Numb No More: Dream Again

Because numbness might feel safe, but it isn’t life.

If I had to guess, it was almost exactly a year ago.

Nick and I were in the middle of a heart-breaking season. We’d just lost my stepdad, and we were walking through a private grief that felt like it might swallow us whole. We spent our nights crying, our mornings praying, and the rest of the day just trying to keep moving.

We did what needed to be done.
Emails. Dinners. Church. Life.
But the edges of everything felt blurry. Grief does that. It dulls the color, quiets the volume, and makes it harder to remember how to hope.

And then there were the afternoons.

For about 30 minutes a day, we gave ourselves what we called “happy hour.”

There weren’t cocktails or cute outfits, just coffee and cold plunges. The sun would hit hard on our back porch, and we’d sit next to each other, often without saying much at all. We were trying to take care of our bodies, yes—but I think we were also trying to take care of our souls. Just a little sunlight. Just a few minutes where grief didn’t get the final word.

And then, one afternoon, Nick looked different. Not lighter exactly—but not quite as weighed down.

I asked him what was up. He hesitated. Tried to shrug it off.

(Which we both know wasn’t going to work on me.)

Eventually, he said it.

“I think… I might be dreaming again.”

He said it quietly, like it might break if he said it too loud.

Dreaming? Now?

In the thick of grief? In the midst of so much unknown?

It didn’t just feel like good timing. It felt like resurrection.

Because dreaming in the dark doesn’t mean you’re naive.
It means you believe in the God who brings beauty from ashes, not just after them.

That moment became a turning point for me: not because everything got better overnight, but because I realized - hope is a muscle. And we have to use it, even when it feels weak. Especially when it feels weak.

Dreaming doesn’t mean we pretend we’re not sad.
It means we believe God can do something new while we’re sad.
It’s how we practice resurrection in real time.

We’ve been told to be practical. To be realistic. To manage our expectations.
But God invites us to ask again. Believe again. Hope again.
To pray prayers so audacious they make us nervous.
To lift our heads and say, “Maybe… maybe there’s more.”

So here’s my reminder to you (and to me):

You are allowed to dream in the desert.
You are allowed to sketch out blueprints in the valley.
You are allowed to believe God still has good for you—right here, right now.

Don’t let grief be your only companion.
Let hope have a seat, too. Let dreaming soften your soul.
Let it wake you up again.

Because numbness might feel safe, but it isn’t life.
And we weren’t made for survival mode.
We were made to live fully awake.

PS: Nick has a Dream Again Guide available on his website if this sounds like something you need.

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