scripture reflection

What Are You Letting Dwell?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve read Philippians 4:7 more times than I can count.

I’ve memorized it.

Quoted it.

Clung to it.

But this week, one word stopped me.

Guard.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 4:7

Why guard?

Why not comfort?

Why not calm?

Why not reassure?

Why guard?

That word assumes something.

It assumes our hearts and our minds are vulnerable.

That there are thoughts trying to make themselves at home.

So I looked up the definition of worry.

One definition described it as dwelling on potential difficulties.

That word caught my attention.

Dwell.

Isn’t that exactly what worry does?

It doesn’t simply knock on the door.

It moves in.

It pulls up a chair.

It rearranges the furniture.

Before long, it begins convincing us that it belongs there.

We replay conversations that haven’t happened.

We imagine outcomes that may never come.

We carry tomorrow’s burdens before tomorrow ever arrives.

Worry has a way of settling into places it was never invited.

But Paul paints an entirely different picture.

He says the peace of God will guard our hearts and our minds.

A guard doesn’t promise that trouble won’t come.

A guard doesn’t pretend there isn’t danger outside the gate.

A guard simply decides what gets through.

That changes everything.

Peace isn’t pretending life is easy.

Peace isn’t the absence of uncertainty.

Peace is the presence of Christ standing watch over the places where worry longs to dwell.

Maybe that’s why Paul says this peace surpasses all understanding.

Because it isn’t dependent on understanding.

It isn’t waiting for every question to be answered.

It’s trusting the One who already knows the answers.

I don’t know what you’re carrying today.

Maybe it’s a diagnosis.

A relationship.

Your children.

Your future.

Your finances.

Or simply a thousand “what ifs” that keep circling your mind.

Whatever it is…

remember this:

Worry wants to dwell.

But peace stands guard.

And I’d rather have a guard at the door than another answer to every question.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Philippians 4:7 (NIV)

When the Question Finds You

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The other night,
I was talking with my mom —
words soft, the ache quieter than usual.
And without really planning to, I said it:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Not in anger. Not even in desperation.
Just honesty. Gentle, aching honesty.
Like something long held finally exhaled.

Later that evening,
I opened my Bible study,
not expecting anything —
just turning the page like always.

And there it was:

“Please, my Lord,” Gideon asked,
“if the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us?”
— Judges 6:13

I sat still.
Because it felt like He’d answered me —
not with a solution,
but with solidarity.

The very thing I had whispered
was echoed in ancient words.
Like the question had been waiting
for someone else to ask it too.

I didn’t need an explanation in that moment.
I just needed to know
that someone had stood in this place before me —
and God met them there.

This is the mystery of mercy:
that even the rawest ache
does not scare Him away.
It draws Him closer.

The Turn I Almost Missed

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I thought about writing today —
about joy in the storm.
But I hesitated.
It felt like something I’d written too many times before.
Like maybe I should find a new angle,
a different message.

So I got up.
Did some laundry.
Checked a few boxes off the list.
And opened my devotional —
Watching for the Morning by Vaneetha Rendall Risner.
A liferaft of a book in this season.

The title for today?
“The Greatest Turn in Scripture.”

And beneath it, these words:

“Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
—Lamentations 3:21–23

I stopped.
Because I knew.
God was speaking to me — again.
Through a verse I’ve read a hundred times.
Through a theme I thought I’d already written to death.

But maybe that’s the point.

Even Jeremiah —
mid-anguish, breathless and undone —
stopped.

He didn’t forget the pain.
He didn’t pretend it didn’t exist.
But he remembered something deeper.
“Yet this I call to mind…”
That even when everything felt lost,
God’s mercies were not.

And suddenly, hope entered the story.

I almost didn’t write this.
I almost brushed past the very word I needed.
Because I thought I’d already said it.

But today reminded me —
some truths are worth repeating.
Some mercies are new, even in familiar form.

I’ll never forget the storms.
But I’ll also never stop looking for the joy
that rises in the middle of them.

“I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for Him.’”
—Lamentations 3:24

When Grief Becomes a Prayer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“Pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord.” — Lamentations 2:19

We don’t talk about Lamentations very often.

It’s not the book we memorize.
Not the one we highlight in bright yellows and pinks.
It’s messy.
Heavy.
It aches in a way that doesn’t tie up neatly with a bow.

But I’ve found comfort there —
not because it fixes anything,
but because it feels like the inside of my own heart sometimes.

There’s this idea I read recently,
by Clint Watkins:
“You may feel that God is being unloving or unmerciful.
But instead of turning those feelings into a conclusion,
lament helps you turn them into a conversation.”

That line stopped me.

Because how often do we rush past our ache,
afraid it will make us unfaithful?
How often do we silence our sorrow,
thinking God can’t handle it?

But Lamentations tells a different story.
It invites the ache to speak.
It gives language to the weary.
It shows us that grief can belong in prayer —
not as something to hide,
but something to hold.

Lament doesn’t mean you’ve lost your faith.
It means you’re bringing your pain to the only One
who can sit with it fully.

You don’t have to explain it all.
You don’t have to tie it up in theology.
You’re allowed to simply say:
“This hurts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Where are You in this?”

And He listens.

So if you’re carrying questions too heavy for answers —
you’re not alone.
And you’re not faithless.

You’re lamenting.

And that… is still prayer.