Reflections

When the Fire Flickers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Some days, it feels like my candle is burning out.
And other days, I swear I could light up a whole city.

I’ve learned to pay attention to what fuels the flame.
And today — it was him.

It was the moment I held my busy toddler in my arms at church,
and he suddenly stilled.
His head nestled into my shoulder,
his little eyes focused on the woman singing behind us.
The stillness.
The wonder.
The quiet awe that washed over him — and me too.

And now, it’s this moment,
as I rock him to sleep, singing gently over his tired frame.
My voice may not be beautiful, but he doesn’t mind.
And neither does God.

He fills my heart.
He overflows my cup.
He ignites something holy in me.

When he’s not here, everything feels a little off —
my home isn’t messy in a way that I love,
and my to-do lists aren’t full of things I want to be doing.
There’s just… space. And longing.

But even in that longing, I’m reminded of a Father who feels the same.
A God who simply wants to be acknowledged when He draws near.
A Father who welcomes us into His home,
mess and all.
A Father who delights in the songs we sing —
even the off-key ones.
Even the tired ones.
Even the whispered ones.

These moments…
they’re sacred.
And I think He calls them beautiful, too.

“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness;
He will quiet you by His love;
He will exult over you with loud singing.”
— Zephaniah 3:17 (ESV)

Why I Started Writing Here

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s only been a week since I started this blog — but already, it feels like more than a project.
It feels like a place.
A quiet room I keep returning to.
A space I didn’t know I needed until I was finally inside it.

And somewhere in the middle of reflecting, this thought came to me:

Not a spotlight,
but a candle.
Not “look at this,”
but “if you need this, it’s here.”
Not “I wrote something,”
but “I lived something —
and I found words for it.”

That’s what this is.

Not performance.
Not perfection.
Just presence.

I asked myself:

  • Do I want someone to read this and feel less alone?
  • Would it help me to know that someone else might be quietly held by it?

The answer was yes —
so I know this isn’t self-promotion.
It’s shared presence.

That’s what I hope this place becomes.
Not a platform.
But a light.
Small and steady.
Soft enough to breathe by.
Strong enough to keep going.

So thank you —
for showing up here.
For holding space with me.
For reminding me that even in the quiet,
our voices matter.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the one who’s quietly carrying more than she’s said out loud —
may she find peace in stillness, and comfort in words that feel like home.
Remind her that she doesn’t need to have it all figured out to be faithful.
Let this space — and these stories — remind her that she’s not alone.
Not in the silence.
Not in the stretch.
Not in the sacred becoming.

Thank You for meeting us here — softly, steadily, and always.

Amen.