By Jean P. Kelly

AS ADVISED BY the head of human resources, the phone number of the security department was cued on my phone in the event my employee again refused to leave my office during a performance meeting. She was once a close friend, but now as her supervisor, I needed armor for every encounter. On my desk, hidden in a folder, were a prepared and practiced script along with reminders of tactics. Don’t defend yourself; ask neutral questions; don’t get emotional even if she does; don’t accept unsupported claims meant to confuse you; keep focused on the agenda rather than reacting to petty grievances dredged from the past; breathe. Many years’ experience as a victim of narcissistic manipulation, usually leveraged to best effect by close family and friends, served me well as necessary fortification.

I learned the hard way how to confront enemies more formidable than those of Queen Esther in the Bible when she prayed “O God, whose power is over all, hear the voice of those in despair. Save us from the power of the wicked, and deliver me from my fear.” At least in mortal battles such as hers, tactics and wounds are more likely physical, overt and predictable than those of psychological warfare.

Just moments before the clock ticked to the time of the appointment, I took a deep breath and stood as Superwoman, arms akimbo and feet solidly planted on the carpet behind my desk: I once read this helped build confidence. I was prepared for battle, but like Esther, I knew only God could give me the words to turn the heart of this rival. I imagined myself alongside the Queen and I prayed.

I could not control another person’s behavior, only my own. From there it was just a short leap to an even bigger revelation: I could not turn the heart of this enemy at all. Only God’s grace was capable of a feat so impressive, especially when my former friend likely suffered a brokenness that had little if anything to do with me. Only God, not me, could search my rival’s heart and relieve her pain, and then, only if she asked Him to do so. With my eyes and chin raised to the heavens, I whispered the only persuasive words that came to me in that moment: “I forgive you by detaching from your unhappiness.”

I first encountered the concept of boundaries as a form of forgiveness in the writings of Anthony DeMello, especially a transcript of his religious retreats titled Awareness. At first his definition of “loving detachment” seemed an oxymoron, not only uncaring but harsh. As he writes “People can be very hard on others and still be loving.” I wondered, if I detached from both the good and the bad in my most important relationships, wouldn’t I be left hopelessly alone? Wouldn’t keeping boundaries be the same as putting up walls?

Yes, DeMello wrote, noting how Christ went to the mountain, to pray alone. “What does it mean to love? It means to see a person, a situation, a thing as it really is, not as you imagine it to be. And to give it the response it deserves.” That requires detachment.

The only attachment we need is to God, he wrote, and not until we achieve detachment in human relationships will we have available mental, emotional, and spiritual capacity to love and trust Him completely. As Esther acknowledged in her prayer before she requested deliverance from her enemy “My Lord, You alone are our king.”

Though DeMello was a Jesuit priest, his advice seemed to contradict what I thought my faith taught: forgiveness as forbearance, even if that meant psychological, emotional and spiritual manipulation and pain. It was not until I suffered abusive patterns within several toxic relationships that I realized letting go was the best strategy. Detachment promised a type of freedom, from feeling I had to fix others, from taking on the misery of others as my own. Expecting the worst from toxic friends and family somehow made it easier to see that I was, in fact, entitled nothing from them. My mantra became “expect nothing, judge nothing, pray for them unceasingly.”

The meeting with my one-time-friend-turned-problem-employee went as expected: every parry deflected by my neutrality was followed by new thrusts of obfuscation, blame and increasingly circular verbal gymnastics. Some of her assaults did land and wound, but my armor held strong until we ended the discussion in a draw. She willingly left my office.

Just as Queen Esther’s prayer was answered, so was mine: God delivered me from my fear. I detached. I forgave.

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