God, Am I Numb or Healed?

Navigating the silence between survival and restoration. 

A flash of insight did not arrive. No theatrical weeping, no triumphant praise. The day broke in quietly.

The stillness lingered. Eventually, I noticed the interior landscape was mainly blank.

I hesitated: Could this threshold mean I am cured? Contemplation introduced a disquieting counterpoint. Is this serene hiatus proper recovery, or have I short-circuited my feelings? 

The Valley of Dry Bones

“He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley… He asked me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’”— Ezekiel 37:2-3

Ezekiel was not gazing into the faces of the grieving but instead scanning a field of desiccated, featureless fragments. The scene evokes the experience of emotional numbness, with its utter detachment and unwelcome desolation.

Nothing is crashing, yet wholeness seems a distant luxury. Tears have dried, yet that familiar pulse of joy refuses to resume. Life ticks forward, sometimes on phantom cruise control.

Somewhere beneath the surface, the primal question keeps emerging:

God, could anything here breathe again? Am I still capable of breathing again?

What If It Is Not Peace-Just Pause?

Healing is rarely the simple arc we picture. It is downright baffling, particularly on days when every tear is spent and the page in the journal appears unbearably blank.

In those moments, the sensation of emptiness can masquerade as progress when it is a protective detachment. Clinicians label the state hypoarousal, which describes the nervous system effectively hitting the escape button to prevent emotional collapse. The body mutters, I cannot do another feeling, not right now, and powers down.

Experiencing that numbness is not proof of a faltering faith; it is an unmistakable sign of being human. Though the state itself is transient, attention to it calls for compassion rather than judgment.

Jesus Sees Even the Shutdown.

The striking tableau in Ezekiel’s vision reveals more than reanimated bones; it illustrates divine sight aimed directly at scenes most would label hopeless. God notes the stillness- no condescension, no hurry- only a name spoken aloud and the commanded breath transforming the valley.

For anyone lingering in that muted, disconnected place, wondering still whether the quiet is sacred peace or mere absence, a vital truth persists: you are seen.

Numbness, in the Christian experience, is often mistaken for rebellion. More commonly, it stems from simple fatigue, and God understands. His grace still extends even when sensation retreats.

Restoring the Self-Slowly, Deliberately

Resurrection does not always erupt in loud doxology. Some days it reveals itself as deliberate inhalations. Other days, it manifests in tentative bodily movements. Occasionally, it allows a worship track to play through instead of skipping the following selection.

Start in the Minor Key- Light the wick of a solitary candle. Walk a single city block. Whisper a stripped-down plea: I want to feel again; breathe life into these dry places.

God Can Absorb Your Request. He can handle that kind of honesty and will respond.

To the Believer Experiencing Affective Drought

What you call unfeeling is not the final chapter of healing. Repair is still possible for every fractured interior. Emotional distance is not an indictment of spiritual maturity.

You occupy the center of a moment, and even there, God remains present. He neither hurries nor punishes, only murmurs in the quietest tone: These bones can live.

The day arrives, sooner than expected, when sensation returns.