What Is Your Only Comfort?

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I’ve spent most of my life in church — Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesdays too.
I was raised on Scripture, shaped by the quiet rhythm of pews and communion trays, and taught early on that the Word of God is enough. It still is.

So when I recently came across something called The Heidelberg Catechism, I wasn’t looking for new theology or creeds. I just happened upon a phrase — one that reached into my heart and wrapped its arms around something I didn’t know needed holding.

“What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
That I am not my own… but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I had to read it again.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying a lot — grief that lingers, questions that don’t resolve neatly, and moments that make me feel a little too small for the weight of this world.

But those words.
I am not my own… I belong.

Not to my pain.
Not to my past.
Not to what others say about me, or even what I sometimes believe about myself.

I belong to Christ.

Not because I’ve earned it.
Not because I always feel it.
But because He said so. Because He gave everything to make it so.

That line from the Catechism isn’t Scripture — but the truth behind it is echoed all throughout the Bible:

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price…”
—1 Corinthians 6:19–20

That’s what I want to remember on the days I feel unseen.
On the nights I question if I’m doing enough, being enough, holding together enough.

I want to remember that comfort — the kind of comfort that can only be found in Scripture, the kind that the Heidelberg Catechism question offered me.
Not found in perfect understanding, but in the unwavering truth that I belong to Him.

A Quiet Turning

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There are moments
when I feel it rising —
a quiet tug toward old thoughts,
familiar patterns that once promised safety
but only ever gave me silence and shame.

It doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You’ll never get it right.

And for a moment,
I believe it again.
Not because it’s true —
but because it’s been loud for so long.

I carry those echoes
into rooms where I smile.
Into the spaces where I show up,
even when I feel unsteady.

But lately, I’m learning
to pause before the story runs away with me.
To ask:
What am I feeling?
Where is this coming from?
And what’s the truth I know beneath the noise?

I remember:
I am loved.
I am not a burden.
I am not the sum of my worst days.

And from that place —
even if it’s just a small step forward —
I respond differently.
More gently.
More freely.

This is what healing sounds like sometimes.
Not loud or linear —
just a quiet turning toward peace
when the pull of the past returns.

And I carry this quiet work of healing into the way I love — gently, intentionally, even on the hardest days.

The Things I Can’t Explain

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Some parts of my story
don’t fit into sentences.

There are moments I carry
that have no language —
just a quiet ache
I’ve learned how to live beside.

I’ve tried to name them before.
Tried to trace the edges,
make them make sense,
offer them in neat, careful paragraphs.

But some grief is shapeless.
Some memories blurry,
not because they weren’t real,
but because they were too much to hold with open eyes.

Still, they live in me.
In how I flinch at certain words.
In how I love more tenderly now.
In how I pause before trusting again.

I used to think everything had to be told
to be healed.
That I had to find the words
or I’d never be free.

But I’m learning —
even the things I can’t explain
are seen by the One who made me.

Even the wounds without language
are held by a God who doesn’t need a translation
to understand.

So if you’re carrying things too heavy for words —
you’re not alone.
You don’t have to explain them to be worthy of healing.
You don’t have to speak them out loud to be seen.

He already knows.

And still, He stays.

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26 (NIV)

The Mother Made of Mosaic

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The Mother Made of Mosaic

I want you to close your eyes for a moment.
Picture mosaic tiles —
in every shade of blue.
Soft cerulean. Deep navy. Hints of sky and sea.
All broken, all different.
Light and dark, side by side.

Now imagine building a mother from those tiles.
She’s tired —
on her knees —
cradling her baby close.

She’s fragile.
She’s breathtaking.
She’s made of sorrow and strength,
held together in a way that almost doesn’t make sense.

But look closer…

What’s holding her together?
What keeps all those tiny pieces from falling apart?

The grout.
The in-between.
The part no one pays attention to.

That’s her village.
The hands that check in.
The arms that hold her when she’s too tired to stand.
The voices that speak truth when the sadness tries to steal her name.

Without that —
without the grout —
she wouldn’t hold.

And yet…
because of it,
she becomes art.

A living mosaic.
A mother made of grief and beauty,
of breaking and belonging.

And in the quiet moments —
when the light hits just right —
she glows.

 

Something is shifting.

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I don’t know how to explain it —
only that I’m not where I used to be.
And maybe I’m not yet where I’m going.
But I can feel it…
somewhere between the breaking and the becoming —
something is different.

It’s not loud.
Not sudden.
Not a big breakthrough I can wrap words around.

It’s just… a soft settling.
Like peace showing up in places that used to feel hollow.
Like trust being rebuilt quietly in the background.
Like I don’t flinch as hard at the old triggers.
Like maybe I’m becoming someone I can trust again.

And I don’t have answers.
I still cry.
I still wonder if I’m doing it right.

But I know this much:
God is moving in ways I can’t always name —
and healing is happening
even when I can’t measure it.

So I’ll stay here.
In the in-between.
With open hands.
And just enough hope to believe that what’s shifting
is sacred.

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

What Stayed Becomes the Legacy

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I could make a list of all the things that left.
The people.
The promises.
The versions of life I thought I’d get to live.

But maybe it matters more to name what stayed.

The quiet strength I didn’t know I had.
The still, small voice that kept whispering, “Keep going.”
The arms that held my child even when mine were trembling.
The Presence that never walked out — even when everything else did.

What stayed wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand attention.
It didn’t come with guarantees.

But it carried me.

And now?
Now I see it for what it is —
a legacy.

Because this love —
the one that stayed,
the one that steadied,
the one that kept showing up when no one was watching —
that’s what I get to pass on.

Not a perfect story.
But a faithful one.

He may not remember every hard day.
He won’t know how many battles I fought silently —
But he will carry the way I loved him.
Steady. Present. Unshaken by what tried to undo me.

This isn’t just healing.
This is inheritance.
This love — this staying —
is the legacy I leave.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:13

Motherhood Is the Mirror

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“The most profound thing we can offer our children is our own healing.”— Anne Lamott

They say motherhood changes you —
and it does.
But not always in the ways you expect.

It doesn’t just stretch your body.
It stretches your heart.
Your limits.
Your sense of self.
And some days, it stretches your faith.

Motherhood has become a mirror I didn’t know I was standing in front of.
It reflects everything back to me:
my tenderness,
my triggers,
my hope,
my hurt.

There are moments that undo me —
not because they’re hard,
but because they’re holy.
Because he looks at me with eyes full of trust,
and it makes me wonder if I’ve ever looked at myself that way.

He doesn’t care if I got everything done.
He doesn’t care if I cried in the shower.
He just wants my presence — not my perfection.

And somehow, that’s healing me.

Because in showing up for him,
I’ve had to learn how to show up for me, too.
To hold space for the version of myself I’ve tried to outrun.
To mother the child I used to be,
even as I mother the one God placed in my arms.

It’s not easy.
But it’s sacred.

Motherhood hasn’t made me flawless.
It’s made me honest.

It’s revealed the cracks —
and the grace that holds them together.

And maybe that’s the point.
Not to raise a perfect child…
but to love them so well
that they never question if they were worth it.

Just like God is doing with me.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…”
— Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

Still Working for My Good (Romans 8:28)

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

The other day, I asked God to speak to me.
I told Him I’d be paying attention. That I didn’t want to miss it.
I wasn’t asking for a burning bush — just a whisper. A moment. Something only He could orchestrate.

And then, He did.

My daily devotional that morning opened with a verse I’ve always loved — Romans 8:28.
And later that day, without knowing, my counselor brought up the same exact verse.
“It reminds me of Romans 8:28,” she said.
I smiled — not because it was new, but because it was confirmation.
God saw me listening. And He answered.

That verse has been anchoring me lately:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Not just in the easy things. Not just in the visible ones.
In all things.

This season hasn’t felt good.
It’s felt raw and heavy and filled with waiting.
But He keeps reminding me — He’s not wasting any of it.
He’s still writing the story.
And He’s still working for my good.

Today, I read something else that hit me straight in the chest.
It said:
“Don’t settle for Ishmael when God has Isaac for you.”
That’s what I’ve been trying to hold onto — that God’s timing,
His ways, His purposes — are always worth the wait.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when I’m tempted to reach for something just to feel in control again.

I don’t want to rush what God is still preparing.
I don’t want to interrupt what He’s still unfolding.

Because what He has for me — for us —
isn’t second best.
It’s the very thing I’ve been trusting Him for.

If You’ve Found Yourself Here

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It’s interesting,
how when we know about something in advance, we plan for it.
If I’d known I would someday be carrying so much heartache,
I would’ve done anything to avoid it.

We don’t ever knowingly walk straight into pain.

But somehow —
God has taken the wreckage of what tried to undo me,
and turned it into a place where others can rest.

Not because I have all the answers.
Not because everything is healed.
But because I know what it feels like to wonder if it ever will be.

I know the silence.
The shame.
The desperate searching for someone — anyone —
who’s been there too.

And now?
I get to be that voice.
That pause.
That reminder:
You’re not alone.
You’re not too broken.
You’re not behind.

This isn’t polished ministry.
It’s sacred survival.
It’s presence.
And somehow, it’s purpose.

So if you’ve found yourself here —
in this quiet corner of the internet —
I hope you know this:

You can rest for a moment.
I’ve made space for you here.
From the wreckage I never planned for… to your weary heart…
thank you, for allowing my voice to offer you comfort.
You are welcome here.

No Room for the Lies

/ Baylee Snelling / 2 Comments

“You will keep in perfect peace…” — Isaiah 26:3

There was a time
when I believed things that were never true.
Not because I was weak,
but because I needed to survive.

The lies came wrapped in voices I trusted.
They sounded like love.
Like protection.
Like truth.

But they weren’t.
They were cages.
They were chains.
And I didn’t even know I was choking.

It felt like living inside a story someone else wrote for me —
a version where I was always the problem,
always too much,
and never enough.

It was suffocation by lies.

But now?

Now, there’s no room for them.
Not here.
Not anymore.

Truth is quieter than shame,
but stronger.
And when it finally speaks,
it doesn’t argue — it frees.

The peace I feel now isn’t loud.
It doesn’t shout to be heard.
It just is.