Trust

The Quiet Test

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Every time I start to feel like God isn’t there,
I remember something simple:

The teacher is always quiet during the test.

Silence doesn’t mean absence.
Sometimes it means you’re being trusted to keep going
with what you already know —
the truth you’ve learned, the faith you’ve practiced,
the strength you didn’t know you were building.

Because tests aren’t meant to feel easy.
They’re meant to reveal who you’re becoming.

Not in moments of certainty,
but in the quiet ones —
where you choose to stay faithful without being reminded why.

And maybe that’s the real work of the silence:
not to break you,
but to form something steady that lasts.

“Let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.”
— James 1:4 (CSB)

Daily Bread

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some seasons don’t feel like forward motion.
They feel like circles.
Like prayers prayed a hundred times over.
Like showing up, again and again, to the same hard place —
with nothing to show for it but faith.

It can feel like nothing is happening.
No breakthroughs. No answers. No big, sweeping change.
Just… more waiting.
More unknown.
More of the same.

But what if the change isn’t out there?
What if it’s in you?

What if the waiting is where you’re being refined —
gently, slowly, quietly —
into someone more surrendered, more rooted, more whole?

Maybe this is what He’s teaching you:
You don’t need to see the whole map to keep walking.
You don’t need tomorrow’s provision to trust Him today.
You just need the daily bread He promised.

Not clarity for the next year.
Just courage for the next step.

You’re learning to walk by faith —
not by sight.

And that’s no small thing.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105 (ESV)

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)

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 I Leave My Heart Behind

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a kind of quiet that follows certain goodbyes.

Not the kind that signals rest —
but the kind that hangs in the space where presence used to be.
Where laughter echoed just an hour ago.
Where tiny feet ran from room to room.
Where arms wrapped around my neck like they never wanted to let go.

And then, in an instant, it’s quiet again.

When I leave my heart behind,
I hold my breath until I get it back.

Not because I don’t trust.
Not because I’m falling apart.
But because love this deep —
the kind you carry in your bones —
doesn’t know how to exhale when part of you is missing.

Still, I’m learning…

How to breathe in the waiting.
How to find peace in the pause.
How to let the ache be evidence of love — not lack.
How to trust that what God holds, He holds well.

Some days feel heavier than others.
Some goodbyes stretch a little longer.
Some quiets echo a little louder.

But even here,
in this space between letting go and holding on again —
there is grace.

Anchor Verse:
“The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand.”
Psalm 121:5 (NIV)

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)

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)

But It Is

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a phrase I haven’t been able to shake today:
“It’s not supposed to be this way. But it is.”

It keeps circling in my mind — not in bitterness, but in truth.
There are things I’m walking through right now that feel out of place.
Unfair.
Heavy.

It’s not how I imagined this season would look.
Not what I thought I’d be carrying.
Not the way the story was supposed to go.

But it is.

And I’ve realized… this is the part of my life that feels like Lamentations.
A chapter full of grief and unanswered questions.
The kind of chapter you don’t post about — but you live in.
One breath at a time.

But even Lamentations has this reminder tucked inside it:

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
Lamentations 3:22–23 (ESV)

There will always be pain in this life.
But there will also always be mercy.
Even in the middle of the grief — not just after it ends —
God is still present.
Still steady.
Still love.

So no… it’s not supposed to be this way.
But it is.
And even here, He is.

Rooted

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s not a loud kind of confidence.
Not the kind you have to announce.

It’s the kind that settles in
when you remember who made you…
and who holds you still.

I don’t feel the need to prove anything right now.
Not because I have it all together —
but because I know I’m already known.
Already loved.
Already His.

That changes how I carry myself.
Not with striving.
Just with peace.

“In Him we live and move and have our being.”
Acts 17:28 (NIV)

Stronger Than What’s Standing in Front of You

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are days when the thing in front of you feels too big to move.
Too heavy to carry.
Too complicated to untangle.

The obstacle might be a person.
Or a wound.
Or a door that just won’t open no matter how hard you push.

And it’s easy to believe that this is the thing that will finally undo you.
That maybe this is the end of the road.
That prayer doesn’t work.
Or God’s not listening.
Or you’re just too tired to keep saying the same thing again and again.

But lately, I’ve been reminded of something:

Prayer is not powerless.
It’s not passive.
It’s not some backup plan we use when everything else fails.

Prayer is the most powerful thing we’ve been given.
Because prayer isn’t just words — it’s connection.
It’s alignment.
It’s surrender and authority woven together in the same breath.

It’s not always flashy.
It’s not always instant.
But it is always working.

Because prayer invites God into places we can’t reach on our own.
And there is no obstacle that outranks His presence.

So if what’s standing in front of you feels too big —
remember who’s standing beside you.

“The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.”
James 5:16 (NIV)