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)

The Prayer I Keep Coming Back To

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Some prayers are long.

Some are carefully thought out.

Some are whispered through tears.

And some become so familiar that they begin to feel like home.

I’ve noticed that difficult seasons have a way of simplifying my prayers.

When life feels uncertain…

when I’m carrying more than I know what to do with…

when grief and hope somehow occupy the same space in my heart…

I don’t usually have eloquent words.

I have one prayer.

Not because it’s magical.

Not because repeating it changes my circumstances.

But because it reminds me of what I so easily forget.

It reminds me that grief and hope don’t have to compete with each other.

For a long time, I thought healing meant grieving less.

Now I wonder if healing isn’t grieving less… but learning to grieve without letting grief become the loudest voice in the room.

I’ve learned that it’s possible to miss what was…

while still believing God for what could be.

It’s possible to mourn what has been lost…

without losing sight of what God is still creating.

It’s possible to carry sadness in one hand…

and hope in the other.

Maybe that’s what faith looks like.

Not pretending everything is okay.

Not rushing past heartbreak.

Not forcing gratitude before we’re ready.

But trusting that God is still building something beautiful while we’re standing in the middle of what feels broken.

That’s why I keep coming back to this prayer.

Not because I’ve mastered it.

Because I still need it.

Almost every day.

Lord, help me grieve what I’ve lost without losing sight of what You’re still building.

Give me peace for today and hope for tomorrow.

Amen.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

Isaiah 43:18–19 (NIV)

What Are You Letting Dwell?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve read Philippians 4:7 more times than I can count.

I’ve memorized it.

Quoted it.

Clung to it.

But this week, one word stopped me.

Guard.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 4:7

Why guard?

Why not comfort?

Why not calm?

Why not reassure?

Why guard?

That word assumes something.

It assumes our hearts and our minds are vulnerable.

That there are thoughts trying to make themselves at home.

So I looked up the definition of worry.

One definition described it as dwelling on potential difficulties.

That word caught my attention.

Dwell.

Isn’t that exactly what worry does?

It doesn’t simply knock on the door.

It moves in.

It pulls up a chair.

It rearranges the furniture.

Before long, it begins convincing us that it belongs there.

We replay conversations that haven’t happened.

We imagine outcomes that may never come.

We carry tomorrow’s burdens before tomorrow ever arrives.

Worry has a way of settling into places it was never invited.

But Paul paints an entirely different picture.

He says the peace of God will guard our hearts and our minds.

A guard doesn’t promise that trouble won’t come.

A guard doesn’t pretend there isn’t danger outside the gate.

A guard simply decides what gets through.

That changes everything.

Peace isn’t pretending life is easy.

Peace isn’t the absence of uncertainty.

Peace is the presence of Christ standing watch over the places where worry longs to dwell.

Maybe that’s why Paul says this peace surpasses all understanding.

Because it isn’t dependent on understanding.

It isn’t waiting for every question to be answered.

It’s trusting the One who already knows the answers.

I don’t know what you’re carrying today.

Maybe it’s a diagnosis.

A relationship.

Your children.

Your future.

Your finances.

Or simply a thousand “what ifs” that keep circling your mind.

Whatever it is…

remember this:

Worry wants to dwell.

But peace stands guard.

And I’d rather have a guard at the door than another answer to every question.

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

Philippians 4:7 (NIV)

We Were Never Meant to Stay Here Forever

/ Baylee Snelling / 5 Comments

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking more about heaven.

Strangely enough, it’s made me think differently about death.

We spend much of our lives trying to preserve the life we’ve been given.

We exercise.

We take our medicine.

We buckle our seatbelts.

We eat a little healthier.

We do everything we can to care for these fragile bodies God has entrusted to us.

And rightly so.

Life is a gift.

But the older I get, the more heaven feels less like an idea… and more like a promise.

There comes a point when you begin to realize that every goodbye carries a different kind of weight.

You understand why people cry.

Why they linger.

Why they hold hands a little longer.

Because love has a way of making us wish time would slow down.

And yet, as followers of Christ, we grieve differently.

Not because death doesn’t hurt.

It does.

Not because we’ll stop missing the people we love.

We won’t.

But because death was never meant to have the final word.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve become so attached to this world that we forget it was never meant to be our forever home.

Scripture describes a place where sorrow ends.

Where tears are wiped away.

Where pain no longer has a home.

Where everything broken is finally made whole.

That’s not wishful thinking.

That’s hope.

The kind of hope that allows us to grieve deeply… and still look forward with expectation.

So while my heart still aches at the thought of saying goodbye…

another part of me quietly rejoices.

Because for those who belong to Christ,

death is not the end of the story.

It’s the moment faith becomes sight.

Maybe that’s why heaven has always been called our true home.

Not because this life isn’t beautiful.

It is.

It holds sunsets and laughter.

Children’s voices.

The people we love.

The ordinary moments we’ll one day realize were extraordinary.

Perhaps those moments were never meant to satisfy us completely.

Perhaps they were always meant to awaken a longing for something even greater.

Because even at its very best…

we’re just passing through.

“But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Philippians 3:20 (NIV)

The Weight of Words

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Our preacher spoke from James 3 this morning, and I’ve found myself thinking about it ever since.

James compares the tongue to a bit in a horse’s mouth.

A rudder on a ship.

A tiny spark that can set an entire forest ablaze.

It’s remarkable that something so small can carry so much power.

And yet…

I think most of us know that’s true long before we ever read it in Scripture.

We’ve all experienced words that stayed with us.

Some became a source of courage.

Others became wounds.

Sometimes a sentence spoken in just a few seconds can echo in someone’s heart for years.

I’ve also realized something.

The words spoken to us have a way of becoming the words we speak to ourselves.

If we’re told we’re not enough often enough,
we begin to believe it.

If we’re constantly criticized,
our inner voice slowly learns the same language.

That’s why James isn’t simply warning us to be careful with our words.

He’s reminding us that our words have the power to give life.

Or to leave wounds that linger long after they’ve been spoken.

Not only in the lives of the people around us,
but sometimes in our own hearts as well.

And maybe that’s why I’ve been asking God to do something deeper than helping me choose kinder words.

I’ve been asking Him to reshape my heart.

Because I want the words that leave my mouth—and the words that stay in my mind—to reflect the One who gave me both.

After all, words don’t just reveal what’s in our hearts.

Given enough time…

they begin to shape them, too.

Anchor Verse

“Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.”

— James 3:5 (NIV)

I Used to Think Contentment Meant Settling

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

For a long time, I thought contentment meant settling.

Like if I became too content with where I was,
I’d stop growing.

I’d stop dreaming.

I’d stop reaching for more.

But I’ve started to think I misunderstood contentment.

Maybe contentment isn’t deciding there’s nothing left to pursue.

Maybe it’s refusing to believe that joy only exists somewhere else.

Somewhere after the next accomplishment.

The next opportunity.

The next season.

The next answered prayer.

I think we spend a lot of our lives looking toward the horizon.

And there’s nothing wrong with having hope for what’s ahead.

But I wonder how much beauty we miss because we’re always looking past today.

Contentment doesn’t erase ambition.

It gives it a healthy foundation.

It quietly says,

“I’m grateful for what God has placed in my hands today, while remaining open to whatever He places there tomorrow.”

Those two things can exist together.

Maybe they were always meant to.

Maybe contentment isn’t the end of becoming.

Maybe it’s the place from which we become.

“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.”
— Philippians 4:11 (NIV)

I Don’t Think God Is in a Hurry

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about how often I find myself in a hurry.

A hurry to understand.

A hurry to heal.

A hurry to know what’s next.

A hurry to become the person I hope I’ll be.

And then I read through Scripture.

God doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.

He spends years preparing people for the very thing He promised them.

He works through seasons that look quiet.

He allows waiting that feels uncomfortable.

Not because He’s absent.

But because He’s never rushed what He intends to make lasting.

I wonder how much of my frustration comes from expecting God to work on my timeline instead of trusting His.

Because if I’m honest, I usually want answers more quickly than I want wisdom.

I want outcomes more quickly than I want transformation.

But God seems far more interested in forming hearts than shortening timelines.

And strangely…

there’s peace in that.

Not because I suddenly understand everything.

But because I’m slowly learning that God’s pace has never been a reflection of His love.

Only His wisdom.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

If It Isn’t Good, Then It Isn’t Over

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

I’ll never forget a conversation I had with a family member at the beginning of one of the darkest seasons of my life.

She looked at me and said,

“One thing that has always helped me is remembering this: if it isn’t good, then it isn’t over.”

Those weren’t the exact words of Scripture.

But they pointed me back to the God of Scripture.

And they’ve stayed with me ever since.

At first, I held onto those words because I desperately wanted my circumstances to change.

I needed to believe that pain wasn’t the final chapter.

But over the years, they’ve come to mean something even deeper.

Sometimes life is wonderfully good.

So good that we silently wish it could stay exactly as it is.

A table full of people you love.

A child wrapped around your neck.

A sunset that makes you stop walking.

A day you wish you could live twice.

And yet, even those moments aren’t the end of the story.

Because as beautiful as this life can be…

it’s only a glimpse.

Scripture doesn’t promise us a perfect life here.

It promises something even greater.

A day when everything broken will finally be made whole.

A day when sorrow will have no place.

A day when death itself will be swallowed up forever.

So whether today feels heavy or beautiful, I find comfort in the same truth.

God isn’t finished.

And the best chapter has always been the one still to come.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain…”
— Revelation 21:4 (NIV)