Several years ago, as I discerned my call to ministry, I had a friend I’ll call Zee. We met at church and bonded quickly. We shared phone calls, e-mails, birthdays, holidays—and especially our stories of woe.

Zee and I often prayed with a church group devoted to self-awareness and personal empowerment so each of us could best choose how to live abundant, fulfilling lives. In the group, we encouraged one another and affirmed the inner strength, faith and courage we had to transform ourselves.

At some point, Zee began missing weekly gatherings, offering excuses about a hectic schedule. One day, as we discussed our troubles, she began a tirade about her boss. We had reached the point in our spiritual education classes—or at least I had—when we were encouraged to stop blaming others and focus on our own spiritual growth.

When I said, “I guess you’re thinking about how to deal with that,” Zee stared at me with eyes like daggers.

“Whose side are you on?” she asked.

“Yours, of course,” I stammered.

Eventually, Zee stopped attending church. Although we continued to be friends, I no longer wanted to use my energy to share woeful tales. When we did meet from time to time, I tried to listen with compassion. I loved her as my friend and wanted what was best for both of us, even if we no longer hung out at church.

But I also began to feel a strain between us. The more I chose to be responsible for myself, the more I realized that Zee continued to be the victim. Her problems were always someone else’s fault. She was having a string of bad luck. “Life,” she declared, “just isn’t fair.” I wanted her to be self-empowered rather than blame the “rotten boss,” the “bad day” or the “financial strain”—as she called them. I thought we both wanted self-empowerment, since that was the reason we connected in the first place.

One evening, during a quick phone call to plan our next visit, she said, “I don’t know why you’re making all this effort. You might think you have this all figured out now, but you’ll never be good enough to be anybody’s minister. Heck, you barely support me anymore.”

I mumbled something like, “Of course I support you. See you tomorrow,” so I could hang up and attend to my wounded heart.

That night, I stayed awake a long time, wondering what might mend the relationship. We had begun the journey together, so hopeful for bright futures, but it was obvious that our paths were diverging.

When I finally fell asleep, I dreamt I was walking a clear, open path, the sun rising above drifting clouds. The road climbed, and I began to see a town ahead of me. The sun grew brighter as I walked, step by step. From deep within me, I felt my strength, faith and courage. I knew I could find my way, even if Zee was no longer with me.

The next morning, we met at our favorite diner as previously arranged. When I tried to share my heart, she only wanted to tell me what was wrong with me and why I wasn’t a good friend. I don’t remember much of the conversation, only the sadness of goodbye.

When I rose from my chair to leave, Zee said, “Call me sometime and let me know how it goes.”

“Sure. I will,” I said, but I didn’t. I never saw her again.

I later heard from another friend that Zee had changed jobs again. Then again, after that.

“Are you upset?” my friend asked. “Zee got really mean with you at the end.”

I checked my heart and said, “No. Not anymore. I know I am where I need to be now.”