I knew my son needed help—psychological help—but I had trouble getting it for him. In my state, under joint custody, before a psychologist can see a child, both parents have to agree that the child needs help, agree on the therapist, and agree on who is going to pay for it. Well, therein lay a problem, several problems. First, my husband would not acknowledge our son needed help. Perhaps he just couldn’t see the world from a seven-year old perspective. I don’t know how he missed it, but somehow he didn’t hear the pain in our son’s little voice, didn’t see the tears in his big brown eyes.

But I did. I noticed that my son wouldn’t get in the car for visitation until I held him on my lap and gently rocked him for thirty minutes. I noticed that he ground his teeth all night. I listened when he said he hated Tuesdays because after Tuesday came Wednesday and on Wednesday he had to visit his Dad. I saw him cringe when the phone rang. I watched him find fifteen things to do to avoid making his nightly call to his father. I saw him pump his fist when he got voicemail. I felt him crawl into my bed when he couldn’t sleep. I heard him ask, “Can I cry now?” when he got in the car after a weekend with his Dad. I grabbed him when he stepped out on the balcony and threatened to jump. I begged him to let me hug him as he lay curled up on the floor. I noticed.

I noticed and I tried to do something. I asked my attorney to recommend a child psychologist. The psychologist said he didn’t want to see a child whose father had sued a previous counselor. I asked my husband’s therapist to see our son. They had a few appointments, but the therapist said he believed parents should be in therapy, not children. I asked my own therapist for advice on being a better mother, but I didn’t try to take our son to her knowing my husband would never agree to that.

A friend recommended a child psychiatrist and I made an appointment. When we arrived, the psychiatrist asked me to come into his office. When I sat down he said: “I cannot see your son.” I was stunned. “Why not?” I asked. “Because I got a call from your husband forbidding it and I can’t see a child unless both parents agree.”

I did the only intelligent thing: I cried. I cried and I cried. “God, I hate that man!” I bawled. “How can he do this to his child? How can I help my baby? God, I hate that man. He’s my enemy. My enemy! I hate him!”

The psychiatrist sat quietly. He passed me a box of Kleenex and waited. He spoke gently. He said he couldn’t see our son, but he could give me some advice. He suggested all this was happening for a reason. He encouraged me to buy Carolyn Myss’ Spiritual Madness. “If you want to understand what is happening to you on a spiritual level,” he said, “listen to this tape. Listen to it several times.” I wrote down the name. Then he looked at me. Looked me right in the eye and said something shocking: “Christ didn’t say don’t have enemies; he said: ‘love them.’”

What!? This is NOT what I wanted to hear. NOT comforting. NOT helpful. NOT useful in getting my son therapy. But, deep inside, I knew it was true. I knew it partly because I remembered the bible story. But that isn’t why I knew it was true. I knew it was true because I knew it was true. I recognized instantly that this wasn’t a Catholic teaching or even a Christian teaching; it wasn’t a teaching that belonged to any religion. This was a spiritual teaching, a spiritual teaching about a spiritual truth. A truth I did NOT want to hear. A truth I did NOT want to practice. I came to get my son therapy and instead I got a reminder to love my enemy.

The next morning I put on paper what I had been feeling and saying for months. I have an enemy. My husband is my enemy. I hate my enemy. I want to destroy my enemy. I was hoping God would say: you’re right he’s awful, let Me take care of him for you. Hoping perhaps, but knowing that wasn’t what I was going to hear. Still, I was surprised when the answer appeared on the page:

Surprised and hurt and angry. So I tried again. Tried to get the answer I wanted. But God stuck to the same message:

I answered in the only way I knew: Please, dear God, please, anything but that.

It took me a long time to lay down my arms. I struggled with the concept for months before anything changed. I wrestled with the question “How?” for weeks in my journal. How do I stop fighting with someone who wants to fight? How do I love an enemy who wants to hurt me? How, dear God, how?