The rising star in your church could just as quickly be a crashing fireball that burns out in seconds.
But at some point you need to quit punching yourself in the jaw and pick up your teeth from the tile.
Unless you held a gun at their head, it’s not your fault.
I know you’re mad at them, just as much as you’re mad at yourself. They were the ones who attended everything, who served every time, who called you at midnight when they were in trouble. You texted and emailed and Facebook chatted every day. You prayed over them on your knees at night, hoping God would lead them in incredible ways. You spent more time and money and energy on them than even your own family.
All for what? For them to cut you off like you never existed.
You could’ve done more, probably. There’s guilt about how you lashed out, how you could’ve made the church more cool, how you could’ve called more, wrote more, spent more.
But he’s gone. She left. You can leave the ninety-nine to get the one, but after all: there’s still ninety-nine.