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Beautiful, Quiet, and Not Yet Safe

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s snowing here.

Everything outside is white and quiet and beautiful —
the kind of beauty that makes you want to stop and stare.

But the conditions are hazardous.
The roads are slick.
The kind of beauty you admire from the window,
not the kind you rush out into.

So we stay inside.
Warm.
Still.
Watching.

And it strikes me how often life looks like this.

How something can appear peaceful,
gentle,
even inviting —
while underneath, it isn’t safe to move yet.

Not everything beautiful is meant to be touched.
Not every open door is meant to be walked through.
Not every season that looks calm is ready for forward motion.

Sometimes wisdom looks like staying put.
Like waiting.
Like trusting that stillness isn’t wasted time.

The snow will melt when it’s time.
The roads will clear.
Movement will come.

But for now, there is grace in staying inside.
In paying attention.
In letting beauty exist without demanding more from it.

Tonight, I’m not rushing the thaw.
I’m letting this be what it is.

Beautiful.
Quiet.
And not yet safe.

“In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15 (NIV)

When I Come Back to Prayer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Sometimes prayer doesn’t begin with words.
It begins with a pause.

A moment where I stop moving long enough to notice
what I’ve been carrying without saying.

Lately, prayer has felt less like asking
and more like returning.

Returning to honesty.
Returning to stillness.
Returning to the simple truth that I don’t have to hold everything on my own.

I don’t always know what to say when I come.
Some days it’s just a sentence.
Some days it’s just a breath.
Some days it’s nothing more than staying.

And maybe that counts.

Maybe prayer isn’t measured by how clear or confident we sound.
Maybe it’s measured by our willingness to show up
without rehearsing,
without fixing,
without pretending we’re fine.

I’m learning that prayer doesn’t always change the situation right away.
But it changes where I stand inside of it.

And sometimes, that’s the quiet grace of it —
not answers,
not certainty,
just presence.

God meeting me where I am.
And me learning to stay there a little longer.

“Truly my soul finds rest in God;
my salvation comes from him.”
— Psalm 62:1 (NIV)

Still With Me

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quiet reassurance woven through Scripture that I keep coming back to —
the reminder that God doesn’t leave when life feels unsettled.

Not when faith feels steady.
Not when it feels thin.
Not when the questions linger longer than the answers.

He stays.

Sometimes I think we expect God’s nearness to feel dramatic —
a sudden clarity, a strong emotion, a sense of certainty.
But more often, His presence feels like something quieter.

Like endurance.
Like steadiness.
Like the ability to keep showing up even when the path isn’t clear.

This kind of faith doesn’t always announce itself.
It simply remains.

And maybe that’s what Sunday is for —
not to arrive with everything resolved,
but to remember that we’re not walking alone into the week ahead.

God is still with us.
Still faithful.
Still holding what we can’t.

That truth doesn’t remove the weight of life,
but it does make it a little more bearable.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

“The Lord is near to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth.”
— Psalm 145:18 (NIV)

All Is Calm

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

All is calm.
All is right.

After days of holding my breath,
my heart settles back into its familiar rhythm.

Little hands back where they belong.
Laughter echoing through rooms that felt too quiet.
Christmas lights glowing a little warmer tonight.

Nothing extravagant.
Nothing loud.

Just presence.
Just peace returning to its place.

And as the house grows still,
I let myself rest in it—

grateful,
grounded,
home again.

“You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy.”
— Psalm 16:11 (ESV)

The Still Places We’re Afraid to Sit In

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are quiet places that don’t feel peaceful at first.
They feel empty.
They feel unfamiliar.
They echo too much.

Sometimes it’s the stillness itself that feels loud —
not because it’s actually noisy,
but because we’ve been moving so fast for so long
that stopping feels like something might catch up with us.

Maybe it’s grief.
Maybe it’s fear.
Maybe it’s the simple ache of being alone with your thoughts —
without the to-do lists, the baby monitor, the scrolling, or the noise of a world that never stops.

But stillness is not punishment.
It’s invitation.

It’s where God gently meets us when we’re no longer outrunning Him.
Not with reprimand —
but with presence.

Because He doesn’t need our productivity.
He wants our proximity.

He just wants us close enough to hear Him when He whispers,
“I’m still here.”
“I’ve been here.”

And the stillness begins to soften.
The silence turns holy.
And the ache doesn’t disappear —
but it rests.

Not because it’s fixed,
but because it’s finally held.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
Psalm 46:10 (NIV)