Can these old bones live?

My birthday falls this month, and as the calendar turns one more year, I find myself more aware than ever of these old bones and their limits.

My health is good, and for that I am grateful. I am still able to do so much. Even so, I am not as spry as I once was. I feel age in places I did not used to notice it, in my knees, in my energy when the day runs long. Growing older has a way of reminding us that we are human.

That awareness got me thinking about one of the most vivid images in scripture: the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel 37. The haunting question at the center of that passage still echoes across the centuries: “Can these bones live?”

It is a striking image. A valley stretches as far as the eye can see, covered not with grass or wildflowers, but with bones. Not a few scattered remains, but countless bones, sun-bleached, weathered, and very dry. If a filmmaker tried to capture the scene, it would look like something from a dramatic action film, complete with special effects and sweeping music. Yet even the best cinematic imagination cannot rival the power of this ancient vision.

In Ezekiel 37:1–14, the prophet is led by the Spirit into a valley full of bones. God asks him, “Mortal, can these bones live?” Ezekiel gives the only honest answer he can: “O Lord God, you know.”

For the people who first heard this vision, the dry bones represented more than death. They reflected a deep sense of hopelessness. The people of Israel were living in exile, far from home, feeling cut off from all they had known and loved. In their despair they said, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost.”

That is what makes this passage so timeless. It speaks to anyone who has ever felt exhausted, discouraged, or uncertain about the future.

In the vision, God tells Ezekiel to speak to the bones. As he does, they begin to move. There is a rattling, a shaking, a coming together. Bone joins to bone. Sinews and flesh appear. Skin covers them.

But still, there is no life in them. Then God tells Ezekiel to speak to the breath, and breath enters them. They live.

The Hebrew word used here is “ruach,” a word rich with meaning. It can mean breath, wind, or spirit. That matters, because the passage is not only about physical restoration. It is about the life-giving power of God.

The same divine breath that, in Genesis, animates the first human being is the breath that revives the dry bones in Ezekiel’s valley. It is a reminder that life itself comes from God.

The lesson of Ezekiel 37 is simple but powerful: what looks hopeless to us is not beyond God’s reach. Dry bones are not the end of the story. Death is not the end of the story.

Most of us, at one time or another, find ourselves standing in some kind of valley of dry bones. Sometimes it’s personal loss. Sometimes it is illness, loneliness, discouragement, or fatigue.

Cometimes it is watching a community struggle, or a church grow weary, or a family carry old pain, or seasons when hope seems to wear thin.

We may wonder whether joy can return, whether strength can be renewed, whether life can rise again in places that feel worn out.

This scripture answers with hope. God still breathes life into weary hearts. God still restores what seems lost. God still brings renewal where we see only limits.

As I mark another birthday, I am mindful of aging bones. But I am also mindful of breath, grace, and gratitude. Perhaps that is one of the gifts of growing older, learning that our deepest strength was never in ourselves alone, but in the One who gives us life.

Sometimes the first sign of renewal is simply this, one more breath, one more prayer, one more reason to hope.

Can these old bones live? With the resurrection hope we have in Christ, they can!

(Ann Mann is an Emmy Award-winning journalist, now serving as pastor to Barnesville First United Methodist Church. You can email her at annmann@comcast.net. Her books, “Hope for the Journey,” and “Finding Hope in the Storm” are available on Amazon.)