redemption

Not Everything Gets Given Back

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I read something today about Job.

That God didn’t give him his old life back —
He gave him a new one.

That some pain isn’t explained,
it’s redeemed.

And I’ve been sitting with that.

Because if I’m honest,
I think part of me still expects life to circle back.

To return what was lost.
To restore things the way they were.
To make it all make sense in a way I recognize.

But that’s not always how it works.

Sometimes what’s gone
doesn’t come back the same way.

Sometimes there isn’t a clear explanation.
No moment where everything is tied together neatly.

And that’s the part that’s hard to sit with.

Because redemption doesn’t always look like replacement.

It doesn’t always feel like more.
It doesn’t always come in a way you can immediately recognize as good.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like continuing.
Like rebuilding without having all the pieces.
Like learning to hold both what was
and what is now
at the same time.

I don’t know that I fully understand redemption yet.

But I’m starting to see
that it isn’t always about getting something back.

Sometimes it’s about becoming someone
who can keep moving forward
even without it.

“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…”
— Joel 2:25 (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)

The Turning Point I Can’t Yet See

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some days I feel stuck in the middle.
Between what I prayed for and what is.
Between the heartbreak and the healing.
Between the promise and the “But God…” moment.

I read stories in Scripture where everything shifts in a single verse.
Like Joseph — who was betrayed, abandoned, forgotten.
And yet one day, he looks back on it all and says:
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50:20)

I long for that clarity.
That redemptive hindsight.
That moment when the pain finally makes sense.

But I’m not there yet.
I’m still standing in the stretch.
Still aching for the shift.
Still wondering when the turn will come.

And still —
I’m choosing to believe in a God who works behind the scenes,
who writes stories that take time,
who brings beauty even from broken things.

The turning point may not have come yet.
But it’s not gone.
And my story isn’t finished.

He’s still writing.

When Restoration Looks Different

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Today my mom shared a verse with me:
“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

I’ve been thinking about what restoration really means.

I used to imagine it as getting back exactly what was lost —
like God would hand me the same dream,
only without the heartbreak attached.

But the more I sit with this,
the more I realize restoration often looks different than we expect.

It doesn’t always come as a perfect rewind.
It comes as something new.
Something reshaped by the breaking,
stronger because of what it’s been through.

Sometimes, it’s quieter than I imagined.
Sometimes, it’s not even in the same form.
And sometimes, it comes so slowly
I don’t recognize it until I’m already standing in it.

God doesn’t restore by replacing.
He restores by redeeming.

The years that felt wasted,
the dreams that felt devoured —
they may not come back the way I pictured.
But they will come back.

Not because I know how,
but because He promised they would.