My meditation on love always brings me back to the story of Solomon.

Two women stood before the king. Both claimed the same child. There was no witness to settle the matter, no evidence to present, only two competing claims and a living infant between them.

Solomon called for a sword.

The proposal was simple: divide the child and give each woman a portion.

One woman accepted the judgment.

The other could not.

She pleaded with the king to spare the child. Give him away, she said. Let the other woman have him. Let me bear the loss. Only do not harm the boy.

And there, before the sword ever left its sheath, the king found the mother.

I often return to this story because it reveals something profound about the nature of love.

Love does not sharpen itself into a weapon. It does not demand another bleed so that it may feel secure. Rather, it stands in the quiet space between impulse and action, choosing mercy when vengeance beckons, choosing care when self-interest calls louder.

The true mother would rather lose her son than become the cause of his suffering.

That willingness to surrender what is most precious in order to preserve it is what revealed her love.

I have come to believe that love and conscious harm cannot dwell together. Love may grieve. Love may sacrifice. Love may even let go. But it does not willingly wound.

The mother before Solomon understood this instinctively. Faced with the choice between possession and preservation, she chose preservation.

The child lived.

And the king knew his mother.