It was hard to believe what I was hearing. My friend, who was basically the “Catholic Barbie” of the famous Barbie and Ken dolls, was telling me she no longer liked her husband. There was no specific reason, really. She just couldn’t stand him. She could barely tolerate being in the same room with him, let alone the same bed. I listened wide-eyed and concerned. Almost as if she could read my mind, she blurted out, “I’m not thinking about divorce. I just wish that I liked the guy!”
Later that day, having coffee with my mum, I confided in her about the conversation. I was sure she would be shocked, as I was, and I expected that she would do what she always did when alerted to one of my friend’s struggles: provide the perfect insight and assure me of her prayers for the situation. Instead, she simply shrugged. “Ahhh, that’s just a season of hate. They happen to all of us.”
I wasn’t married at the time, and I was perplexed by my mother’s statement. Looking at this veteran of a 35-year happy marriage, I just couldn’t believe she’d coin such a phrase — “a season of hate” — and less, that she’d claim it as something she’d experienced. I pictured my ever-doting father and found it beyond comprehension that my mum could have ever had a season of hating him.
By Maria Garabis Davis, a former youth minister and now a practising attorney. Read more at Aleteia.