August 26, 2026

Sorrow’s Kitchen, Rainbow’s Peak

“I have been in Sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and a sword in my hands.”
— Zora Neale Hurston

Grieving parents often live in Sorrow’s kitchen for longer than anyone expects. The pots of sorrow hold memories, regrets, and unbearable silence. Many parents return to that kitchen daily. Every scent, every sound, can stir aching reminders. The floor of that kitchen becomes familiar. The corners feel like home. Pain lingers in the air like steam that never clears. Many parents come to believe they will never leave that room. But grief shifts in strange ways. Eventually, the kitchen becomes a place of transformation.

Sorrow does not erase beauty. Sorrow stretches the heart until it can hold more than joy alone. Grieving parents know that love and pain often arrive together. Every loss deepens our capacity to witness someone else’s journey. The mountain Hurston describes is not one of escape. The mountain rises from the very grief we carry. Grieving parents climb slowly, often on hands and knees. The climb takes longer than anyone tells us. But one day, we look up and realize we’ve gained a higher view. The same grief that once buried us has also built our strength.

Every grieving parent holds both a harp and a sword. The harp plays the music of memory and love. The sword stands guard over what matters most. Grief sharpens both. Joy does return—but joy returns changed. Joy comes dressed in awareness, clothed in tenderness, and filled with gratitude for each breath. When we meet others in their sorrow, we do so as survivors of our own kitchen. We do so as climbers who still carry rainbows in the rain.

Thought for today: Honor both the sorrow and the strength. The grief that broke you also built the view you now hold.