It was his special acronym for Woman of God – the compliment to any good MOG (not to be confused with the Pog, that schoolyard game/fad of the early-mid nineties).
He was the most on fire person I had ever known. He radiated with it. He led the morning Bible study at his high school and the youth group study at our church. He got up when it was still dark to pray.
That summer, he’d spent two months on other side of the world preaching the Gospel, and he came back with a shaved head and all kinds of God-sized dreams for his future.
When we sat side-by-side in the old church pews, I noticed him glance towards the underlined words in my Bible, and in his eyes, there was the faint glow of approval.
I think it was why he chose me, asked me out, asked me to be his girl. It was my newly reignited freshman faith, wild and insatiable, that he really loved. And, if we’re honest, it might have been what I loved most about him too – the passion, the zeal, the force of his devotion to God that drew me forward like a magnet.
We were a disaster waiting to happen, and when it fell apart, I felt like it was because my faith was not strong enough. And when it all fell apart, the whole thing shattered like glass. [Read the full post here.]