Yesterday, I received news about a ministry partnership that left me in shock.
What should have been a joyous, celebratory day became a day of grief. It was my birthday, and instead of fully enjoying the gift of another year of life, I found myself processing the weight of some significant losses. Losses that reach into my personal life, my ministry, years of faithful investment, and the lives of dear friends who are navigating some devastating and unexpected realities of their own.
I wish I could say I moved through it all with grace and clarity. The truth is, I was stunned. Disappointed. Sad. And for much of that day, I struggled to reconcile what I was hearing with what I believed about partnership, leadership, and the work we had given ourselves to so wholeheartedly.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes when something you have invested in deeply begins to unravel. You are not simply grieving a decision or a change in direction. You are grieving the years, the relationships, the hopes, the shared vision, and the future you believed you were building together.
And when that unraveling happens in a ministry context, the grief can be even more complicated.
Because we are not simply talking about organizational decisions. We are talking about people. Calling. Trust. Stewardship. The work of serving others in the name of Jesus.
For those of us who genuinely believe in partnership, this kind of experience forces some difficult questions. What does partnership mean when things become complicated? What happens when the people who have faithfully carried the work find themselves on the receiving end of decisions that feel deeply inconsistent with the values they thought they shared? And what does it mean to lead with integrity when the circumstances around you do not reflect the same commitment?
I have spent years believing in the power of partnership. I believe deeply that we are better when we work together, that our gifts are meant to strengthen one another, and that the work of the Kingdom is not meant to be built on the backs of people who are unseen, unheard, or expendable when circumstances change.
I still believe those things.
But I am also learning that partnership is more than shared language, a common mission statement, or a declaration that we are all working for the same Kingdom. Partnership is revealed in how we treat one another when there is disagreement, when power is involved, when hard decisions must be made, and when the people affected are no longer convenient to the plans being pursued.
We cannot claim to value people while disregarding the dignity with which they deserve to be treated.
We cannot talk about unity while avoiding the hard work of accountability.
And we cannot assume that because an organization carries a ministry calling, every decision it makes automatically reflects the heart of God.
Some behaviors are simply not consistent with the Kingdom we proclaim. Naming that is not bitterness. It is discernment. The challenge is to speak truth without allowing disappointment to harden our hearts, and to pursue accountability without surrendering our character in the process.
That is the tension I have been sitting with.
And then I found myself returning to a familiar passage of Scripture:
“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God.” Psalm 42:11.
I love that the psalmist does not pretend to be okay.
He acknowledges the heaviness. He asks his own soul a question. He makes room for the reality of what he is feeling, and then he directs his attention back to the One who remains faithful.
Sometimes we need to do the same.
We need to acknowledge that something has hurt us. That we are disappointed. That we did not expect things to unfold this way. That there are things we may never fully understand and losses we cannot simply talk ourselves out of feeling.
Faith does not require us to call painful things good.
It does, however, invite us to remember that painful things do not get to define the whole story.
This morning, I woke up and read a prophetic message that brought me back to what I needed to hear. Its central reminder was simple: Put your hope in God. Fix your eyes back on Him.
And somewhere in that moment, my attention began to shift.
Not because everything had been resolved. Not because the grief had disappeared. Not because I suddenly had answers to all the questions sitting in my heart.
But because I was reminded that what had happened did not erase what God had called me to do.
I could grieve and still be called.
I could be disappointed and still be faithful.
I could acknowledge that something had not been handled in a way that reflected the values I hold dear and still refuse to let that experience dictate the posture of my heart.
I was reminded that God had already called and equipped me for the work He placed before me. My calling did not originate with an organization, and it does not end because a partnership changes or a ministry relationship comes to an end.
That truth matters.
Because sometimes we become so deeply invested in a particular expression of our calling that when it changes, we struggle to separate what God has called us to do from the people and structures through which we have been doing it.
But the organization is not the calling.
The partnership is not the source.
And the closing of one chapter does not mean the work is finished.
I am thinking about my friends, too. Women who have poured themselves into ministry, served faithfully, and are now facing realities they never anticipated. Women who are having to process disappointment while figuring out what comes next.
I wish I could make the road ahead easier for them. I cannot. But I can remind them, and myself, that our hope has never been meant to rest entirely in the stability of human institutions.
Our hope is in God.
That does not absolve people of responsibility. It does not mean we stop asking hard questions, establishing boundaries, seeking wise counsel, or pursuing what is right. Hope is not passivity. Trusting God does not require us to tolerate unhealthy dynamics or abandon the work of accountability.
Sometimes faithfulness means continuing. Sometimes it means changing direction. And sometimes it means having the courage to leave something we once loved because remaining would require us to compromise something we can no longer ignore.
I am still discerning what all of this means for me. I am giving myself permission to grieve what has been lost while remaining open to what may yet be built.
And on the other side of this disappointment, I can still see reasons to hope.
There is work to do. There are women to serve. There are communities to strengthen. There is a ministry that continues to matter deeply to me. There are possibilities I have not yet seen and doors I have not yet walked through.
God is not finished.
So, for now, I am returning to the question that has been following me:
Why, my soul, are you downcast?
I am giving my soul permission to answer honestly. Yes, I am grieving. Yes, I am disappointed. Yes, some of what has happened has cost me more than I expected.
But I will not allow this grief to become the place where my hope dies.
I will grieve what deserves to be grieved. I will learn what needs to be learned. I will stand for what is right. I will care for the people who are hurting alongside me.
And then I will lift my eyes again.
Because my hope was never meant to rest in the perfection of people or the permanence of a partnership. My hope is in the God who called me, who knows me, and who remains faithful even when the road looks nothing like I expected.
Fix your eyes back on Him, Keisa.
That is the reminder I needed on my birthday. And perhaps it is the reminder someone else needs today, too.
Grieve, yes. Absolutely.
But do not mistake the end of one chapter for the end of your calling.
There is still good ahead. There is still work worth doing. And there is still every reason to put your hope in God.
So well said Keisa. I have had a similar journey the last couple of years, so much grief and disappointment. I like your perspective.