My name is Rachel. I'm not a pastor, a prophet, or a theologian. I'm a mother of two who works part-time at a school and spends most of her free time searching YouTube for prophetic words about Chosen Ones.
Six months ago, if you had asked me about my spiritual life, I would have started crying before I could finish the sentence.
I used to be on fire. I mean genuinely, powerfully connected to God. I could feel His presence in the room. I would get prophetic dreams that came true within days. I could pray for an hour and feel like five minutes had passed. People came to me for prayer because they could sense something different about my walk.
And then… it just stopped.
I don't know exactly when it happened. It was gradual. Like a river drying up one inch at a time until one morning you look down and there's nothing but cracked earth.
I would open my Bible and the words looked like… words. Just ink on paper. No fire. No revelation. No voice saying "this is for you today."
I tried praying. But my prayers hit the ceiling and fell back down. I would start with "Father God…" and then sit in silence because I had nothing to say. Not because I didn't want to — because the connection was severed.
Silence.
Night after night after night.