Still Not Over It? A Christian Healing Journey

There’s a particular kind of pain that doesn’t scream. It lingers. Quiet but heavy. Unseen but loud when the house goes quiet, and the lights go out. The grief keeps showing up even after we’ve begged it to leave.

This is the unspoken part of a Christian healing journey. We’ve fasted. Prayed. We’ve journaled until the ink ran dry. We’ve heard every sermon that says God heals, restores, and makes beauty from ashes. So why do we still feel like we’re walking barefoot across glass whenever that memory surfaces?

And that’s when the whisper creeps in: “We should be over this by now.”

It’s cruel. That voice doesn’t just question our pace—it questions our faith. As if slow healing means God isn’t working. As if the ache proves we’ve failed.

But what if the wound isn’t proof of weakness but worth? What if the God who could speak a word and make us whole is choosing to sit with us in the ache instead? Not because He’s forgotten. Not because He’s punishing. But because He’s forming something sacred in the middle of what we’d rather erase.

What a Christian Healing Journey Looks Like

When Jesus rose from the dead—victorious, glorified, whole—He still had scars. Jesus could’ve returned flawless. Untouched. Radiant in every way. But He didn’t. Jesus chose to rise and still carry the very marks that killed Him. And He didn’t hide them.

Jesus showed them. He stretched out His hands and invited Thomas to touch the wounds. He said, “Put your finger here.” He didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologize. Jesus used the scars to prove who He was.

Why? Because the scars weren’t a stain—they were a story. A testimony of love that went through death and came out alive.

We treat healing like it should erase all signs of pain. But what if the evidence of what we’ve walked through isn’t a liability? What if it’s part of our becoming?

Jesus didn’t erase His scars. Not even in glory. Which means we don’t have to hide ours either.

Maybe our healing won’t look like forgetting. Perhaps it will look like remembering differently. Remembering not with shame but with honesty, not with fear but with faith, not because we’ve moved on but because God has moved in.

If you’re still not over it, you’re not failing. You’re human. You’re healing. This is what a Christian healing journey looks like—raw, holy, ongoing.

Our pain doesn’t disqualify us, and it doesn’t discredit our faith. The truth is that healing rarely follows our timeline. Sometimes, it’s immediate, sometimes incremental, sometimes it looks like dancing again, and other times, it’s just being able to breathe without crying.

But hear this: God isn’t in love with a future version of us—the healed, polished, over-it version. He’s fiercely present with the right-now us. The ones still sorting through the pieces.

Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” The word binds means Jesus wraps Himself around our broken places. Jesus does this not once but daily, over and over, as many times as it takes.

God doesn’t rush the process because He’s not just after relief—He’s after resurrection—not just making us feel better but making us new. That kind of work doesn’t come fast. It comes holy.

So, if we’re still not over it. If we’re still crying when no one’s looking, we’re still aching when everyone else has moved on. That doesn’t mean we’re behind. It means we’re human. It means we’re healing. It means we’re the exact kind of people Jesus called blessed.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4, ESV) Not scolded. Not rushed. Comforted.

So let the tears fall. Let the process be slower than we planned. And when that whisper comes again, “We should be over this by now," we silence it with this truth: “If Jesus isn’t over us, we don’t have to be over it.”

Reflection:

1. Let’s write a letter to the version of ourselves who first experienced the wound. Not to fix her, but to honor her. We can tell her she didn’t deserve what happened. We can remind her that she doesn’t have to rush her healing.

2. Then, let’s write a response from Jesus. What would He say to her, not in cliché, but in love-soaked truth? We can keep both letters nearby for the days when the ache returns. Let them become part of our healing rhythm.

3. Let's stop measuring healing by how happy we feel and start measuring it by our willingness to keep bringing the pain to Jesus because that’s at the heart of every Christian healing journey.

Prayer: Jesus, You know what it feels like to bleed in silence. You know what it’s like to love people who left. To trust the Father and still feel sorrow. You know. And You are not ashamed of our slow healing. Help us stop rushing what You’re redeeming. Sit with us in the ache. Tell us again that we don’t have to be over it for You to be in it. We want to trust that our scars, like Yours, can become stories. Make it holy, Lord. Even this. Amen.

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