Loading
The One Percent
The One Percent
A year and a half is a strange length of time. Long enough for seasons to turn, for prayers to repeat themselves until they sound like breathing, for wounds to close in places no one else can see. Long enough to learn how not to chase a door that once closed in your face.
I carried the silence like a small stone in my pocket never heavy enough to break me, but always there, quietly reminding me of what I chose not to reach for. Some nights I wanted to write. Some mornings I almost did. But I remembered the last thing I left behind a door, not shut, not open, waiting for the hand that closed it.
So I waited. And somewhere in that waiting God did His quiet work. He taught me that forgiveness is not a performance, not a speech rehearsed in the mirror, not a victory over someone else. It is a seed you plant in the dark when no one is looking. And when it grows, you realize the roots were holding you together the whole time.
Then one day the past walked back into the light. Not like I imagined. No thunder. No dramatic confession. Just two people standing in the open air with the strange humility of time between them.
You looked different. Not older but quieter. Like someone who had been arguing with his own soul for a long time.
You said you expected a fight. I expected a few minutes. Instead we spoke for two hours like two men who had once been brothers helping each other once again even with a bleeding heart
You asked a question that lingered in the wind: “How do we get even one percent of the trust back?”
I didn’t have an answer. Because trust is not a ladder. It’s more like rain. It falls slowly over days you don’t notice until one morning the ground is green again.
When we hugged goodbye I felt something strange not the past returning, not the future promised, but a quiet space where both could exist without fighting. And as I walked away I realized something. I no longer needed the story to end the way I once imagined.
Because somewhere in the silence Christ had already written the most important line: That love can survive distance. That forgiveness can outlive pain. That sometimes God keeps two people apart long enough to teach them how to meet again without destroying each other.
So now we stand here not where we started, not where we broke, but somewhere in between where grace lives. And maybe that one percent you asked about is simply this: Two people choosing honesty over pride, and letting God decide what the other ninety-nine will become.
It’s been a long time since I’ve said this but I missed you. And maybe next time, we meet like something new breathing easier, not weighed down by what was, but learning each other again through laughter, through faith, through something lighter. Not the weight of the past, but the hope of what we can be for each other now.
And I want you to know this you have always meant more to me than the weight of your flaws. I’ve never seen you as someone to turn away from, but as someone worth understanding. And somehow, even now, I still choose to walk beside you in this life, in whatever way God allows not out of obligation, but because something in that bond never fully broke.
The One Percent
A year and a half is an odd amount of time. Long enough for seasons to change, for prayers to be repeated until they become like breathing, for wounds to heal in places no one else can see. Long enough to learn not to go after a door that once shut in your face.
I carried the silence like a small stone in my pocket never heavy enough to break me, but always there, quietly reminding me of what I chose not to go after. Some nights I wanted to write. Some mornings I almost did. But I remembered the last thing I left behind a door, not closed, not open, waiting for the hand that shut it.
So I waited. And somewhere in that waiting God did His quiet work. He taught me that forgiveness is not a show, not a speech practiced in the mirror, not a win over someone else. It is a seed you plant in the dark when no one is watching. And when it grows, you realize the roots were holding you together all along.
Then one day the past came back into the light. Not like I imagined. No thunder. No dramatic confession. Just two people standing in the open air with the strange humility of time between them.
You looked different. Not older but quieter. Like someone who had been arguing with his own soul for a long time.
You said you expected a fight. I expected a few minutes. Instead we spoke for two hours like two men who had once been brothers helping each other once again even with a bleeding heart
You asked a question that lingered in the air: “How do we get even one percent of the trust back?”
I didn’t have an answer. Because trust is not a ladder. It’s more like rain. It falls slowly over days you don’t notice until one morning the ground is green again.
When we hugged goodbye I felt something strange not the past returning, not the future promised, but a quiet space where both could exist without conflict. And as I walked away I realized something. I no longer needed the story to end the way I once imagined.
Because somewhere in the silence Christ had already written the most important line: That love can survive distance. That forgiveness can outlive pain. That sometimes God keeps two people apart long enough to teach them how to meet again without destroying each other.
So now we stand here not where we started, not where we broke, but somewhere in between where grace lives. And maybe that one percent you asked about is simply this: Two people choosing honesty over pride, and letting God decide what the other ninety-nine will become.
It’s been a long time since I’ve said this but I missed you. And maybe next time, we meet like something new breathing easier, not weighed down by what was, but learning each other again through laughter, through faith, through something lighter. Not the weight of the past, but the hope of what we can be for each other now.
And I want you to know this you have always meant more to me than the weight of your flaws. I’ve never seen you as someone to turn away from, but as someone worth understanding. And somehow, even now, I still choose to walk beside you in this life, in whatever way God allows not out of obligation, but because something in that bond never fully broke.