When a Friendship Falls Apart: Finding God’s Path for Healing, Forgiveness, and (Maybe) Help Letting Go

By Elizabeth Laing Thompson

We all long for “friends forever”—but what happens when forever ends?

They say friends are the family we choose. And that choosing—the joy of loving and being loved by someone who isn’t genetically obligated to share life with us—adds priceless worth to our days, but also great risk. Because hurt can happen even in the closest friendships, and sometimes friendships fall apart. The loss can be staggering. As we struggle to digest the pain and confusion, we wonder, How could this happen? And what do I do now?

In When a Friendship Falls Apart, beloved author Elizabeth Laing Thompson comes alongside readers as they process their struggling friendships—the faltering, the fractured, and the failed. Blending personal story, biblical examples, and faith-filled wisdom, each page explores questions like the following:

• How do we guard against the poison of bitterness so we can process the hurt and move forward?
• When and how do we seek reconciliation? What does forgiveness look like?
• How do we know when it’s time to leave a friendship behind?
• How do we open up again and entrust our wounded hearts to new friendships?

If you find yourself in the midst of a friendship that’s falling apart, or you’re grappling with past hurts and regrets, this book is for you. May it be a comfort and help, leading you closer to the Friend who will never leave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781496463142

Book preview

Prologue

FOUR BROKEN THINGS

Let’s imagine we’re sitting in a café, you and I. I’ve got my half-caff mocha; you’ve got your favorite drink too. We’ve been friends for a while, close enough that truth flows unedited.

You take a shaky breath and share about a broken friendship. A flood of feelings pours out: hurt, bewilderment, shock, disappointment, insecurity, anger, self-doubt, shame, betrayal, bitterness.

There’s this . . . hole, you say, teary-eyed and warbly voiced. This place where she used to be. You clench a fist in front of your heart. Sometimes I feel like—like I lost part of myself along with the friendship. And everywhere I go, everything I do, it’s . . . haunted. Tainted.

I pass you a tissue, understanding. Because you used to go to all those places together, do all those things together, I say, feeling your heaviness in my own chest. And now, those places—and the memories you have there—feel . . . polluted. Like even the happy memories now have a shadow on them.

Exactly. You trace a finger around the rim of your mug. And . . . I mean, I’m telling you about this today, but the truth is, there’s hardly anyone I can talk to about it. She knows my other friends, and I don’t want to gossip or make her look bad or pressure people to take sides, and it’s just so private and . . .

Complicated, I finish.

You take another sip. "I don’t know how to process this. How to resolve it. Part of me is hurt, and furious—like, what’s wrong with her, and how could she act like this? I don’t get it!—but then . . . I question myself, and I know I made mistakes too, and I feel sick—stomach-churning sick—when I think about it, you know?"

I do know. I know that feeling way better than I wish I did. Tears prick my eyes, but I don’t swipe them away because you know I’m a sympathy crier, and you don’t mind.

And you say, "What do you think? Can this friendship be saved? Should it be saved? And how do I even start working through all of this? I don’t want to be stuck in this place, mourning this friendship—and missing this friend—forever."

I let out a long breath, thinking and praying. After a few moments I say, I’m honored you value my opinion. I can’t tell you what’s best, but . . . I have an idea. You know how, when people asked Jesus for advice, he often told them parables, stories that helped them think for themselves and find truths about God?

You nod, lifting your mug to your lips.

A sly smile pulls one side of my mouth. Well, I know you’ll be shocked to hear that I’m not Jesus—

You snicker mid-sip, inhaling a little liquid into your lungs.

When you finish coughing, I say, So as long as we’re both clear that I’m not Jesus, in the spirit of his parables, can I tell you some stories—true stories from my own life, about four broken things—that might point you toward some answers?

Sure.

I begin.

THE MUG

The Wound That Keeps Haunting

I burrowed deep into my friend’s armchair, cradling a mug of hot tea. Drawing the mug up close to my face, I blew on the steam; it curled away in graceful wisps.

The next few seconds boiled over in a wild blur:

An ominous sh-crunch sound.

Tea sloshing, then flying.

My skin zinging, then burning. Still burning.

I leaped to my feet with a screech, holding the mug’s handle in one bleeding hand; balancing the half-empty, broken mug in the other; desperate not to spill the rest of the tea. My skin was still screaming.

I dropped the handle, and with my free hand, clawed at my soaked and scalding clothing.

What—oh—oh, no, let me—here—give me the mug. My bewildered friend scrambled to help, trying to grasp what had just happened—one second I’d been curled into her chair, the next I was shrieking and jumping up, soaked in tea. She took the broken mug so I could use both hands to pull the hot clothes away from my skin.

When at last the tea cooled and the pain subsided, we shared a shaky laugh. My skin was red but not blistered; my thumb was cut, but the wound was not deep.

My loyal friend tossed the traitorous mug and its handle forcefully into her trash bin, as if to exact revenge. I will never buy a mug from that pottery place again! she vowed.

By the next morning, my skin was no longer flushed, and my thumb hardly needed a bandage. On the outside, you’d never know I’d been burned, but on the inside, something had changed. I shuffled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen, set an empty mug on the counter, and poured myself a cup of coffee—coffee, blessed coffee, heaven’s gift to weary souls—but as I stretched out a hand to pick up the mug, I hesitated. Hands tingling with the memory of pain, I found myself looking askance at the mug’s handle. Studying it, assessing it for cracks and weaknesses. Then glancing back over my shoulder, hoping no one was watching.

I chuckled, tried to reason with my fear: In all your long, happy years of coffee- and tea-drinking, you have never had one mug handle break. Not one broken handle out of hundreds. Maybe thousands. This was just a fluke, a onetime flaw in one dysfunctional mug. But fear still prickled. At last, shaking my head, I picked up the mug, but not by the handle—I cradled the mug’s warm, rounded body between two hands.

As I sipped, a little voice inside my head justified my fear: I mean, you never can be too careful. You’ve been burned once; better not risk being burned again.

I told myself it was just a temporary phase, my avoidance of mug handles. I’d get over it eventually. But every time I tried to lift a mug by its handle, my other hand swooped in to support the bottom of the mug, just in case. To keep me safe.

Weeks stretched into months, and I was still holding mugs—even familiar mugs I’d owned for years, mugs that had never, ever let me down—with two hands. The two-handed mug-hold was becoming a habit, a way of life.

I’d like to tell you that I had a Big Victorious Moment, a showdown where I stared down my fear of mug handles and won . . . but honestly, it just took time. More time than I thought it would. Time for the memory of pain to fade. Time for my self-protective instinct to settle down.

It’s been years since the Mug Handle Incident, and I am happy to report that I no longer have trust issues with mugs. Today I almost always reach for mug handles one-handed, and I don’t even go squinty-eyed. Most days I’d even say I grab mug handles with carefree abandon. It took a while, but I’ve put my fears behind me.

THE BOWL

The Sacred Worth Saving

The year before my grandmother died, I flew down to South Florida to visit her. Grandma and I knew these might be the last days we spent together, but we did our best to pretend otherwise. One sultry afternoon, with summer storm clouds pressing in, blanketing the house in the cozy darkness I always loved, Grandma crooked an arthritic finger at me, indicating I should follow her. Leaning on her walker, she shuffled into my grandfather’s office and fumbled around in a drawer. With shaking hands, she pulled out a package and unwrapped a hand-painted, gold-tipped bowl. Here, she said, her milky blue eyes bright as she flashed her trademark smile, I want you to have this. It’s very old, and I know you will treasure it the way it deserves.

Grandma, I breathed, hugging it to my chest, then hugging her, thank you. I will think of you every time I use it.

That bowl was Grandma’s last gift to me on what was, indeed, our last visit this side of heaven.

Treasure it I did. I placed it on my desk in my kitchen so I could see it every day, use it every day, remember her every day.

Several years later, my seven-year-old was hunting for something on my desk. Suddenly I heard a crash and a wail. My stomach clenched; I could hardly bear to look, already knowing what I would see when I went to investigate. Sure enough, there lay Grandma’s precious bowl, in pieces on my desk.

At first, I feared the bowl couldn’t be salvaged. But I had to try. It was too special to give up on. Begging God to guide my fingers and go easy on my heart, I painstakingly began to glue that bowl back together, piece by piece. The process took prayer, skill, and several do-overs. After one failed attempt, I spent long, agonizing moments standing statue-still in my kitchen, barely breathing, pressing pieces together, praying the glue would still hold when it dried—and dry it did. Hold it did.

Today the bowl looks every bit as beautiful as it did the day Grandma gave it to me. If you didn’t know it had once broken, you probably wouldn’t be able to spot the cracks. But I know where the cracks are—where the weak points are—and so I treat that bowl even more carefully than I did before. I remember what happened when I didn’t protect it the way it deserved.

The bowl is more precious to me than ever, because I’ve fought for it, prayed over it, and worked to preserve it. It feels like a gift I received twice: once from Grandma, and the second time from God.

THE HUMMINGBIRD

The Bittersweet Memory

March 12. The day I should have been in the hospital, giving birth to a baby. Instead, I sat in a garden, empty-armed and empty-wombed, and cried. My husband, not knowing what to say or how to help (there was nothing to say and no way to help), met me at the garden in the late afternoon and gave me a gift: a pink and green hummingbird figurine.

During my miscarriage all those months ago, I’d written a poem about my loss—your tiny heart beating like hummingbird wings, though they never could find it, I never saw it—and ever since, hummingbirds had come to represent our baby in our minds. The figurine was the perfect way to preserve the memory of the baby I still longed for and loved, to remember how his life had been cut short before he could fully take flight. To honor his would-have-been birthday.

I went home and placed the hummingbird on my nightstand where I would see it every day. We moved, and the hummingbird took up residence on a different shelf in our new house.

Several years later, around the same time as The Broken Bowl Incident That Shall Not Be Named, I heard another crash and wail—this time from my bedroom. I ran in to find my daughter in tears and my hummingbird in pieces.

The base was obliterated; the hummingbird lay helpless and tired, on its side. One wing was half gone; the bird’s gorgeous beak was chipped at the end. I searched for pieces large enough to glue back on, but all the shards were miniscule. The damage was too great. This hummingbird would never—could never—regain its former shape.

After consoling my poor, clumsy, guilt-stricken child, I stood there beside the bathroom trash can, cradling the broken bird in my hand. This figurine served its purpose, a reasonable-sounding voice insisted in my head. It helped you remember your baby for many years; now it’s time to let it go. For about five seconds, I thought I was going to do it—let it go and throw it away—but I couldn’t. Instead, I placed what remained of the statuette on my dresser.

The hummingbird will never look the same, never regain its former shape and glory, but even so, my heart still gives a little bittersweet throb every time I see it. It’s still beautiful to me, precious to me, broken wing and all.

SHELLS

The Beautiful Broken

My daughter and I were attempting to walk along the beach. We weren’t making much progress because every few steps, she’d squeal and bend down to snatch up a shell or two or ten. Oh, look at this one, Mommy! Sawyer would gush, her little finger pointing out a streak of purple, a flash of iridescence, a jagged edge. Colorful though they were, every shell she loved was broken, some merely shards.

At first I tried to talk her out of her choices. These are nice, but maybe you should slow down and only keep the undamaged ones. Wouldn’t you rather collect shells like this one? I showed her the single perfect shell I’d found—no chips, no cracks, a delicate pink ombre.

She shrugged. "Meh. I love this one!" She scooped up another broken shell and gazed at it rapturously.

Eventually I gave up trying to convert her to my perfect-shell-hunting ways. Sawyer carried on collecting—and of course she wanted me to admire every. Single. Shell. I did my best to see the beauty she saw, to come up with fresh adjectives and exclamations, though I confess my enthusiasm began to wane a bit after the forty-seventh shell. Meanwhile, I continued my own hunt, my hard-to-please eyes scanning the sand.

My hands stayed mostly empty while my daughter’s quickly filled to overflowing; before long, she’d foisted fistfuls of shells on me, stuffing my pockets till they bulged.

At last I had to call it. Okay, that’s enough! I don’t have any more room in my pockets. No more shells today.

Okay, she agreed, then gasped. But wait—one more! She dropped to her knees, the collection of friendship necklaces around her neck swinging wildly; she scooped up another shell and handed it to me, delight sparking in her eyes. Before the handoff was even complete, her eyes drifted down; again she squeaked, bent, and scooped—two more, three more, four. "Okay, these are the last ones, Mommy." But already her besotted eyes were straying to the sand, filled with longing.

I placed a hand on her elbow and started steering her back to our towels. C’mon, it’s time to go.

Sawyer stumble-walked the whole way with her head tipped back, her gaze locked on the cloud-dotted sky. She moaned in frustration. I can’t look down, Mommy, or I know I’ll see a thousand more pretty shells!

The struggle is real, I laughed, shaking my head.

Back home the next day, I rinsed and stored our finds; mine barely covered the bottom of a small jelly jar; Sawyer’s filled an oversize mason jar, which promptly earned a prominent place on the bookshelf. Her collection was, indeed, beautiful: a kaleidoscope of wonder, every curious shape, all the sunset colors. And I couldn’t help but think: Maybe if I weren’t so careful, so picky, I could see what my girl sees: perfect imperfection, beauty in broken, and endless possibilities—a world filled to bursting with treasures worth taking home.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, you and I, a safe warmth between us even though our drinks have gone cold.

I hope that helps in some way, I say. I don’t know which story fits yours, but maybe they can help as you think and pray through how to heal, and where to go from here.

You swirl the remains of your coffee around in your mug. I can see you pondering the four stories, the four broken things, trying to match up your own story to what I’ve shared.

Will you pray through it with me? you ask. Will you ask God to make my path clear?

I will, and he will.

We smile.

Part 1: Beginning Broken: The Mug

1

WHEN A FRIENDSHIP FRACTURES

I told myself it was just a temporary phase,

my avoidance of mug handles.

I’d get over it eventually.

But every time I tried to lift a mug by its handle,

my other hand swooped in to support the bottom of the mug,

just in case.

To keep me safe.

My phone dings, and I pull it from my purse. The text from my friend is simple:

I’m so glad God brought you into my life. I love how he planned for us to be friends.

I tuck my phone away and get back to work, but all day I hold her words close, a happy glow warming me inside, a joyful hum singing in my veins. Everywhere I look, life’s colors seem richer, more exquisite. Everywhere I go, the world seems kinder, more welcoming. All because of friendship. All because I feel seen, known, and loved.

They say friends are the family we choose. And that choosing—the joy of loving and being loved by someone who isn’t genetically obligated to share life with us—adds priceless worth to the relationship. Priceless worth—and great risk.

We meet, connection sparks, and suddenly we’re thrown back to that fumbling middle school place: I think you’re cool; do you feel the same way about me? Want to be friends? Check yes or no. Over time, if we’re brave enough, we pull back the curtain protecting our inmost hearts and invite this person inside—an act of terrifying vulnerability and trust.

We invite friends into our inner sanctum—and our home. They claim a favorite spot on our couch, rummage in our pantry for snacks, see us tearstained and sleep-deprived. We entrust one another with the secret heart places. Hold one another up in sacred moments of anguish, loss, joy. Along the way we may make lofty promises—friends forever.

But sometimes forever ends.

I haven’t heard from her in forever. Forever and three days.

I check my phone again—nothing.

Dread crawls through my stomach, a twisting pain.

Insecurity haunts my thoughts, a cruel shadow: How could this happen? Is our friendship really over?

When a friendship falls apart, we experience a unique kind of loss. Other people may not take it seriously: It’s not like you were married or anything—you can always find another friend. Yeah, sure—lemme just put this book down and go pick a new friend off the friend tree. Like any time we want, we can just walk out the door and bump into another person who likes us, gets us, enjoys our quirks, and laughs at our jokes. Someone who is safe and understanding, someone we can trust with our unfiltered thoughts and deepest insecurities. Oh, and by the way, this someone has to be willing to make time for us in their life. And then (as if finding a person who fits all those qualifications weren’t hard enough), we have to feel the same way about them . . . Yeah. Like I said. Easy-peasy.

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?

Even in the closest friendships, sometimes hurt happens. Misunderstanding. Distance. Disagreement. Even betrayal and deceit. Perhaps you have experienced this kind of anguish, this kind of brokenness, firsthand. Some friendships, like my grandmother’s bowl, survive the fall, but others, like my friend’s mug, stay fractured forever. The loss can be staggering, a blow not only to your happiness and way of life but also to your confidence and sense of identity. The pain may haunt you for years to come. Friendships fall apart in different ways, for many reasons:

Maybe you entered different seasons of life, and you no longer had much in common.

Maybe one Big, Awful Misunderstanding took a catastrophic turn—un-take-back-able words, dramatic door slams—and almost overnight the friendship was severed.

Maybe hurt feelings and unhealthy patterns snuck in over time, small fissures in your trust that eventually widened into a chasm that feels uncrossable.

Perhaps you grew—found God or made different lifestyle choices or overcame old weaknesses—while your friend stayed the same.

Perhaps she changed, going places you couldn’t follow: into addiction or bitterness or ungodly choices.

Or maybe nothing happened at all—and that’s the problem. You just . . . drifted. Stopped calling, stopped hanging out, stopped making time for each other. One day you looked up to find an ocean between you.

However brokenness entered your friendship, it’s a wound. A loss. And the loss of a friendship is often accompanied by a host of unwanted companions: insecurity, anger, isolation, bitterness, guilt, regret. The closer the friendship, the greater the pain. And the greater the pain, the longer its memory may haunt you, change you, leave you reaching for mugs one-handed. It’s a lonely loss, a private grief, like a divorce no one can see. No one’s going to send cards or flowers. Hallmark doesn’t make a Friendship Breakup sympathy card; churches don’t offer Friendship Loss Support Groups. It’s not something we can announce on social media, seeking emotional support or prayers; in fact, chances are, the broken friendship was intertwined with a larger group of friends, so it’s tricky to talk about it anywhere, to anyone.

And when the relationship is between two faithful Christians, two people seeking to honor God in all they do, the pain is compounded, the fallout even more complicated. Godly friendships aren’t supposed to fracture, but sometimes they do.

Friendships are precious to me—worth fighting for, praying about, and working through. But sometimes, in spite of my best (yet imperfect) efforts, I’ve had friendships falter and fail. Some have ended unexpectedly, the pain sudden and sharp, a gutting; others have faded with time, the pain low and throbbing, lingering for long years and then reigniting unexpectedly, ages after I thought I’d let the friendship go.

It's the day before my wedding. The past few days—make that weeks . . . actually, make that months—have been a blur. A blur of excitement and planning and details and cake-tasting and flower-scrutinizing and stress-compounding and decision-making and complex-family-feelings-navigating fatigue.

A friend from my small group at church, a girl I’ve been friends with for a couple of years now—we’ll call her Sasha—is about to move away for a summer internship. Life has been happier with Sasha in it: she’s kindhearted, quick with a laugh, reliable. I know people in her new city, and she’s eager to connect with potential friends before she leaves; I’ve promised to help her for weeks now, and every week I have forgotten to follow up. But here at the eleventh hour—like, literally eleven hours before my wedding day—I remember, and I call her.

Hey! It’s me, your long-lost, scatterbrained, about-to-have-a-new-last-name friend! I joke when she answers the phone. I’ve got those phone numbers for you! Sorry it took me so long.

A weighty pause on the other end.

Then: Just forget about it. Sasha’s voice is flat.

I’ve got my friends’ numbers right here, it’s no trouble, I say, confused.

I don’t want them anymore.

You don’t . . . ?

Sasha sighs into the phone. She doesn’t sound angry, just . . . resigned. Elizabeth, I’m tired of this. You’ve been lost in your own little wedding world for weeks now, and I think you’re really selfish, and I’m just done.

I stammer and flush, apologies spilling out in a guilty flood. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been distracted and overwhelmed with all the wedding plans, and I’ve hurt your feelings.

You think?

I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I wish I could come over and apologize in person and try to make things right, but, um, I have my wedding rehearsal starting in a few hours. I sort of laugh, hoping she’ll soften to the this-is-a-lot-all-at-once-and-please-cut-me-some-slack-I’m-so-overwhelmed in my voice, but she lets the silence stretch way past awkwardness. At last I say, I don’t know how to make this right with you today, but I really want to. Can we please talk when I get back from my honeymoon?

I don’t think so, she says. I’ll be gone by then anyway.

I fumble with more apologies, more pleas to set up a future conversation, but she hangs up. I sit staring at the phone, reeling, a hurricane of feelings swirling inside:

I totally blew it. This is all my fault. I tried so hard not to be a self-absorbed bride, but apparently I was.

But—this is so unfair! Can she really not show me a little grace for all I’ve been juggling the past few months—graduation and a new job and wedding planning?

And . . . maybe I was selfish, but how selfish is she, waiting to dump this on me on THE DAY BEFORE MY WEDDING? It’s like she wants to ruin this weekend for me—that’s so mean.

I fall to my knees in prayer, feeling all kinds of guilty, attacked, and blindsided. I’m no good at conflict—as in, if a person looks sideways at me, I can’t eat or sleep until the perceived conflict is resolved—and this out-of-nowhere punch feels emotionally insurmountable on a day when my emotions are already running on hyperdrive. I feel myself spiraling down into a toxic swirl of regret and fear and anxiety, with a heaping side order of hurt and resentment.

God somehow takes all the upset and guilt and frustration I feel into his all-encompassing hands and helps me to set it aside and still enjoy my wedding weekend. I promise myself I’ll call Sasha when I return from my honeymoon. I tell myself she will have had time to cool down by then, and I’ll apologize and ask for grace and another chance in our friendship.

When Kevin and I float back into town on the wings of honeymoon bliss, I know it’s time to reenter life in the real world. Time to try to go back to work—and most importantly, to make things right with Sasha. I beg God for help, and I call my friend.

No answer. No call back.

I call again.

Still no answer. Still no call back.

I call Sasha’s boyfriend and beg him to help me get in touch with her.

He says she doesn’t want to talk to me.

I never hear from her—or see her—again.

Fast-forward a few years. I’ve moved away, started a new (extremely stressful) job, and life is a whirlwind of exhaustion, transition, and homesickness. Young marriage, new city, new big-city traffic,