A Friendship That Feels Good
“Father Sal, can a friendship feel good and still not be good for you?”
“That depends, Maggie. Good in what way?”
“That’s exactly the problem. When I’m with Claire, it feels good. We laugh. She understands me. I don’t have to explain everything. But afterward, I’m not peaceful.”
“What happens afterward?”
“I come home stirred up. I’m sharper with the kids. I think worse of my husband. I replay the conversation. I feel justified, but not free.”
“Justified, but not free. That is worth noticing.”
“I know. And I feel guilty saying it because Claire isn’t a bad person. She’s warm and funny, and honestly, sometimes talking with her feels like the easiest part of my week.”
“Then let’s not begin by judging Claire. Let’s begin with what the friendship is producing in you.”
Maggie sighed.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“What is it producing?”
“Complaint. Comparison. Drama. Sometimes resentment.”
“Toward whom?”
“My husband, sometimes. Other women. Even the kids. I hate admitting that.”
“And after being with Claire, are you more able to love them?”
Maggie looked down.
“No.”
Depth Is Not Always Good
“That’s the hard part,” Maggie said. “In the moment I feel seen. But afterward, I’m less loving.”
“Then perhaps the question is not only, ‘Do I enjoy this person?’ Perhaps the question is, ‘What kind of woman am I becoming through this friendship?’”
“That question makes me nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the answer. Claire draws out a version of me I don’t really want to become.”
Father Sal nodded gently.
“That is very honest.”
“But she also gives me things that feel good. Relief. Laughter. The feeling that someone understands how hard things are.”
“Those are real goods. But depth is not always good.”
Maggie looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“Two people can speak deeply and still not help each other become free. A conversation can be intimate without being holy.”
Maggie sat back.
“That’s exactly it. I think I confused intimacy with friendship.”
“How so?”
“Because Claire and I talk about personal things, I assumed we were close in a good way. But maybe we’re just sharing things that make both of us more agitated.”
“That can happen.”
“So what makes a friendship holy?”
The Friend Who Helps Me Become Better
Father Sal smiled.
“Is there someone in your life whose friendship leaves different fruit?”
Maggie thought for a moment.
“Anna.”
“Tell me about Anna.”
“She’s another mom from the parish. We don’t talk constantly. She’s quieter than Claire. Honestly, she’s not as entertaining.”
“And yet you thought of her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because after I talk with Anna, I’m different.”
“How?”
“Calmer. More honest. Less dramatic. If I complain about my husband, she listens, but she doesn’t feed it. She might ask, ‘Have you brought that to the Lord?’ Or, ‘What do you think he was carrying that day?’”
“How do you like those questions?”
Maggie laughed.
“In the moment? Not always.”
“Why not?”
“Because part of me wants her to just agree with me.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward, I’m grateful. I’m more likely to pray. Or apologize. Or be patient with the kids.”
“So what is different?”
“Claire makes me feel understood. Anna helps me become more loving.”
Father Sal let the silence remain.
Maggie nodded slowly.
“That’s the difference, isn’t it?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I need to be understood. But I need to be loved in a way that helps me become holy, not just validated in a way that keeps me stuck.”
“Well said.”
Charity Without Confidences
Maggie rubbed her hands together.
“But now what do I do about Claire? I see her at school. Our daughters like each other. I don’t want to be cold.”
“Good…don’t be cold.”
“But I can’t keep doing what I’m doing.”
“Then what might charity look like without confidences?”
Maggie was quiet.
“Charity without confidences,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“I could still be warm at pickup. I could still smile. I could still ask how she is. I could still pray for her. But maybe I don’t need to text late at night or go to coffee every week.”
“Why those two?”
“Because that’s where the conversation gets too intimate. Too emotional. Too much about things that don’t leave me peaceful.”
“What else?”
“I could stop sharing details about my marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t help me love my husband better. Anna does. Claire doesn’t.”
“That is clear.”
“It sounds harsh.”
“Is it harsh to know where someone belongs in your life?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“Are you making Claire an enemy?”
“No.”
“Are you refusing charity?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m admitting that she may be an acquaintance I treat kindly, not a friend I give my heart to.”
Father Sal smiled.
“That sounds like wisdom.”
A Gentle Unstitching
“But what if she notices? What if she asks why I’m not getting coffee as much?”
“What could you say that is honest without making her feel accused?”
Maggie thought.
“I could say, ‘This season has been full, and I need to keep my mornings simpler.’”
“That seems honest.”
“Or, ‘I’m trying to be more present at home, so I’m cutting back on extra things after drop-off.’”
“Also honest.”
“And if she texts late at night, I don’t have to answer right away. I can answer the next day and keep it shorter.”
“What might you say?”
“Maybe, ‘I’m sorry that was such a hard day. I’ll pray for you.’”
“Good.”
“Or maybe I could borrow Anna’s question.”
“How?”
“If Claire starts spiraling about her husband or another mom, I could say, ‘Have you brought that to the Lord?’”
“And what would that do?”
“It might turn the conversation without attacking her.”
“Could it also help Claire?”
“Maybe. Or she might not like it.”
“And if she does not?”
“Then I’ll learn something.”
Father Sal smiled.
“Yes, you will.”
Maggie sighed.
“This feels like unstitching.”
“Unstitching?”
“Yes. Not tearing the whole relationship apart. Just gently loosening threads that were sewn too tightly.”
“That is a good image.”
“It still hurts.”
“Of course. Even unhealthy closeness can give us something we wanted.”
“What did this give me?”
“What do you think?”
“Relief. Attention. The sense that someone knew how hard I was trying.”
“Are those bad desires?”
“No.”
“What do they need?”
“To be brought to the Lord. And maybe entrusted to better friends.”
“Like Anna?”
“Yes. Though Anna won’t let me stay dramatic.”
“Which may be part of the gift.”
Maggie laughed.
“Probably.”
More Able to Love
Father Sal leaned forward.
“Maggie, what question do you want to carry from this?”
She thought for a long time.
“After a conversation, am I more able to love?”
Father Sal nodded.
“That is the question.”
Maggie sat quietly.
“Then I know what to do.”
“What?”
“I’ll be kind to Claire. But I’ll stop giving her the inner room of my heart. Less texting. No late-night conversations. No weekly coffee for now. Warmth at school. Prayer for her. And when the conversation turns toward complaint, I’ll try to turn it toward the Lord.”
“And Anna?”
“I’ll be grateful for her. And maybe I’ll let myself learn from her.”
“What will you learn?”
“That a real friend doesn’t just make me feel understood. She helps me become free.”
Father Sal smiled.
“That sounds like a friendship worth cherishing.”
Maggie nodded.
“And a kind of woman worth becoming.”
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