But It Is

Featured / 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.

I Know Better Now

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

There are things I used to believe with absolute certainty.

Things I defended.

Things I thought I understood.

Opinions I would have argued for.

Choices I was convinced were right.

And now?

I see some of them differently.

I used to think changing my mind meant admitting I had been wrong.

And technically, sometimes it does.

But I don’t think that’s something to be embarrassed by anymore.

Because what is the alternative?

To learn something new and refuse to let it change me?

To experience more of life and insist on seeing it exactly as I did before?

To ask God for wisdom and then cling to the person I was before He gave me any?

I don’t want to do that.

I want to reserve the right to know better now.

To say,

I understand that differently than I used to.

I wouldn’t make that choice today.

I was wrong about that.

Not with shame.

With gratitude.

Because there should be things I see differently at this point in my life.

There should be beliefs that have softened.

Assumptions I’ve questioned.

Convictions that have deepened.

Things I’ve had to unlearn.

If I believe God is still shaping me, then I can’t also expect every version of me to think exactly the same way.

Growth should leave some old opinions behind.

Wisdom should change something.

Grace should, too.

So I’m becoming less interested in defending who I used to be.

She knew what she knew.

She did what she could with it.

And now I know more.

I hope ten years from now I can say the same thing about the person I am today.

Because maybe one of the clearest signs that we’re still growing is being able to look back occasionally and say,

I know better now.

And then live like we do.

“Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance.”

– Proverbs 1:5

What If the Blessing Was No?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve thanked God for a lot of yeses.

The prayers that were answered.

The doors that opened.

The things I hoped for that eventually found their way into my hands.

Those are easy to recognize as blessings.

But lately I’ve wondered about the noes.

The doors that stayed closed.

The plans that fell apart.

The things I prayed desperately for that never happened.

The things I was certain I needed…

and didn’t receive.

I’ve spent plenty of time asking God why.

I’ve spent far less time wondering if the answer itself was mercy.

Because I only know the life I can see.

God knows the one I can’t.

He knows what was behind the door I begged Him to open.

He knows where the road I desperately wanted would have led.

He knows what would have happened if the answer had been yes.

I don’t.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of faith.

Sometimes I’ll get to look backward and understand.

I’ll see the protection.

The redirection.

The reason something had to end.

But I wonder how many times I won’t.

How many prayers will I spend my entire life believing went unanswered…

when no was the answer all along?

Not punishment.

Not absence.

Not God withholding something good from me.

Just a Father who could see farther than I could.

Maybe one day I’ll understand all the things He protected me from.

Maybe I won’t.

But I’m beginning to think gratitude shouldn’t belong only to the yeses.

Sometimes the blessing is the open door.

Sometimes it’s the one that never opened.

And sometimes faith is thanking God before I know the difference.

“For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.”

— Psalm 84:11 (NIV)

Motherhood Did Make Me Soft

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Someone recently joked about the idea that motherhood makes women soft.

And I thought…

It did.

Motherhood did make me soft.

Softer toward tears.

Softer toward fear.

Softer toward little hands reaching for mine.

Softer toward mistakes.

Softer toward the parts of another person that need patience instead of correction.

It made me notice things I might have once walked past.

A tired face.

A trembling lip.

The difference between someone misbehaving and someone simply needing comfort.

Motherhood softened me in ways I didn’t know I needed.

But somewhere along the way, we’ve confused softness with weakness.

And motherhood has taught me they aren’t the same thing at all.

Because there is something almost fierce about tenderness when you love someone deeply enough.

The same arms that hold gently can hold tightly.

The same voice that comforts can speak firmly.

The same woman who kneels to kiss a scraped knee can stand taller than she ever knew she could when someone she loves needs protecting.

Maybe that’s what surprised me most.

Motherhood didn’t ask me to choose between being soft and being strong.

It made me both.

The softness gave my strength somewhere to belong.

And the strength gave my softness somewhere safe to live.

Maybe motherhood did make me soft.

Thank God it did.

“He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.”

— Isaiah 40:11 (NIV)

When Fear Meets Peace

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

You get a call.

You receive a message.

You read something you weren’t expecting.

And before you’ve even had time to process it, your mind is already there.

The worst-case scenario.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Worry.

All of it arriving at once.

You feel it in your chest before you’ve even decided what to think.

Especially when it involves your heart.

And then something else happens.

Almost at the exact same time…

Peace.

Not because the fear wasn’t warranted.

Not because the circumstances suddenly changed.

Not because you received another message telling you everything was going to be okay.

Just peace.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe that feeling.

And the closest thing I can think of is two waves crashing into each other.

One coming from one direction.

The other meeting it head-on.

Fear says,

What if?

Peace says,

I am here.

Fear starts writing the ending.

Peace reminds me the story isn’t mine to finish.

Fear tells me to prepare for everything that could go wrong.

Peace somehow settles over the very place fear is trying to reach.

And suddenly I understand Philippians 4:7 a little differently.

Paul doesn’t say the peace of God will make everything understandable.

He says it transcends understanding.

And then he says it will guard our hearts and our minds.

Maybe that’s what I’ve felt.

Not fear disappearing.

But peace meeting it at the door.

Standing between the fear and my heart.

Guarding what matters most while my mind is still trying to make sense of what just happened.

I used to think experiencing God’s peace meant I wouldn’t feel afraid.

Now I think I had that wrong.

Maybe peace and fear can arrive in the same moment.

Maybe faith is what happens when they collide…

and peace is the one I allow to stay.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4:7 (NIV)

Evidence in the Waiting

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I think I’ve spent a lot of time looking for evidence of God’s faithfulness in endings.

The answered prayer.

The open door.

The moment everything finally makes sense.

The part of the story where I can look back and say,

There. That’s what God was doing.

But what about before that?

What about the middle?

What about when the prayer is still a prayer?

When the door hasn’t opened.

When the answer hasn’t come.

When you’re still waiting.

I’ve started wondering if maybe I’ve been looking for the wrong kind of evidence.

Because even in the waiting, there is evidence.

The strength that showed up when mine ran out.

The peace I couldn’t explain.

The person who called at exactly the right time.

The provision that wasn’t enough for the entire journey, but was enough for today.

The courage to take one more step without knowing where the next one would lead.

Maybe I’ve been treating those things like small mercies along the way to the answer.

But what if they are the answer, too?

Not the answer to when.

Or why.

Or how this ends.

But the answer to something perhaps even more important:

Are You still here?

Yes.

There is evidence everywhere.

Not always evidence of where God is taking me.

But evidence that He hasn’t left me while I get there.

Maybe that’s what waiting has been teaching me.

I don’t have to reach the other side before I can testify to God’s faithfulness.

I can find evidence of it here.

Right in the middle.

While I’m still waiting.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

— Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)

What Do I Believe About Myself?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Our preacher said something this morning that stayed with me:

“I am what I believe about myself.”

And immediately, I started thinking about all the things I’ve believed about myself over the years.

Some were true.

Some weren’t.

Some were things I decided on my own.

Others were handed to me by people whose words I trusted more than I should have.

And somewhere along the way, those beliefs became part of the way I saw myself.

That’s what makes the next thing he said so important:

The gospel restores what sin distorts.

Sin distorts.

Grace restores.

I can’t stop thinking about those two words.

Because distortion doesn’t necessarily change what something is.

It changes the way we see it.

A distorted mirror doesn’t change the person standing in front of it.

It changes the reflection.

And I wonder how many of us have spent years believing the reflection.

Not capable enough.

Not worthy enough.

Too much of this.

Not enough of that.

Defined by something we did.

Or something someone did to us.

But grace doesn’t ask the distorted reflection who we are.

God does.

And Scripture tells a very different story.

Chosen.

Loved.

Redeemed.

Forgiven.

His workmanship.

Made new.

Maybe grace restoring our identity isn’t about becoming someone we’ve never been.

Maybe it’s about finally seeing ourselves through the eyes of the One who knew exactly who He was creating.

That makes me reconsider the sentence:

“I am what I believe about myself.”

Because perhaps the more important question is:

What do I believe about myself—and who taught me to believe it?

If the answer isn’t consistent with what God says about me…

maybe that’s not an identity I was ever meant to carry.

Sin distorts.

Grace restores.

And sometimes restoration begins by looking into a different mirror.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

— Ephesians 2:10 (NIV)

Near

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about two words lately.

Near.

And draw.

Scripture says,

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…”

Then James writes,

“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.”

For years, I read those verses as though they were saying the same thing.

This week, I realized they aren’t.

One describes God’s posture.

The other describes ours.

God’s posture has always been nearness.

He moves toward us.

He remains with us.

He doesn’t abandon us when life becomes difficult.

His nearness isn’t something we earn.

It’s who He is.

Ours is different.

We’re the ones invited to draw near.

Not because God wandered away.

But because our hearts have a tendency to.

The more I sat with that thought, the more I realized something.

God’s posture has never been the problem.

Mine has.

I don’t drift because God becomes distant.

I drift because life becomes loud.

Because I become distracted.

Because I begin relying on myself instead of resting in Him.

The invitation has never been to convince God to come closer.

The invitation has always been to turn toward the God who already is.

That changes the way I read both verses.

Drawing near isn’t about shortening the distance between God and me.

It’s about becoming aware that the distance was never on His side.

Maybe that’s why James tells us to draw near.

Not because God needs to move.

Because sometimes I do.

And somehow…

there’s great comfort in knowing that every step I take toward Him is met by the One who has been near all along.

“Come near to God and he will come near to you.”
— James 4:8 (NIV)

The Race I Thought I Was Running

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

For a long time, I lived as though life was a race.

A race to accomplish more.

To become more.

To get there first.

To catch up.

To stay ahead.

To prove something.

And if I’m honest, I didn’t even realize I was running.

I just assumed that’s what everyone was doing.

Then I started paying closer attention to Scripture.

Paul tells us to run the race.

But he never tells us to race each other.

Somewhere along the way, I confused the two.

I measured my life against other people’s timelines.

Their opportunities.

Their marriages.

Their highlights.

No wonder I was tired.

I wasn’t just running.

I was competing.

You can’t faithfully run your race while constantly looking sideways at someone else’s.

Hebrews tells us to:

“Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us…”

That phrase stopped me.

The race marked out for us.

Not the race I wish I had.

Not the race someone else is running.

Not the race culture says I should be winning.

The one God marked out for me.

Maybe faithfulness has never been about finishing first.

Maybe it has always been about staying the course.

About keeping my eyes on Christ instead of constantly looking over my shoulder.

I’ve started wondering how much peace we would find if we stopped asking,

“Am I keeping up?”

and started asking,

“Am I being faithful?”

Because one question breeds comparison.

The other invites contentment.

The race was never about beating the person beside us.

It has always been about following the One in front of us.

Maybe the finish line was never the goal.

Faithfulness was.

“Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.”

— Hebrews 12:1–2 (NIV)

Stewarding My Life

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The older I get, the more I think about stewardship.

When I was younger, I thought stewardship was mostly about money.

Giving.

Managing.

Being responsible.

But I’m beginning to realize stewardship reaches so much further than that.

My life itself has been entrusted to me.

My words.

My time.

My relationships.

My gifts.

My opportunities.

Even the difficult seasons I never would have chosen.

None of them were ever truly mine to begin with.

They’re all things God has placed in my hands for a little while.

That changes the questions I ask.

Instead of asking,

“How much can I accomplish?”

I find myself asking,

“Am I being faithful with what’s already been entrusted to me?”

Because one day I won’t give an account for someone else’s life.

Only my own.

How I loved.

How I spoke.

How I forgave.

How I used the gifts God gave me.

How I cared for the people He placed in my path.

How I responded to both joy and suffering.

I’ve realized stewardship isn’t about perfection.

It’s about faithfulness.

It’s waking up each morning and quietly praying,

“Lord, help me care well for everything You’ve placed in my hands today.”

Not because I’m trying to earn His approval.

But because everything I have has always been His.

Maybe living faithfully isn’t about chasing a bigger life.

Maybe it’s about stewarding this one well.

“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

— 1 Peter 4:10 (NIV)

The Weight of Living

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I don’t think we talk enough about the weight of living.

Not because something terrible has happened.

Sometimes it has.

But sometimes…

it’s simply the weight of being human.

The weight of making decisions.

Loving people.

Showing up when you’d rather stay home.

Paying bills.

Raising children.

Caring for aging parents.

Answering difficult emails.

Wondering about the future.

Praying prayers that haven’t been answered yet.

None of those things feel overwhelming on their own.

But together…

they can become surprisingly heavy.

I think we often feel guilty for admitting that.

After all, we’re blessed.

There are people carrying much heavier burdens.

So we tell ourselves we shouldn’t feel tired.

We shouldn’t feel weary.

We shouldn’t feel the weight.

But Jesus never said,

“Come to me, all you who have experienced catastrophic loss.”

He said,

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

He didn’t qualify the burden.

He simply acknowledged it.

Maybe because He understood something we often forget.

Living carries weight.

Not every burden is dramatic.

Some are quiet.

The mental list you carry before your feet ever hit the floor in the morning.

The conversation you’ve been rehearsing in your mind.

The uncertainty you keep trying to solve.

The person you’re praying for.

The responsibility no one else sees.

It’s possible to love your life…

and still feel the weight of living it.

I wonder if we’ve mistaken weariness for weakness.

Maybe they’re not the same thing.

Maybe feeling the weight doesn’t mean we’re failing.

Maybe it simply means we’re carrying things that matter.

Even good things have weight.

Love has weight.

Responsibility has weight.

Hope has weight.

And while those things are beautiful…

they were never meant to be carried alone.

That’s why I love Jesus’ invitation.

He doesn’t shame the weary.

He welcomes them.

He doesn’t ask us to become stronger before coming to Him.

He simply says,

“Come.”

I’ve been learning that peace isn’t found in pretending life isn’t heavy.

Peace is found in knowing I don’t have to carry the weight by myself.

Maybe that’s what Jesus meant all along.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)