tired. I knew he was overstimulated.
And truthfully, so was I.

He didn’t have the words for it,
but somehow I think Beckett knew I needed something too —
a break, a breath, a quieter place to hold him without the weight of so many eyes.

We both needed out. So we left.

I stepped into the quiet lobby with him pressed against my chest, and I felt a mix of relief and shame.
I had wanted so badly to stay in the service, to worship, to feel present in the message of resurrection and hope.
But instead, I found myself holding my toddler in a hallway, wondering if people saw a mom who didn’t have it together.
Wondering if they thought, “She doesn’t know how to handle him. She doesn’t have him every Sunday. She doesn’t know what he needs.”

That thought stung more than I wanted to admit.

But as I swayed with him in the stillness, something shifted.
He was restless — but I was still his safest place.
Even when I felt unsure. Even when I didn’t have all the answers.
He kept coming back to me.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe being a good mom isn’t about having flawless moments in the pews.
Maybe it’s about leaving the room when your child needs quiet — and letting that be holy too.
Maybe it’s about knowing you’re doing your best with what you have.
About whispering “you’re okay” to your baby while learning to whisper it to yourself, too.

I’m still learning how to mother through the insecurity.
Still learning that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Still learning to trust that love isn’t always soft and settled — sometimes, it’s messy and loud and stretching and real.

And maybe that’s the kind of grace we need most —
the kind that meets us in the hallway, not just at the altar.