Too often in fiction, somebody dies, the surviving characters cry, attend a funeral, make a passionate speech—and three chapters later everyone behaves almost exactly as they did before the loss. The story acknowledges death, but it never truly acknowledges grief.

A seed does not look like a harvest when you first place it into the ground. Yet hidden inside that small thing is the potential for roots, branches, fruit, multiplication, and seeds for another generation.

The things that once stirred your spirit barely move you anymore. Your prayers feel routine. Your compassion has weakened. The suffering of others doesn't touch you the way it once did. You haven't turned your back on God, but somewhere between life's disappointments, responsibilities, and struggles, your spiritual fire has begun to fade.