Every Thanksgiving, I set out a dish with cranberry sauce the way my grandmother used to make it—right from the can, ridges in tact. It reminds me of her and helped us find joy in the midst of grief during one particular Thanksgiving. Of course, I like to include some homemade cranberry sauce, too, like this version with pomegranate and orange.

My husband took a day off of work this week. The morning began as normal, but by 8 a.m. it spiraled into kids crying and me taking a timeout behind my locked door. I needed help, space, an extra set of hands, and someone with the dose of patience I lacked.

As I watched him take the kids to the park, make their lunch, and put our two-year-old down for a nap, I felt guilty that I didn’t contribute and guilty that he carried the load of two parents. Rather than being grateful for my husband and his flexible job, I resented needing the help.

If you’re a writer, maybe you bristle at the thought and feel like the “p-word” is as vulgar as any four-letter-word out there. I’ve felt that way, too. (Just so you know up front, this post won’t include practical advice on how to grow your platform. Kind of the opposite, actually.) The thought of “having to grow my platform” in order to ever write a book is daunting and frustrating. Can’t I just write a book about Jesus and pray someone will buy it?

I balance the aluminum tray on one hand and hold a paper grocery bag in the other. As I set my goods on the steps to knock on the door, I rehearse what to say. They’re good friends of mine, people I feel comfortable with and love deeply. But I want to be careful I don’t make their loss hurt more. I walk into the kitchen and the screen door closes behind me. Like a nervous reflex, I blurt out in a bubbly, high-pitched voice, “How’s it going?!” The perkiness sounds abrasive. 

In this essay at Coffee + Crumbs, I share my story about grieving the loss of my mom and finding unexpected joy.

Sitting in my bed, I attempt to hide and drown out the noise downstairs with the rhythmic hum of my breast pump. I can still hear the baby crying and my toddler son whining. His twin sister yells at the top of her lungs for no reason, except maybe to keep up with the decibel level of everyone else. I’ve been here longer than necessary, partly because pumping takes extra time. I worry my supply is dropping, maybe due to diet changes or stress or who knows what. My mind conjures up a thousand possibilities, all of which I feel the urgent need to research.

It’s a Wednesday night. We’re on the homestretch after a day filled with toddler laughs and toys strewn on the floor, naptime snuggles and pleas to share. I pull out the giant soup pot I inherited from my mom. That pot has seen gallons of homemade spaghetti sauce, wild rice soup, and our perpetual favorite, Autumn Chowder. I place it on the stove, turn on the heat, and start frying chopped bacon and sauteing an onion. The potatoes, carrots, and corn get dumped in next, followed by broth, milk, and loads of cheese. It’s hearty, rich, and full of the flavors of fall—quintessential comfort food.