spiritual growth

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.

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.

Maybe This Is the Post

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I didn’t plan a post tonight.
I didn’t come with a title or a theme or a tidy truth to wrap everything together.

I sat down to write —
and nothing came.
Just a tired kind of quiet,
the kind that doesn’t ask to be explained.

But maybe this is the post.
The one that doesn’t offer clarity or closure,
but simply shows up.

Maybe this is the kind of honesty we all need sometimes —
to admit we don’t always have the words,
or the answers,
or the strength to keep unpacking what still hurts.

Maybe the miracle isn’t always in what we say.
Maybe it’s in the showing up anyway.
In being present to the moment — even when the moment feels like not enough.
Even when you feel like not enough.

And maybe
this is the kind of space
where we quietly remember
that even when the words won’t come,
He still does.

That He doesn’t need eloquence
to meet us.

He just needs us.

So if you’ve arrived here —
empty-handed, weary, unsure of what you’re even looking for —
you’re not alone.

Let’s sit here for a while.
Not searching for the right thing to say.
Just resting in the comfort that we’re seen anyway.

“…for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”
— Matthew 6:8

What Is Your Only Comfort?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve spent most of my life in church — Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesdays too.
I was raised on Scripture, shaped by the quiet rhythm of pews and communion trays, and taught early on that the Word of God is enough. It still is.

So when I recently came across something called The Heidelberg Catechism, I wasn’t looking for new theology or creeds. I just happened upon a phrase — one that reached into my heart and wrapped its arms around something I didn’t know needed holding.

“What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
That I am not my own… but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I had to read it again.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying a lot — grief that lingers, questions that don’t resolve neatly, and moments that make me feel a little too small for the weight of this world.

But those words.
I am not my own… I belong.

Not to my pain.
Not to my past.
Not to what others say about me, or even what I sometimes believe about myself.

I belong to Christ.

Not because I’ve earned it.
Not because I always feel it.
But because He said so. Because He gave everything to make it so.

That line from the Catechism isn’t Scripture — but the truth behind it is echoed all throughout the Bible:

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price…”
—1 Corinthians 6:19–20

That’s what I want to remember on the days I feel unseen.
On the nights I question if I’m doing enough, being enough, holding together enough.

I want to remember that comfort — the kind of comfort that can only be found in Scripture, the kind that the Heidelberg Catechism question offered me.
Not found in perfect understanding, but in the unwavering truth that I belong to Him.

The Things I Can’t Explain

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Some parts of my story
don’t fit into sentences.

There are moments I carry
that have no language —
just a quiet ache
I’ve learned how to live beside.

I’ve tried to name them before.
Tried to trace the edges,
make them make sense,
offer them in neat, careful paragraphs.

But some grief is shapeless.
Some memories blurry,
not because they weren’t real,
but because they were too much to hold with open eyes.

Still, they live in me.
In how I flinch at certain words.
In how I love more tenderly now.
In how I pause before trusting again.

I used to think everything had to be told
to be healed.
That I had to find the words
or I’d never be free.

But I’m learning —
even the things I can’t explain
are seen by the One who made me.

Even the wounds without language
are held by a God who doesn’t need a translation
to understand.

So if you’re carrying things too heavy for words —
you’re not alone.
You don’t have to explain them to be worthy of healing.
You don’t have to speak them out loud to be seen.

He already knows.

And still, He stays.

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26 (NIV)

Still Working for My Good (Romans 8:28)

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The other day, I asked God to speak to me.
I told Him I’d be paying attention. That I didn’t want to miss it.
I wasn’t asking for a burning bush — just a whisper. A moment. Something only He could orchestrate.

And then, He did.

My daily devotional that morning opened with a verse I’ve always loved — Romans 8:28.
And later that day, without knowing, my counselor brought up the same exact verse.
“It reminds me of Romans 8:28,” she said.
I smiled — not because it was new, but because it was confirmation.
God saw me listening. And He answered.

That verse has been anchoring me lately:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Not just in the easy things. Not just in the visible ones.
In all things.

This season hasn’t felt good.
It’s felt raw and heavy and filled with waiting.
But He keeps reminding me — He’s not wasting any of it.
He’s still writing the story.
And He’s still working for my good.

Today, I read something else that hit me straight in the chest.
It said:
“Don’t settle for Ishmael when God has Isaac for you.”
That’s what I’ve been trying to hold onto — that God’s timing,
His ways, His purposes — are always worth the wait.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when I’m tempted to reach for something just to feel in control again.

I don’t want to rush what God is still preparing.
I don’t want to interrupt what He’s still unfolding.

Because what He has for me — for us —
isn’t second best.
It’s the very thing I’ve been trusting Him for.

Love Letters in Black-Edged Envelopes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Finding grace in what once felt like grief

There are days I wonder how I ever make it through.
Not because I’m prideful —
but because I’m constantly reminded of how deeply I ache,
how lost I feel,
how certain I am, at times, that the pain will never ease.

But it does.
Slowly. Quietly.
And in ways I still have yet to fully see.

I came across this quote by Charles Spurgeon, and it stopped me:

“I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days.
And when God has seemed most cruel to me He has then been most kind…
Our Father’s wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of His grace…
Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes.”

It’s a hard truth to hold —
that some of the most tender mercies arrive dressed as heartache.
That the pain that almost unravels me
is also what softens me,
what refines me,
what keeps making room for something deeper.

There were nights I cried out to God with no reply.
Moments I felt abandoned.
Parts of my story that felt unfair — even unredeemable.

But He is here.
In the silence.
In the stretch.
In the storm.

And the very things I begged to be taken away
are slowly becoming the places where I see Him most clearly.
Not always in answers —
but in presence.

I don’t say this lightly:
I wouldn’t have chosen this pain.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found in the wreckage.

Because it’s here —
in the rebuilding,
in the quiet grace of a still-standing soul —
that I’ve seen the truth of Spurgeon’s words:

This storm isn’t breaking me.
It’s bringing me home.