spiritual growth

To Everything I’ve Ever Lost

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Not just what I’ve lost—but what I’ve found because of it.

We don’t always get to choose what’s taken from us. But we do get to choose what we do with the empty space that’s left behind.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, it’s not until we’re brought to our knees by loss that we look up and remember who’s been standing there all along.

That’s what this photo reminded me of:

“To everything I’ve ever lost, thank you for bringing me closer to Jesus.”

It stopped me in my tracks because it’s true. I wouldn’t wish some of the heartbreak I’ve walked through on anyone, but I also wouldn’t trade what it gave me—an intimacy with Jesus I might’ve never known otherwise.

Loss can strip us of our plans, our people, our sense of stability. But it can’t take the One who walks us through the fire.

So maybe the most unexpected gratitude we can offer is this: Thank You for the losses that led me here.

To trust. To surrender. To deeper healing. To Jesus.

Anchor Verse

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”
Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)

When It All Feels Like Too Much

/ Baylee Snelling / 3 Comments

You know when life feels like one giant snowball — rolling faster and heavier with every hit of bad news?

Like you barely catch your breath from one thing, and the next thing knocks you down again?

Yeah. Me too.

But I’m starting to believe that those seasons — the ones that feel like too much — might actually be the very ground God uses to prepare us for what’s coming.

Not because He’s punishing us.
But because He’s forming us.

Because without the hard, we don’t always know how to recognize the holy.
Without the ache, we don’t always appreciate the abundance.

And I think He really wants us to be able to appreciate what’s coming.

Not just survive it.
But savor it.

So if you’re in the middle of what feels like a relentless season —
where the good feels distant and the hits just keep coming —
don’t give up hope.

This isn’t the end of your story.

This might just be the stretch of road that softens your heart enough
to fully receive the beauty that’s ahead.

Hold on.
He’s not done.

Anchor Verse

“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore He will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for Him!”
Isaiah 30:18 (NIV)

Level Ground and Loud Praise

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“From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly; before those who fear you I will fulfill my vows.”
Psalms 22:25 NIV

“My feet stand on level ground; in the great congregation I will praise the Lord.”
Psalms 26:12 NIV

These two verses are sitting on my heart.

These words feel like a declaration of steady worship — the kind that rises not from ease, but from endurance.

Because let’s be honest: sometimes praise doesn’t come from a mountaintop moment. Sometimes it comes from the middle — from the steadying after the storm, from the ache that is somehow still standing, from the places where we’ve vowed to keep going when it would’ve been easier to give up.

That’s what these verses remind me of.

They remind me that God is not only worthy of praise in private, quiet places — but in the presence of others, too. In the great assembly. Even when we feel vulnerable. Even when the scars are still visible. Even when the story isn’t over yet.

And they remind me that there is such a thing as level ground — even when life has felt like a landslide. God steadies our feet when we couldn’t steady ourselves. He fulfills His promises when we’ve been too tired to remember our own.

So if you’re in a season where praise feels more like a choice than a feeling — you’re not alone.

Stand on the ground He’s leveled for you.
Lift your voice anyway.
And know this: He’s not just listening — He’s present.

Anchor Verse:

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
Psalm 40:2 NIV

The Season Before the Bloom

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Nothing blooms without first going through a season.

Not the flowers.
Not the trees.
Not us.

We look at the petals and forget about the process.
The dirt.
The dark.
The slow stretching of roots beneath the surface where no one sees.

But that’s where it begins.
In the hidden places.
In the quiet.
In the parts that don’t look like growth — but are.

The truth is: God often does His deepest work in the seasons that feel still.
And stillness is not the same as stuck.
Waiting is not the same as wasted.

Just because it hasn’t bloomed yet doesn’t mean it won’t.

You might feel like nothing is happening,
like everything is stalled,
like this season is all delay and detour…

But maybe you’re not behind —
you’re right on time
for what’s growing beneath the surface.

And maybe the ache you feel isn’t the end of something —
maybe it’s the beginning of something that just hasn’t bloomed yet.

You’re allowed to be in a season of unseen growth.
You’re allowed to take root before you rise.
You’re allowed to honor the slow work of God in your life.

Because the bloom will come.

Not when you force it.
Not when you rush it.
But when it’s time.

And friend — it will be time.

Anchor Verse:

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

Closing Reflection:

If it feels like you’ve been buried lately,
maybe you’re not buried at all.
Maybe you’ve been planted.

Planted in grace.
Planted in mercy.
Planted in the very soil where new life will come.

So don’t lose heart in this season.
Something beautiful is growing here.

You may not see it yet,
but God does.

And He never wastes a season.

When Pain Speaks Louder

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a quote by C.S. Lewis that’s been echoing in my spirit:

“God whispers to us in our pleasures,
speaks in our conscience,
but shouts in our pains:
it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

I used to think pain meant something had gone wrong.
That it meant God was far.
That something was broken beyond repair.

But I’m starting to see it differently.
Maybe pain doesn’t mean God is absent — maybe it means He’s speaking louder.
Not to punish.
Not to push us away.
But to draw us in.

Because sometimes, pain is the pause we didn’t know we needed.
It’s in the ache that we finally slow down enough to listen.
We stop running.
We stop striving.
We stop pretending we’re fine.

And in that stillness — in the ache — we hear Him differently.
Not always clearly.
Not always right away.
But somehow, deeply.

Maybe pain isn’t the place we find all the answers —
but it might be the place where we finally let go of needing them.

And in that letting go…
there’s finally space —
for Presence.
For peace.
For Him.

Anchor Verse

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

Maybe the pain hasn’t left…
but neither has He.

When the Fire Flickers

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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)

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.

He’s Not Finished Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are days when hope feels like a stranger.
When everything I thought would be — isn’t.
When the pain feels louder than the promise,
and I wonder if this is where the story ends.

I think of Mary.
Weeping at the foot of the cross.
Heart shattered.
Hope buried beneath the weight of what she couldn’t make sense of.

What she didn’t realize was…
Easter was coming.

The silence wasn’t the final word.
The grief wasn’t the whole story.
And the cross wasn’t the end.

Sometimes, I find myself standing in the same kind of ache —
facing heartbreak I didn’t ask for,
surrounded by questions without answers,
unsure of what’s ahead
or if anything good can come from here.

But then I remember…

God doesn’t leave things undone.
He doesn’t abandon stories halfway through.
He doesn’t hand us the pen and walk away.

Even when I can’t see how He’s moving,
He is still writing.
Still redeeming.
Still resurrecting.

The hope I need today might not be in a happy ending —
but in the quiet truth that this isn’t the end.

Because even when all hope seems lost,
my story isn’t over.
And the Author of my life
isn’t finished yet.

Faith in the Flicker

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Faith in the Flicker

Some days, my faith isn’t loud.

It doesn’t rise with bold declarations or feel steady and unshakable.

It flickers —
like a candle near an open window,
trembling just to stay lit.

But I’m learning that God doesn’t measure my faith in volume.

He sees the quiet yes.
The whispered prayers.
The breath I take before I try again.
The tears I cry while still choosing to believe.

He doesn’t shame me when I’m unsure.
He doesn’t back away when I’m tired.
He doesn’t need me to be brave to stay close.

Even the smallest spark is enough for Him to work with.

Because He’s not waiting on my strength —
He’s offering me His.

And even when I feel like I’m barely holding on,
I’m still held.

The Strength Fear Tries to Steal

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I’ve wasted so many todays
worrying about tomorrow.

Not intentionally.
Not because I wanted to.
But because anxiety is sneaky like that —
convincing you that if you think it through just one more time,
you’ll feel better.

Spoiler: you don’t.

I read something recently that really stuck out to me:
“What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties today of its strength.”
— Alexander McLaren

And I felt it.

Because fear doesn’t just whisper worst-case scenarios —
it drains the light from moments that were meant to hold joy.
It robs us of the strength we do have for right now,
by convincing us we need to hoard it for what might come later.

But we weren’t made to live that way.
Not crouched in fear.
Not rehearsing pain that hasn’t even happened.

Today is still here.
And it still matters.

God didn’t promise we’d be fearless.
But He did promise He’d be with us.
And that is more than enough.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of what we fear —
but the presence of the One who knows how to carry us through it.

So for today —
not tomorrow, just today —
I’m choosing presence over panic.
Trust over spirals.
And strength over fear.