I Think I’m Learning to Slow Down

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I think I’m learning to slow down a little.

Not in a dramatic, life-changing way.

Just in the small moments.

Not rushing through every silence.
Not feeling like every second needs to be filled.
Not needing every day to feel productive to feel worthwhile.

And honestly, I didn’t realize how uncomfortable that was for me before.

How quickly I move from one thing to the next.
How easily I convince myself that resting has to be earned.

But lately, I’ve been noticing the difference.

How much calmer life feels
when I stop trying to outrun it.

Not everything needs my immediate attention.
Not every quiet moment needs to be interrupted.

Some things can just be still.

And maybe I can too.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10 (NIV)

He’s Been Good to Me

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about this lately.

How He’s been good to me.

Not in a loud, obvious way.
Not in a way that makes everything easy
or ties everything together the way I would choose—
because it hasn’t been easy.

But in the ways that matter.

In the way I’ve been carried
through things I couldn’t have carried alone.

In the way I’ve been steadied
when I didn’t feel steady on my own.

In the way I’ve been protected
in places I didn’t even realize I needed it.

And I don’t think I always noticed it at the time.

Because I was looking for something different.

Something clearer.
Something that made more sense.

But looking back, I can see it.

Not everything turned out the way I thought it would.

Not everything was restored the way I hoped.

But even in that—

He’s been good to me.

And I think that’s what I’m learning.

That His goodness isn’t always measured
by how things turn out.

Sometimes it’s measured
by how He holds you through it.

“Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life…”
— Psalm 23:6 (NIV)

I Said It Out Loud

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I said it out loud for the first time.

“I sometimes feel like I don’t fully trust God.”

I had never said those words before.

Not because I didn’t feel them.
But because I was afraid to.

Afraid that saying it out loud
would make it more real.
Afraid it would mean something about my faith
that I didn’t want to be true.

So I kept it quiet.

But when I finally said it—
just plainly, without trying to soften it—

something unexpected happened.

I felt relief.

Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
Not because everything shifted in that moment.

But because I wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

And I started to understand something.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust God.

It was that I didn’t trust myself
to let go.

To release the things I’ve been holding so tightly—
the hurt,
the worry,
the fear,
the need to understand what will happen next.

Because letting go feels like losing control.

But the truth is,
I was never holding control to begin with.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning.

That honesty doesn’t weaken my faith.

It brings it into the light.

And when it’s there—
it doesn’t hold the same weight it did in the dark.

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
— Mark 9:24 (NIV)

More Than Noise

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

“If I do not have love,
I am just a clanging cymbal.”

I’ve read that before.

I’ve heard it explained.
Heard it applied to how we treat people.
How we speak.
How we show up.

But I don’t think I’ve ever felt it
the way I do now.

Because it’s one thing to read about love
when life feels steady.

It’s another thing
to hold onto it
when it would be easier not to.

After everything I’ve walked through—
the moments that tested me,
the things that could have hardened me—

I understand it differently.

Because I can still speak well.
Still show up.
Still do the right things on the surface.

But if love isn’t there—
if it’s been replaced with bitterness,
guardedness,
or just going through the motions—

then it’s just noise.

And that’s the part that stays with me.

Not whether I get everything right.

But whether I let what I’ve been through
change the way I love.

Because that’s the real cost.

Not what happened.

But what it takes from you
if you let it.

So I’m learning to pay attention to that.

To protect it.

To choose it, even when it’s quieter
and harder to hold onto.

Because without it—

nothing else really matters.

“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:1 (NIV)

It Was a Good Day

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It was a good day, all in all.

Things got done.
The day moved the way it needed to.
Nothing felt off or overwhelming.

And still—
there was a quiet kind of absence.

Not something obvious.
Not something anyone else would notice.

Just a subtle awareness
that the day felt different.

Quieter.

More space than I’m used to.
Less movement.
Less of the things that usually fill it.

And I’m learning not to fight that.

Not to try to label the day one way or the other.

Good or hard.
Full or empty.

Sometimes it’s both.

A good day
that still holds a quiet kind of absence.

And maybe that’s just part of it.

Learning how to let both be true
at the same time.

“A time to weep and a time to laugh…”
— Ecclesiastes 3:4 (NIV)

I Didn’t Sit Through the Sermon

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I was walking around the church with my son during service.

Our building is set up in a circle,
with the auditorium in the center.

So as I followed him around—
passing by the doors,
catching glimpses of everyone sitting inside—

I had a thought I didn’t expect.

This is hard right now.

Not being able to sit through a full sermon.
Not being in the room the whole time.
Not experiencing church the way I used to.

But it would be so much harder
if this looked different later.

If he were older
and I was trying to convince him to come.

Trying to get him to sit.
Trying to get him to care.

Because right now?

He loves it.

He loves going to church.
He loves going to Bible class.
He wants to be here.

And I realized something in that moment.

Even though I haven’t sat through a full sermon
in quite some time…

I’m still being taught.

Just not in the way I expected.

Not from a stage.
Not from a seat.

But in the middle of following him around,
in the middle of these small, shifting moments—

there’s still something to take in.

And maybe I’m learning just as much as he is.

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
— Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

Tired in a Way I Didn’t Expect

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Do you ever feel guilty for being tired?

Not just tired from doing too much.
But tired from doing something
you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

Something that matters.

Something you don’t even get to do every day.

And somehow, that makes the tiredness feel heavier.

Because it doesn’t feel like something
you’re allowed to be worn down by.

It feels like something you should just be grateful for.

And I am.

I am grateful.

But I’m also tired.

And I’m starting to realize
those two things can exist at the same time.

That being thankful
doesn’t cancel out being human.

That doing something meaningful
doesn’t mean it won’t still take something out of you.

And maybe the guilt
comes from thinking it’s supposed to feel easier than it does.

But maybe it’s not.

Maybe it’s just something I’m learning how to hold.

Gratitude
and exhaustion
at the same time.

“Let us not become weary in doing good…”
— Galatians 6:9 (NIV)

Sitting in the Wilderness

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about something lately.

About solitude.

Not in a lonely way.
Not in a way that feels empty or disconnected.

But the kind of solitude Jesus stepped into
when He was led into the wilderness.

There’s something about that
that I don’t think I’ve fully understood before.

Because it wasn’t random.

He was led there.

And it was in that place—
quiet, alone, stripped of distraction—
that He was met with temptation.

And if I’m honest,
that’s the part that makes me hesitate.

Because I don’t find stillness easy.

Not physically.
And definitely not mentally.

When everything gets quiet,
my mind doesn’t always follow.

It wanders.
It replays things.
It reaches for thoughts that don’t lead anywhere good.

And it makes me want to avoid it.

To stay moving.
To keep filling the space.
To not sit still long enough
for those thoughts to surface.

But I can’t live that way forever.

I can’t stay in motion
just to avoid what might come up in the quiet.

Because Jesus didn’t avoid the wilderness.

He entered it.

And what I’m starting to realize
is that the discomfort of stillness
isn’t something to run from.

It’s something to learn how to sit in.

Not perfectly.
Not without resistance.

But long enough
to recognize that God is there too.

Not just the thoughts.
Not just the tension.

But Him.

And maybe that’s where the strength comes from.

Not from avoiding the quiet—
but from staying in it
long enough to know
you’re not alone there.

“Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, left the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness.”
— Luke 4:1 (NIV)

I Keep Reaching for an Answer

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I keep reaching for an answer.

Not out loud.
Not in a way anyone would notice.

Just internally —
trying to line things up in a way that makes sense.

If I think about it long enough,
if I look at it from enough angles,
maybe I’ll find the piece that explains everything.

But I don’t.

And I’m starting to notice that I do this
almost automatically.

Something doesn’t make sense,
and my first instinct is to solve it.

To understand it.

To make it feel settled in my mind
so I can feel settled in myself.

But some things don’t give you that.

Some things stay unresolved
longer than you want them to.

Longer than feels comfortable.

And I think that’s the part I’ve been wrestling with.

Not the situation itself.

But the fact that I can’t make it make sense.

Because faith, for me, has always felt connected to understanding.

Like if I trust God,
things should eventually come together in a way I can follow.

But lately, it hasn’t looked like that.

It’s looked like continuing
without the explanation.

Letting things sit unfinished
without forcing them into something they’re not.

And trusting — not that I’ll figure it out —
but that I don’t have to.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.
— Isaiah 55:8–9 (NIV)

Something Is Alive

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s been a year since I started writing here.

At the time, I wasn’t writing from clarity.
I wasn’t writing from the other side of anything.

I was writing from the middle.

And if I’m honest,
I still am.

I used to think Easter would feel like resolution.

Like the kind of moment
where everything makes sense
and everything is made right.

But I don’t think that’s what it is.

Because if I’m honest,
there are still things in my life that don’t feel resolved.

Things that didn’t turn out the way I thought they would.
Things that haven’t been restored.
Things I still don’t fully understand.

And yet…

something has changed.

Not everything.

But something.

There are parts of me that are still healing.
Still learning.
Still walking through things I never expected to carry.

But there are also parts of me
that are no longer where they used to be.

Quieter.
Stronger.
More grounded than I was before.

Not because everything got easier.

But because something in me
didn’t stay where it was.

And I think that’s what Easter is.

Not the erasing of what happened.
Not a return to what was.

But life
where there wasn’t life before.

Not loud.
Not immediate.

But real.

And maybe that’s what I’m holding onto today.

Not that everything is finished.

But that something is alive in me
that wasn’t before.

And maybe that’s what this past year has been teaching me.

Not that everything changes overnight —
but that life can begin again,
even in the middle of it.

“Just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too may live a new life.”
— Romans 6:4 (NIV)