Relational betrayal is one of the most disorienting and longest-lasting wounds we can experience. I suspect most, if not all, of us know this from experience. When a caregiver uses our vulnerability against us, a friend slanders or gossips about us, or we discover that the spouse or spiritual mentor we once trusted implicitly told more lies than truth, it shatters more than our faith in that person.
It can challenge our ability to trust ourselves.
If we didn’t catch the warning signs with, say, that neighbor known for years, how can we feel confident in our perspective of that acquaintance we think might make a good friend?
This can also intensify any sense of self-loathing or condemnation we carry, particularly if our inner critic bombards us with blame.
Yesterday, I spoke with a precious, godly woman who endured—and is enduring—soul-crushing hardship related to an illness that has stolen her mobility and her strength. When her body first began failing and the doctors predicted a lifetime of disability, she consoled herself with the thought, At least I won’t be alone. At least I’ll have my husband.
Isn’t that what marriage vows proclaim—in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do we part?
But what happens when your spouse refuses to honor the promises they made, not because of any horrific, divorceable deed like infidelity or abuse, but rather… inconvenience? What happens when one you gave your heart to without reservation walks away—when you need them most?
That was precisely what happened to the woman I spoke with yesterday. Praise God, by the time I heard her story, He’d brought deep healing to her soul and a healthy relationship with a much more honorable man. But while I celebrated the joy I saw in her eyes as she shared all the Lord had done, I doubt her journey to her “happily ever after” was anxiety- or pain-free.
I imagine she spent many nights wrestling with her past, herself, and maybe also her Savior who allowed her previous betrayal. maybe, at times, she still does.
Perhaps you can relate. Maybe you grew up in a home where caregivers exploited your weaknesses, mocked your tears, and responded to your desperate cries for help with contempt. Or you learned that a friend who seemed so kind and supportive used you for personal gain. Or that the supervisor you trusted to advocate for you blamed you for their mistake.
Now you don’t know who to trust—and you doubt yourself most of all.
I wonder if David, ancient Israel’s second king, ever felt this way. As a youth, he courageously and sacrificially served his predecessor, a man named Saul, and received homicidal malice in return. He defended an entire town, only to have them turn on him, knowing their betrayal could lead to David’s death. Then, years later, his son—whom he deeply loved—sought to kill him to usurp the throne. And while, admittedly, David wasn’t the wisest or most honorable father, that still had to sting.
Perhaps, in fact, that made the betrayal hurt all the more by convincing him he deserved it.
He could have become bitter and spent the remainder of his life in isolation, or fueled by a toxic desire to get even. Yet that’s not what happened. Instead, he is forever memorialized in Scripture as a man after God’s own heart.
Based on his prayers recorded in the Psalms, he reached that place of maturity and intimacy with the Lord the same way the woman I spoke with did—by turning to Him in his pain, processing every tear and gut-wrenching emotion with God, receiving His comfort, and routinely anchoring his soul in truth.
I want to get better at following those steps, regardless of how long that takes. I want to react less in the moment, process more with Christ, and wait on Him to heal and guide my soul. When I’m tempted to lash out, withdraw, or move through life with some level of self-imposed isolation, I want to seek God’s heart and strength instead.
I want to routinely, and increasingly, accept my Father’s invitation in Psalm 55:2:
Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken (NIV).
Otherwise, I fear I’ll become the betrayer and wound myself for far longer—and with farther-reaching results—than my initial offender ever could.
I don’t want to downplay poor behavior or ignorantly invite harm. But neither do I want to block my soul from experiencing all the good God has in store for my tomorrows by forever expecting a repeat of yesterday’s pain.
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If this post resonated with you, and you’re looking for more insight and encouragement related to building healthy and support relationships, make sure to check out my cohost Carol’s conversation with Faith Over Fear guest Becky Harling in the episode titled, “How to Find Godly Friends When You Don’t Know Who to Trust.“
