Week Five: Can These Bones Live?

The Valley, the Breath, and the Quiet Turning

A Word for the Way: Guiding Scripture for the Week

“Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”
—Ezekiel 37:9

This is not the week of celebration.
This is the week of question.

The valley is dry.
The bones are many.
And God asks not for answers—
but for presence.

“Can these bones live?”

Before we turn toward the shadows of Holy Week,
we are invited into this stillness.
To pause in the dust.
To walk among the remains.
To remember that this is not the first time death has drawn near.
Not the first time we’ve wondered if breath would return.
Not the first time we’ve longed for life we cannot conjure on our own.

This is not the week of triumph.
This is the week of standing still.
Of listening for breath.
Of letting the question rise.

This week, we are not called to fix, to force, or to forge ahead.
We are called to notice what has dried out in us.
To name what has scattered.
To whisper hope into what no longer feels alive.

And we do not do this alone.
Across kitchens and sanctuaries, silent bedrooms and crowded buses,
others are standing in this valley too.
Others are letting themselves be seen.
Others are whispering the same prayer:

“Come, breath of God.
Fill what has grown still.
Let me live again.”

A Practice to Carry: The Breath Prayer of Return

This week, let your practice be one of surrender, not striving.
Let it be a breath prayer, spoken softly or silently each time you feel the weight of what is lost.

Place one hand on your chest, one on your belly.
Let your breath come slowly.
Let your body settle.

Inhale: “Breathe into what’s been lost.”
Exhale: “Let me live again.”

Repeat this prayer throughout the week, especially in the quiet moments—when you're unsure, when you're scattered, when you're simply tired.
Let it be the way you return.
Not to certainty, but to breath.
To the possibility of life.

A Shared Practice: Valley to Valley, Breath to Breath

On Saturday evening, as dusk begins to fall, step outside or find a quiet place by a window.
Stand still. Breathe deep.
And then whisper aloud—if you are able:
“These bones are not forgotten.”

Look out toward whatever horizon you can see, and remember—
others are breathing with you.
Others are naming what has been lost.
Others are listening for the wind to stir.

You might want to write down what you’re carrying.
Or light a small candle as a way of saying:
There is still something alive in me.
There is still breath to come.

If it feels right, share an image of your candle, your dusk, or your prayer with someone else walking this journey.
Or hold it in your heart as a quiet connection—
from valley to valley, breath to breath.