Sometimes, it was God who brought you together. The timing aligned. The prayers matched. Scripture was exchanged more than selfies. There was reverence in the way you both tried to love. There was hunger for more — of Him, of each other, of healing. But still… it ended.
And when something formed around faith breaks apart, the grief is not just about love lost — it’s about belief shaken. It’s asking, “Did I hear wrong?” or “How can something led by God feel this confusing, painful, or unfinished?”
But here’s something I’m learning to hold:
Not all God-centered relationships are meant to last.
Some are meant to transform.
Some are meant to convict.
Some are meant to reveal where you are still avoiding yourself.
And sometimes, they’re meant to bring you to the edge of everything you thought you were ready for — and show you what still needs work.
This is not about blame. This is about becoming.
Because truthfully, I know I hurt him too.
There were moments when I didn’t meet him the way he wanted to be met.
There were days I didn’t hold enough space.
Sometimes I wanted him to be something for me before fully understanding where he was still trying to be something for himself.
I missed it at times. I spoke when I should’ve been still. I held back when I should’ve leaned in.
I know that. I see that now.
And I think that’s the part we don’t talk about enough — that in every heartbreak, there is shared ache. There is impact on both sides. Even when you’re doing your best, you can still be someone else’s hard season. Even when it’s God-centered, it can still break open wounds that neither of you knew were there.
There were days I felt like I was holding my light out for him, and he couldn’t look at it. And days I know he tried to hand me his heart, and I didn’t fully receive it.
So I don’t want to tell this story in a way that bashes him. I want to tell it in a way that frees us both.
Because both of us were trying.
Both of us were healing.
And both of us, in our own ways, weren’t fully ready for what we thought we could hold.
And maybe that’s the most God-honoring way to grieve this — not by romanticizing it, or vilifying it, but by witnessing it for what it was: a connection that shaped me. A love that taught me how to love better. A mirror. A message. A memory wrapped in divinity and imperfection.
One person may be ready to confront their shadows. The other may still befriend them.
One may be seeking healing with open hands, while the other clutches tightly to their dysfunction because it’s familiar.
Love does not always mean alignment. And spiritual chemistry is not the same as spiritual maturity.
Sometimes, we’re not ready for each other.
Sometimes, we think we’re helping someone rise when we’re just reminding them they’re not there yet.
Sometimes, they need time. And so do we.
And it takes discernment — holy, gut-wrenching discernment — to know when love becomes enabling. When presence becomes a weight. When covering someone in prayer turns into neglecting your own spiritual health.
That’s when God will say: “Let them go. That was the assignment. It is finished.”
Because a God-centered relationship should not burn you down. It may convict you, stretch you, humble you — but it should not cause you to diminish your own light just to stay close.
We are called to love, yes. But we are not called to be saviors. There is only One.
So if it didn’t work out, even when God was in the center — know this:
God was still working.
Some people are sent to teach us how to choose ourselves again.
Some endings are answers to prayers we were too afraid to pray.
Some detours are actually deliverance.
So here’s my prayer now:
That I learn to love more more clearly, and more gently.
That I speak when called to, and stay silent when Spirit says wait.
That I forgive myself, even for the ways I didn’t yet know how to love myself well.
That I don’t let this ending become a wall between me and God — but a door back into His arms.
Let go with reverence.
Grieve what was good.
Hold the lessons close.
And remember:
you didn’t fail because it ended.
Sometimes the most God-honoring thing you can do is walk away when staying would keep you both stagnant.
You are still becoming.
You are still held.
And if God was there in the beginning, trust: He is still here in the end.
