When the Soul Becomes Infected

When the Soul Becomes Infected

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

The ache in my jaw was unbearable a deep, pulsing throb that refused to be ignored. I thought I just needed a tooth pulled, something simple. I had no idea I was about to be handed a revelation. What was supposed to be a quick visit turned into oral surgery. I leaned back in that chair, already halfway regretting every moment I ignored the signs. The dentist studied my X-ray, leaned over me with a puzzled look, and asked, “Wait… have you even been taking antibiotics?”

Now, it wasn’t just the question it was how he asked it. He had that “no wonder you’re suffering” look, the kind you get when someone opens the fridge and finds spoiled milk right where you said it wasn’t. I blinked and gave him a guilty shrug like a kid who forgot his homework. I had been trying to out-stubborn the infection like it was going to surrender to my willpower and herbal tea. We both knew the truth I'd been ignoring the problem, thinking it would go away if I just kept moving.

But the moment he asked that question, something deeper opened up inside me. The room got quiet in my spirit. Because in that moment, I wasn’t just hearing from a dentist I was hearing from heaven.

“Have you been taking your antibiotics?”

That question pierced through more than infected gums. It pierced through layers of neglect, spiritual forgetfulness, and emotional fatigue. And I heard the Spirit ask me the same thing but in a way only the soul understands:

“Have you been taking what your spirit needs to heal?”

Because infections don’t only live in teeth or tissues they live in the soul.

And just like in the body, when the soul is ignored, when it’s disconnected from the Source, when it’s not fed or watered or rested, it becomes vulnerable.

Pain creeps in slowly. It starts off tolerable until it’s not.

The pain we feel isn’t always punishment. Sometimes, it’s an invitation.

We carry infections of bitterness, regret, unspoken grief, shame, unhealed wounds, unforgiveness, and disconnection. And when we stop spending time with the Creator when prayer becomes rare, when we isolate ourselves from light, when meditation is replaced with noise we begin to spiritually rot in silence.

That day in the chair, Spirit whispered again:

“You haven’t been taking your sacred medicine.”

That’s when this came to me:

A.N.T.I.B.I.O.T.I.C.S.

Awareness

Nurturing

Time with the Creator

Introspection

Breathing in peace

Inviting stillness

Opening the heart

Turning from ego

Invoking grace

Circling in prayer

Submitting to love

These are heaven’s prescriptions. You don’t get them from a pharmacy you get them from presence, humility, and returning home to God.

And as I sat there, still numbed from the surgery, I remembered a story my grandmother once told me. One of those old tales that stay in your bones:

The Story of the Withering Tree

There once was a tree planted by a river. Every day it drank from the water, and it grew strong and full. Birds built nests in its branches. Children played beneath its shade. Then one year, a drought came. The river dried, just a little. The tree still stood tall, but its roots could no longer reach the water. The leaves curled. The birds flew away. A small branch whispered, “We are dying.” But the tree replied, “No, child. We are not dying. We are just disconnected.”

So the tree bent not upward, but inward. It stretched deep, reaching in faith. And finally, one morning, it felt water again. The leaves returned. The birds came home. And the tree sang with new life.

That story is about me. About you. About all of us who are standing tall but secretly thirsty. Looking fine on the outside, but with roots dried up from disconnection.

When the body gets infected, it becomes inflamed. When the spirit gets infected, it becomes reactive, cold, anxious, angry, or numb. It hurts to love. It hurts to trust. It hurts to hope. Because spiritual infections cloud clarity and clog up peace.

But healing real, deep healing begins with humility. It begins when you say:

“Yes, something’s wrong in me, and I can’t fix it by pretending.”

After the surgery, when the worst of the pain had passed, the nurse came in and handed me a prescription slip. Two things were written on it: pain medication and an antibiotic called amoxicillin.

I stared at that little paper like it was sacred. Spirit nudged me again:

“This is how I work with your soul too.”

The pain medicine? That was grace relief for the now. Grace doesn’t remove the lesson, but it softens the sting. It gives you room to breathe, space to rest, and strength to recover.

The amoxicillin? That was truth the hidden worker, the deep cleanser. It’s not flashy. You don’t feel it right away. But over time, it breaks down what doesn’t belong. It quietly, steadily kills the infection at its root.

And I realized:

Grace soothes your today. Truth protects your tomorrow.

One cradles you. The other corrects you.

That’s how God heals.

Not just with comfort, but with cleansing.

Not just with a hug, but with holy correction.

So I took both not just the pills, but the message. I said yes to grace. Yes to truth. Yes to returning to the sacred routine I had drifted away from. I started taking my spiritual antibiotics again daily prayer, deep reflection, meditation, forgiveness, truth-telling, vulnerability, silence, and alignment.

I started listening when pain showed up not trying to mute it, but asking it what it came to teach.

Because now I know:

Pain is a prophet.

And infections spiritual or physical are signs of disconnection.

You are not broken.

You are just thirsty.

You are not dying.

You are just disconnected.

You are not too far gone.

You are just being invited back to the river.

Proverb:

Disconnection is the root of infection, but even the deepest wound becomes a well when touched by the hand of God.

Haiku:

Toothache woke my soul

Pain said, Go take your healing

Heaven filled the gap