Waiting

Before Sunday Comes

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There’s a part of the story we don’t rush through.

The part where everything looks like it’s over.

Where what was hoped for
what was prayed for
what was believed in

is now… gone.

Good Friday isn’t a hopeful day.

It’s not a day of answers.
It’s not a day where things make sense.

It’s the day everything falls quiet
after the worst has already happened.

And if I’m honest,
I think that’s the part I recognize the most.

Not the resurrection.
Not yet.

This part.

The part where you’re left standing
in the reality of what is
with no clear picture of what comes next.

Where faith doesn’t feel strong
it just feels… present.

Still there.
But quieter.

Not fixing anything.
Not explaining anything.

Just staying.

Good Friday doesn’t rush to meaning.

It doesn’t try to redeem anything yet.

It simply holds the weight of what has happened.

And maybe there are moments in life
that look more like this day than we want them to.

Moments where nothing feels good
and nothing feels resolved
and nothing is being put back together yet.

But the story doesn’t end here.

Even if it feels like it does.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
— Luke 23:46 (NIV)

The Part We Want to Rush Through

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I came across something today that made me pause.

For a season, David was a shepherd.
The next, he was king.

For a season, Ruth was working in the fields.
The next, she was part of something she never could have arranged on her own.

For a season, Mordecai sat outside the palace.
The next, he was brought inside.

It’s easy to read stories like that
and focus on how everything changed.

How quickly things turned.
How differently it all ended.

But that’s not how they lived it.

They lived it in the middle.

In the parts that didn’t feel significant yet.
In the waiting.
In the uncertainty.
In the seasons that probably felt uncomfortable and unclear.

And if I’m honest,
that’s the part I struggle with the most.

I don’t like sitting in seasons that don’t make sense.
I don’t like the feeling of not knowing what God is doing.
I don’t like the stretch, the tension, the waiting.

I want to move through it.
Get to the next thing.
Understand it already.

But when I read stories like these,
I’m reminded of something I don’t always want to remember.

God does some of His deepest work
in the seasons I’m most tempted to rush through.

Not after them.
Not once everything is resolved.

But right there —
in the discomfort.

In the parts that feel slow.
In the places that don’t look like anything is happening yet.

The shepherding.
The field work.
The sitting outside.

None of it was wasted.

And maybe the part I’m standing in right now
isn’t something to escape as quickly as possible.

Maybe it’s something to pay attention to.

Because it might be the very place
God is doing the work I’ll one day be grateful for.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work
— James 1:2–4 (NIV)

Home

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Home is a strange word.

Sometimes it means a place.
Sometimes it means a feeling.
Sometimes it’s a person.

This week has reminded me that home isn’t always walls or routines or the familiar rhythm of noise in the background.

Sometimes home is absence.
Sometimes it’s waiting.
Sometimes it’s learning how to sit in a space that doesn’t feel like it fits quite right.

And then — sometimes — it’s return.

The way a room feels fuller without anything new added to it.
The way your chest softens without you telling it to.
The way something inside you settles quietly back into place.

There are seasons when we don’t get to define home the way we want to.
Seasons when the shape of it shifts.
When the rhythm changes.
When the quiet feels louder than it should.

But I’m learning something.

Home isn’t only where everything is easy.
Home is where love remains.

Home is where the door opens again.
Where laughter fills the air.
Where the pieces that felt scattered gather back together.

And maybe the deeper truth is this:

God is the constant home beneath all of it.
The steady foundation when the rhythm changes.
The One who holds what I can’t,
when the spaces feel too big.

Tonight feels like exhale.
Like warmth returning.
Like the kind of quiet that isn’t empty — but full.

Home.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.”
— Psalm 90:1 (NIV)

I Don’t Need to Know Yet

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There’s a strange pressure to have clarity.

To know where this is going.
To understand what it means.
To be able to explain it in a way that feels tidy and complete.

But sometimes life isn’t ready to be explained.

Sometimes it’s just being lived.

And I’m learning that not knowing doesn’t mean I’m lost.
It doesn’t mean I’ve missed something.
It doesn’t mean God is withholding.

It just means I’m still inside the story.

There are chapters you can only understand once you’ve turned the page.
And if I try to summarize too soon, I’ll miss the depth of what’s still unfolding.

So tonight, I’m loosening my grip on the need to define everything.

I don’t need to know yet.

“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us…”
— Deuteronomy 29:29 (NIV)

Holding Two Truths

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

There are moments when my heart doesn’t know how to choose just one feeling.

Gratitude and grief.
Peace and resistance.
Trust and ache.

They show up together, uninvited, and sit side by side.

I’ve learned that faith doesn’t always resolve the tension.
Sometimes it simply gives you permission to hold it.

To admit that something can be right and hard.
That obedience doesn’t always feel peaceful.
That surrender can still hurt.

I think we’re often tempted to rush ourselves out of conflicted spaces —
to label one feeling as faithful and the other as wrong.

But Scripture is full of people who loved God deeply
and still wrestled with what obedience cost them.

So maybe this isn’t confusion.
Maybe it’s complexity.

Maybe it’s the holy work of learning how to trust God
while your heart is still catching up.

Tonight, I’m not asking for clarity.
I’m asking for steadiness.

The kind that holds both truths at once.
The kind that doesn’t force resolution too quickly.
The kind that believes God is near —
even when the feelings don’t agree.

“Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.”
— Psalm 62:8 (NIV)

Not Yet

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Someone told me today, “God is saying not yet.”

And it’s been sitting with me all day.

Not yet is a strange answer.
It’s not a no.
But it’s not the relief you’re begging for either.

It makes you ask hard questions.
Why now?
Why wait?
How much longer can I hold this?

When God says not yet, it doesn’t mean He’s absent.
But it does mean surrender looks different than we hoped.

It means trusting Him when you don’t get to see the work yet.
It means believing He’s still moving — even when all you feel is the ache of standing still.
It means learning how to breathe in the waiting.

I don’t have clarity tonight.
And I don’t feel peace.

But I do have a quiet resolve to keep showing up —
even when not yet feels heavier than I know how to carry.

So for now, I’m not rushing God.
I’m not pretending this doesn’t hurt.
I’m holding onto the belief that not yet doesn’t mean never.

And while I wait,
I will do what I can:
be strong,
take heart,
and trust the Lord with what I cannot yet see.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
— Psalm 27:14 (NIV)

Hope, Defined

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The dictionary defines hope as
a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

I’ve always found that definition a little fragile.

Because feelings change.
Expectations disappoint.
And desire doesn’t always mean fulfillment.

If hope is just wishful thinking — just wanting things to turn out a certain way — then it’s easy to lose when life doesn’t cooperate.

But Scripture speaks about hope differently.

Biblical hope isn’t rooted in circumstances or outcomes.
It isn’t dependent on how things look today, or whether prayers are answered quickly, or whether the story unfolds the way we imagined.

Biblical hope is confidence — not in what will happen, but in Who is holding it all.

It’s the kind of hope that remains when the waiting is long.
The kind that stays when answers don’t come right away.
The kind that doesn’t collapse when life feels uncertain.

This kind of hope isn’t passive or naïve.
It’s anchored.

It doesn’t say, “Everything will work out the way I want.”
It says, “God is still good, even here.”

And sometimes, that’s the difference between despair and endurance.

On days when hope feels thin, I’m learning to come back to this truth:
Hope isn’t pretending things are easy.
It’s choosing to trust that God is faithful — even when things are not.

That kind of hope doesn’t fade when circumstances change.
It deepens.

And that’s the kind of hope I want to hold onto.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
— Hebrews 6:19 (NIV)

I’m Learning to Leave the Light On

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I don’t always know what’s coming next.
Some days, I don’t even feel certain about what’s right in front of me.

There are moments when it would be easier to shut the door,
to turn the lights off,
to wait in the dark until something makes sense again.

But I’m learning not to do that.

I’m learning to leave the light on —
not because I’m fearless,
but because I don’t want uncertainty to harden me.

For myself.
For hope.
For the parts of me that are still becoming, still healing, still learning how to trust without a clear outline of what’s ahead.

Leaving the light on looks like staying open.
It looks like choosing presence over retreat.
Like believing that clarity isn’t the only sign of faith.

Some nights, faith doesn’t look like confidence at all.
It looks like keeping the room warm.
Like refusing to shut myself off.
Like making space for what might still arrive.

Tonight, I don’t have answers.
But I’m still here.
Still open.
Still trusting that light, even when it’s small, is worth keeping on.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”
— Psalm 56:3 (NIV)

Beautiful, Quiet, and Not Yet Safe

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s snowing here.

Everything outside is white and quiet and beautiful —
the kind of beauty that makes you want to stop and stare.

But the conditions are hazardous.
The roads are slick.
The kind of beauty you admire from the window,
not the kind you rush out into.

So we stay inside.
Warm.
Still.
Watching.

And it strikes me how often life looks like this.

How something can appear peaceful,
gentle,
even inviting —
while underneath, it isn’t safe to move yet.

Not everything beautiful is meant to be touched.
Not every open door is meant to be walked through.
Not every season that looks calm is ready for forward motion.

Sometimes wisdom looks like staying put.
Like waiting.
Like trusting that stillness isn’t wasted time.

The snow will melt when it’s time.
The roads will clear.
Movement will come.

But for now, there is grace in staying inside.
In paying attention.
In letting beauty exist without demanding more from it.

Tonight, I’m not rushing the thaw.
I’m letting this be what it is.

Beautiful.
Quiet.
And not yet safe.

“In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15 (NIV)

Eggshell Seasons

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are seasons of life where everything feels fragile.

Where you move carefully.
Speak softly.
Think twice before every step.

Not because you’re weak —
but because the ground beneath you doesn’t feel steady yet.

These are the eggshell seasons.
The ones where peace feels conditional,
where tension lingers in the air,
where even rest feels earned instead of given.

And they’re exhausting.

It’s hard to live constantly bracing yourself.
Hard to feel fully present when you’re always preparing for impact.
Hard to relax when you don’t know what might crack next.

But here’s what I’m learning:
God does not confuse fragility with failure.

He sees the careful steps.
The restraint.
The wisdom it takes to survive seasons like this without becoming hardened or bitter.

Eggshell seasons teach us something sacred —
how to listen more closely,
how to depend more deeply,
how to notice where our true safety comes from.

Because eventually, you realize:
The goal isn’t to learn how to walk better on eggshells.
The goal is to let God lead you off of them.

Until then, He walks with you.
Not rushing you.
Not shaming you for your caution.
Not demanding strength you don’t have yet.

Just steady presence.
Quiet protection.
Enough grace for today.

“You provide a broad path for my feet,
so that my ankles do not give way.”
— Psalm 18:36 (NIV)