spiritual growth

Everybody Stop

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Do you ever want to find a really big hill,
take a deep breath in,
and scream out,

“EVERYBODY STOP!”

Like you’re constantly getting hit from all angles
and you’ve just had it?

I get it.
And if I’m honest,
I wish I didn’t.

But here I am.
On the top of my hill.
Screaming at the top of my lungs:
“Everybody stop!!”

Because I’m just so tired.
Aren’t you?

“From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
— Psalm 61:2 (NIV)

Use Me, Lord — But Gently

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quiet prayer I’ve found myself repeating lately:
“Use me, Lord… but gently.”

Not because I’m unwilling.
But because I’ve walked through seasons where my yes was misused.
Where my willingness was mistaken for weakness.
Where I gave freely — and it cost me more than it should have.

But when God calls, He doesn’t use us like that.
He doesn’t push past our boundaries or pull us into places that harm.
His voice doesn’t manipulate.
It invites.

And His use doesn’t leave me empty — it brings me back to life.

So I’m learning to trust this:
That when I surrender to Him, it won’t break me.
It will grow me.
Heal me.
Steady me.

And when I say yes from this place,
it won’t be out of pressure —
but peace.

So Lord, here I am.
Still willing.
Still soft.
Still Yours.
Use me — in ways that make me more whole,
not less.

“But you, Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.”
— Psalm 86:15 (NIV)

Not Yet, But Still

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s something sacred about waiting for a promise you may never fully see.

Something holy in trusting even when the outcome is far off — not because you’ve stopped hoping, but because you’ve learned that hope is deeper than outcome.

Hebrews 11 is full of stories like that.
People who waited, who believed, who trusted the voice of God… even when they didn’t hold the fulfillment in their hands.

It doesn’t say they gave up.
It says they welcomed it — from a distance.

And that part stays with me.
Because some seasons are full of waiting.
Of glimpses. Of aching faith.
Of trusting that the work is still worth it —
even when the results are invisible.

Maybe you’re in one of those seasons, too.

You’ve prayed.
You’ve stayed.
You’ve done the hard, holy work of believing.

And still, the promise feels far.

But that doesn’t mean you’ve missed it.
It just means you’re walking by faith —
the kind that doesn’t need proof to keep going.

So keep building.
Keep walking.
Keep holding onto the hope that lives deeper than outcome.

Because not yet doesn’t mean not ever.

And faith?
Real faith lives well in the waiting.

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.”
Hebrews 11:13 (NIV)

Burn the Ships

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a phrase I’ve come to love:
Burn the ships.

It’s a metaphor rooted in a historical moment — when explorers arrived on new land and burned their ships so there was no turning back. No retreat. No plan B.
Only forward.

It means full commitment.
It means letting go of what once carried you.
It means choosing not to return to the very thing God rescued you from.

Lately, I’ve felt this stirring in my spirit —
to stop entertaining the “what ifs” and “maybes” of going back.
To stop peeking over my shoulder at the comfort of the familiar, even if the familiar was broken.
To stop waiting for closure or validation or proof that I made the right call.

Sometimes, you don’t get that.

Sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do is move forward anyway.

Burning the ships doesn’t mean you hate where you came from.
It just means you’re not going to live there anymore.
You’re not going to worship a past version of your life
just because it’s what you knew.

You’re going to trust the God who calls you into the unknown.
You’re going to walk away, even with trembling legs,
because you finally believe He has something better ahead.

I don’t know what your “ship” is.
But I know what mine are.
And I know the quiet freedom that comes when I set them aflame —
not in bitterness,
but in boldness.

Because sometimes the fire that ends one thing
is the same fire that lights the way forward.

Anchor Verse:
“But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal…”
— Philippians 3:13–14 (NIV)

Search Me

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“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.”
— Psalm 139:23 (NIV)

There’s something deeply vulnerable about that verse.

It’s not a request to be fixed.
It’s a willingness to be seen.
Fully. Quietly. Honestly.

Not the version of us we present to others.
Not the strong, put-together, always-trusting self.
But the anxious thoughts.
The fragile heart.
The unspoken questions that don’t make it into the prayer journal.

“Search me,” David prayed.
Not because God didn’t already know,
but because he needed to know he was still safe being seen.

Some days, I pray like that too.
Not for answers. Not even for peace.
Just for God to find me where I really am.

Not where I should be by now.
Not where I pretend to be on paper.
Just… here.

In the moments where my heart still holds questions I haven’t found words for yet.

If that’s where you are today,
you don’t have to clean it up to invite Him in.

He already knows.
He’s already there.

And sometimes the bravest prayer you can pray
is simply this:

“God, search me. Stay with me.
And don’t let me hide from You.”

Through the Valley

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“Even though I walk through the valley…”
There’s something sacred about those words.
Not because it promises an easy way out.
But because it promises presence.
“…I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”

Sometimes, you don’t get to go around the valley.
You have to walk through it.

And when you do, you start to see —
it’s not the absence of fear that marks your faith,
but the nearness of the One who walks with you through it.

I’m in one of those valley seasons now.
The kind where the air feels heavier.
Where I wake up with more questions than answers.
Where joy is still real, but so is the ache beneath it.

And yet, I keep walking.

Not because I’m strong.
Not because it’s easy.
But because I know He’s near.

That’s what keeps my feet moving —
not clarity, not certainty,
just His presence.

Maybe you’re here too.
Maybe your steps are slow and unsure.
Maybe the shadows feel a little closer than they used to.

But even here — especially here —
you are not alone.

He hasn’t left.
He hasn’t forgotten.
And He isn’t waiting for you to climb out of the valley
before He meets you in it.

He doesn’t always calm the storm first.
Sometimes, He just walks beside us while it rages.

And maybe that’s what faith is —
learning to take the next step
even when the valley still feels dark.

Anchor Verse

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”
— Psalm 23:4 (ESV)

When Obedience Doesn’t Feel Rewarded

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There are days when obedience doesn’t feel like a victory.
When you show up. Do the right thing. Keep your heart soft.
And still feel like you’re walking away with empty hands.

Maybe you stayed kind when someone else wasn’t.
Maybe you prayed with your whole heart — and nothing changed.
Maybe you trusted God’s “not yet” even when you wanted to run.

And still, it feels like you’re falling behind.

But Scripture doesn’t say, “If you do the right thing, everything will go your way.”
It says,

“Let us not grow weary in doing good,
for at the proper time we will reap a harvest,
if we do not give up.”
— Galatians 6:9

Obedience is not about outcomes.
It’s not a guarantee of comfort, or applause, or clarity.

Obedience is about love.
It’s how we say,
“God, I trust You more than I trust what I see.”

So if you’re walking through a season that feels unrewarded —
if your faith feels invisible to the world but costly to you —
you’re not doing it wrong.

You’re walking by faith.
And that matters more than you know.

When You Show Up Anyway

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I wasn’t fully prepared.
I didn’t train the way I thought I should.
But I showed up anyway.
And somehow, I made it through.
Not just made it — I finished stronger than I expected.

This morning, I ran a half marathon.
And no, this isn’t a post about mileage or pace.
This is about something quieter —
something that happens when you keep going,
even when your mind tells you that you can’t.

It’s about showing up under-equipped,
under-prepared,
and still being met by a strength that wasn’t your own.

Because here’s the thing I’m still learning:
You don’t always need to feel ready to begin.
You don’t need the perfect plan, or the perfect mindset.
You just need willingness.
And God can work with that.

Sometimes the most sacred victories aren’t the loud ones —
they’re the ones that feel small at first.
They happen in a moment you could’ve tapped out,
but you didn’t.
When you kept going,
and something holy met you in the middle of your lack.

Anchor Verse

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)

Learning to See What’s Holy

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Discernment means spiritual understanding.
It’s the ability to sense or recognize what is true, right, or aligned with God —
even when things are confusing or painful.

It’s not just about decision-making.
It’s about seeing with wisdom instead of emotion alone.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if God is teaching me this.
Not by handing me answers,
but by letting me wrestle with what peace feels like.
By letting me feel the difference between what’s real and what just looks good.
By staying near while I learn how to tell the difference.

In this kind of season, discernment often doesn’t come all at once.
It’s something God shapes slowly —
in the quiet, in the questions, and in the in‑between places.

It looks like learning to tell the difference between peace and pressure.
To feel what’s rooted in Him, and what’s driven by fear or control.
It’s recognizing His presence even in hard places —
remembering that just because something hurts doesn’t mean He’s absent.
And it’s trusting His timing, even when waiting feels like a wilderness.
Because sometimes clarity grows best in the pause.

So when I asked, “Why would God allow this?”
Or, “What could He possibly be doing with this?”
Maybe part of the answer is:
He’s helping me see what’s holy in the middle of it.

Not just what’s happening,
but what He’s shaping in me as it happens.

And maybe that’s what discernment really is —
not just clarity, but closeness.

Anchor Verse
“Teach me good judgment and discernment, for I rely on your commands.”
Psalm 119:66 (CSB)

What Draws Me Closer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quote I came across recently:

“Sadness that brings you closer to God is better than happiness that pulls you further away.”

It stung my heart in the best kind of way.

Because if I’m being honest — my life doesn’t look like what I thought it would two years ago.
It doesn’t even look like what I thought it would one year ago.
There’s a version of life I imagined, prayed for, maybe even tried to build myself.

But here I am… not at the end of the storm, but squarely in the middle of it.
And still — I’m more at peace than I’ve ever been.

Because this kind of peace?
It isn’t circumstantial.
It isn’t surface-deep.
It’s the kind that settles in when you’ve finally stopped chasing the kind of “happiness” that always leaves you empty.

I can look back now at moments that felt happy on the outside —
And realize that my heart still ached underneath it all.
I called it joy, but it was just distraction.
I called it peace, but it was just quiet tension.
I called it fulfillment, but I was starving inside for something real.

Something deeper.
Something truer.
Something eternal.

And so while there are things I still grieve —
Plans that changed.
People who left.
Parts of myself I had to let go of…

I celebrate what I’ve found in the aftermath:
A God who never walked away.
A presence that met me in my lowest moments.
A love that doesn’t depend on how happy I feel, but on how deeply I’m held.

So no — my life doesn’t look like what I pictured.
But it looks more like Jesus.
And that, I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Anchor Verse

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
John 14:27 (NIV)