Easter Eggs as a Literary Device

A member of a writers group I belong to brought up an interesting topic yesterday: Easter eggs.

Not the kind a giant rabbit distributes all willy-nilly on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. Nor the chocolate kind you find in the candy aisle of your local grocery mega mart. And definitely not those cheap plastic things you hide candy and trinkets in for your kids (or grandkids) to find in the yard.

The Easter eggs Mary referenced were examples of a literary device authors (and some software developers) use. Often, software developers/designers will embed a private code, clickable image or series of keystrokes that, when engaged by the in-the-know user, yields entry to a secret dimension, level or portal – or unveils a fun visual… For instance, this one.

Mary told about having recently listened to an author who used Easter eggs in the text of his children’s book – references to significant moments in (or facets of) his life that would seem to be minutiae to a casual observer. One such Easter egg was the date he began a particular job (January 7) that showed up in the book as the mathematical equation 1 x 7.

Other examples of Easter eggs in The Milkshake Man escape me because, while Mary was speaking, I confess I was fretting about my sweet kitty who’d gone missing two days earlier. But more on Tab later.

When she asked whether any of the fourteen of us at the meeting had heard of literary Easter eggs, it didn’t surprise me so few folks said they had. Perhaps they were familiar with the concept, just not the particular nomenclature.

I’ve been implanting Easter eggs in my fiction for years, mostly with regard to significant dates for me – dates no one would necessarily notice. In the Sheldon Family Saga, one character’s birthday is my name day; her daughter Amanda’s due date was my mom’s birthday and her actual birth date is my birthday.  I’ve also used snippets of actual conversations. And doubtless I’ve included other such Easter eggs, but my brain’s cloudy right now and I can’t think of any of them.

Why is it cloudy? you may ask. And with what?

It’s cloudy with grief.

This past Thursday, I fastened Tab’s collar a little past noon and let him outside, confident he’d be back in time for his supper around 5. He wasn’t. He didn’t come back at all that night, or the next day… or the following night.

Saturday morning, as my husband returned home after breakfast with a friend, he noticed a yellowy patch amid the brown grass a little way off the driveway. When he got out to investigate, he found Tab’s body. He was still wearing his collar. His Jiobit device (which provided up-to-the-minute information on Tab’s whereabouts for over a year) had what looked like a tooth mark in it. Apparently, the pack of roaming dogs that’s been terrorizing our neighborhood for months surrounded and snapped his neck, killing him (we hope) instantly.

Ironically, my sweet boy’s senseless death came less than three hours after I approved the final eproof of The Purringest Kitty Finds His Home. Tab had indeed found his forever home; unfortunately, his forever proved to be way too short for my liking.

That said, I’ll let you in on a little secret: The newest Easter egg I’m including in my children’s book series is the address of the home where the three main characters (the lady, her husband and The Purringest Kitty) live: 552 Hunter Lane. That’s because 552 is the precise number of days Tab had brightened my life. And Hunter, because – once I learned I was the happy companion of a neutered male and not a female, Tabitha – my sweet kitty boy was a fierce hunter… and Tab Hunter was a popular actor in the 1950s and ’60s.

Have you ever included Easter eggs in your literary work? Where? What are they? Please include links in the comments if appropriate.

Just a reminder: There’s still time to take advantage of early-bird pricing for the Women in Publishing Summit (affiliate link). And, guys, don’t be dissuaded. You can attend, too… the event’s just organized by women and all the presenters are women. But the conference is open to everyone.

About the Author:
Rita M. Reali is a two-time international award-winning author and longtime editor who most enjoys editing memoir, general fiction and romance, along with inspirational writing. She’s self-published five novels: Glimpse of Emerald, Diagnosis: Love, The Unintended Hero, Second Chances and Tender Mercies – the first five in the seven-volume Sheldon Family Saga. The sixth novel in the series, Brothers by Betrayal, is scheduled for an early 2024 release. Her first children’s book, The Purringest Kitty Finds His Home, is due out at the end of this month. As a former disc jockey in her native Connecticut, Rita used to spend her days “talking to people who weren’t there” – a skill which transferred perfectly to her being an author. Now she talks to characters who aren’t there on “a little chunk of heaven in rural Tennessee.” Contact Rita.

“Write What You Know”… Sometimes It’s Downright Painful: A Deeply Personal Reflection

Virtually every beginning writer hears this advice, “Write what you know.” So what does that even mean? If I’m a buckwheat farmer in North Dakota, can I only write about buckwheat farmers in North Dakota? Of course not. After a while, your storylines could get a bit repetitive. But you would be wise to draw from personal experience to enrich and broaden your writing.

To that end, several folks have noted that some of my published fiction contains issues surrounding pregnancy, pregnancy loss or inability to conceive. There’s a good reason for that. Well, it’s not an especially good reason, but it is a logical explanation.

Tomorrow, August 29, 2022, marks a particularly painful personal anniversary. Tomorrow will be twenty-five years since I lost what would turn out to be my only pregnancy. I remember aspects of that horrid day as clearly as if it were yesterday… but thankfully the sense of anguish has dulled over the past quarter century.

I recall being decidedly buoyant and happy prior to that tragic loss. And for many years afterward, my “happy” had eluded me.

What I remember most vividly about the experience that has deeply colored my life – and my writing – are the reactions of those closest to me through the days, weeks and months that followed.

Not long after being wheeled back to my hospital room following early-morning emergency surgery that Friday morning, I remember my godfather Uncle Larry and his girlfriend Francine showed up carrying a gift bag bulging with dozens of varieties of “medicinal chocolate.” I felt certain if I overdosed on it, they would end up having to take me out of the hospital in a wheelbarrow. So I insisted everyone who entered the room (doctors, nurses, visitors, food-service staff and orderlies alike) partake of it. I know you’re not supposed to share prescriptions with others, but I had to make an exception with the medicinal chocolate. Fear not, I kept the Percocet all to myself.

Fair warning: Don’t be surprised when a supply of medicinal chocolate finds its way into an upcoming novel in the Sheldon Family Saga.

I also remember when Uncle Larry (a.k.a. “Uncle Personality”) and Fran arrived, my beloved godfather declared – to the shock and horror of my mom and the dismay of my poor, appalled mother-in-law – “You look like shit!” It was the kind of thing only Uncle Personality could have gotten away with. And for roughly a month, that was the only thing (aside from watching The Princess Bride with my sister) that made me laugh.

One friend, when I called to tell him I’d been pregnant but lost the baby, responded with the only words I needed to hear: “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” He later came to visit me in the hospital (and did not point out my resemblance to excrement). He’s not Catholic, but he’d tracked down a random priest at a street festival in New York City, explained the situation and asked what might be an appropriate gift. He brought a prayer card with a captivating image of the expectant Blessed Mother, which the priest blessed.

A family member, who had a tendency to engage his mouth before consulting his brain, told me it was really no big deal and I could go on to have other children. Well, yes it was a big deal; and no, I couldn’t.

Another family member, within six months afterward (while I was still entrenched in my grieving process), told me to “get over it. You didn’t lose a child. You lost a pregnancy.” Au contraire. Your timeline for grief might be entirely different from mine, so telling me how to survive my loss according to your schedule is not only rude, it’s insensitive – and a thoroughly invalid notion. And as for that relative’s misguided pregnancy vs. child argument? One tends to result in the other.

Yet another well-meaning family member attempted to console me over my ectopic pregnancy (in which the baby implanted in my fallopian tube) with, “Well, it was so early in the pregnancy, it was more like a plant than a baby.” Cue the “wrong answer” buzzer. Thanks so much for playing. Try again, please.

If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, you don’t need me to tell you how badly it sucks. You don’t need my (or anyone else’s) permission to grieve according to your own timeline. You know it sucks and you surely know grieving this particular loss is intensely personal. Often it’s a silent loss, a painful silent suffering, because many early pregnancy losses occur before the mom has even divulged the news of her pregnancy to family and friends.

On this impending anniversary of the worst day of my life, I pray you find comfort. I hope you realize you’re not alone, and you ultimately find a way to turn this experience into something positive – perhaps within the scope of your writing. Writing can be tremendously cathartic and healing. I also hope you find the courage to tell your story, should you choose to do so. And if you want to reach out to someone who’s been there, please email me.

Most of all, though, I wish you peace – and I hope it doesn’t take you upwards of twenty-five years to regain your “happy.”

About the Author:
Rita M. Reali is a two-time international award-winning author and longtime editor who most enjoys editing memoir, general fiction and romance, along with inspirational writing. Her article about surviving the holidays after a pregnancy loss appeared on page one of the S.H.A.R.E. national pregnancy loss newsletter. She’s self-published five novels: Glimpse of Emerald, Diagnosis: Love, The Unintended Hero, Second Chances and Tender Mercies – the first five in the seven-volume Sheldon Family Saga. The sixth novel in the series, Brothers by Betrayal, is scheduled for an early 2024 release. Her first children’s book, The Purringest Kitty Finds His Home, is due out before Christmas. As a former disc jockey in her native Connecticut, Rita used to spend her days “talking to people who weren’t there” – a skill which transferred perfectly to her being an author. Now she talks to characters who aren’t there on “a little chunk of heaven in rural Tennessee.” Contact Rita.

Gone: The Last Vestiges of My Childhood

The unimaginable has occurred.

The last remaining chunk of my childhood disappeared this morning. To be accurate, it happened a few weeks ago – but I was utterly unaware of it until a little before 10 this morning.

I was answering a question during a talk on editing I was giving at the Tennessee Mountain Writers annual conference. Someone had asked about storytelling in children’s fiction, and I’d used the example of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona series – and how she never talked (or, more accurately, wrote) down to her audience; she always met readers on their level, where they were. And I happened to mention, “She’s got a birthday coming up on Monday, I believe.”

And that’s when it happened. One participant said, in a sort of offhand manner, “No, she died recently.”

For a moment, I sat in shock. Then I let out an anguished, “Nooooo!” as the last of my childhood evaporated.

My favorite childhood author, the woman who’d always, always been there – from long before I was born – was suddenly no longer there. She’d died fifteen days earlier, on March 25… a scant few weeks shy of her 105th birthday.

A few folks in the editing session said they’d read about her passing on Facebook, or on other sites. I later found out (after looking it up on Stiffs.com, my favorite snarky/macabre source for news of the dead) she died the day I learned of the death of my best friend since high school… so I was kind of preoccupied and my mind was in a bit of a muddled fog. But this morning’s announcement still scuttled me.

Some of my earliest memories of loving to read came about as a result of Beverly Cleary’s fiction. Some of my happiest childhood memories involve the Ramona books. And it should come as no shock her much-beloved “Ramona the Pest” character reminded my older sister and her friends of me. And honestly, Beezus and her pal Henry Huggins more or less reminded me of my sister and Carl Urbanski, who lived two houses up. Except, Carl didn’t have a mutt like Ribsy; he had two unclipped poodles (one beige, the other chocolate brown) named Loopy and Cocoa.

Ramona Quimby, Age 8… Ramona and Her Mother… Ramona and Her Father… Beezus and Ramona… These were the stories I devoured as a child. And when I finished with them, I started on the Henry and Ribsy books, and eventually moved on to read about the other denizens of Klickitat Street (which, by the way, is the name of an actual street in Portland, Oregon, around the corner from where Cleary grew up). And in the past few years, my guilty pleasure has been re-reading those Ramona books. My friend Linda (a grandmother of 10 or 12 kids), who maintains an enviable array of Cleary’s books, graciously lent me several of them, which I gulped down with excessive delight, eager for more! Having never had children of my own, I had little cause to amass a copious supply of children’s books, so I’ve come to rely on raiding my friends’ stashes.

One day soon, I may venture out to the Art Circle Public Library, or perhaps the Book Cellar, in search of some of Cleary’s other books.

If you’ve got young readers in your life, do them a favor and get them started on Beverly Cleary’s Ramona series right away. They’ll thank you for it. And you might even rekindle your love for Ramona once the kiddos have gone to sleep.

Elegy for a Friend

Admittedly, the title’s a misnomer on two fronts: A) While this piece is, in fact, a lament of sorts, it’s not a poem and it certainly doesn’t rhyme. And 2) Jackie Corning Miller wasn’t just “a friend.” She’d been one of my best friends since the first day of high school 40-plus years ago.

Yes, I realize I said “A)” and “2)” – I’ve done that for years.

My first memory of Jackie was when she tumbled out of her mother’s tangerine sedan that early-September morning forty-three and a half years ago. She looked as scared as the rest of us in her blue gabardine skirt and vest as we milled about the front entrance to Mary Immaculate Academy.

She came over to where I stood engaged in nervous chit-chat with Nellie, a short senior with wire-rimmed glasses, a green uniform skirt and vest, and crisp white blouse (at the end of junior year, students got to choose the color of their senior-year uniforms).

“Hi,” she declared with a perfunctory wave, not even glancing backward as her mother’s vehicle navigated the circular drive and exited the grounds. “I’m Jackie.”

I introduced myself and commented on her mother’s interesting-hued car.

“It’s her favorite color,” she said with an apologetic smirk and a roll of her eyes.

We bonded like anxious ions in an elemental stew.

By sophomore year, Jackie and I had similarly bonded with Eileen (whom I’d gotten to know late in freshman year) and Christopher, this quirky guy who started at MIA that year. Inseparable, our laughter would ring throughout the hallways as we’d migrate from class to class.

Around November, we made it our mission to drive the nuns nuts. I strung a pair of jingle bells into the laces of my shoes; Eileen sewed several into the hem of her skirt; Christopher wore them inside his tie; and Jackie’s dangled from her hoop earrings. Now in addition to laughter, we’d jingle through the corridors. Eventually Sister Felicitas (the school principal) caught me and the jig was up.

It seemed Jackie was almost always the last to know about anything that was going on. Sometimes at lunch, I’d ask her, “Are you going to the dance?” and her inevitable response would be, “What dance?” Even years later, when there was clearly no dance, I’d ask her that at random intervals and she’d never fail to ask, “What dance?” While I was cracking up, she’d make that “you got me again” face and shake her head.

After high school, we might have gone our separate ways, but Jackie was tenacious about maintaining her friendships. When I went away to school near Boston, and she and Christopher would lament about how much they missed me, nothing would keep us apart. One Saturday night, I got a call about 10:00. It was Jackie saying they missed me and were on their way up to see me. “Great!” I said. “Tomorrow we can go into Boston.” “Oh, we’re not staying,” she said. It seemed silly for them to drive all that way just to turn around and go home. “You’re coming with us,” Christopher told me. I should have known better than to argue.

Two hours later, they showed up at my dorm room, grinning. We piled into the car and, after driving for half an hour, realized we were in the middle of Boston because Christopher had zero sense of direction. We finally arrived at Jackie’s parents’ house around four in the morning, about the time her dad was leaving for work. We trooped upstairs and fell asleep, waking up in time to crash my grandfather’s birthday party. Afterward, we went to a movie (we saw “An Officer and a Gentleman”) and out for a lovely steak dinner, then they drove me back to school.

Another time, they drove up for a weekend afternoon. I played flute in our ragtag pep band, and we were performing at a football game when I noticed familiar smiles on the people waving at me from the other end of the bleachers.

After college, we embarked on adventures in Hartford, and danced ’til all hours at the Comet.

We survived boyfriends and heartbreaks and bad decisions and good decisions and dogs and laughter and tears and apartments and houses and husbands and infertility and pregnancy loss and, later, friends’ and parents’ funerals… and through it all, the friendships remained strong, although the miles between us grew. Little by little the time between phone calls expanded. The last time I talked to Jackie was February 8. By then, the nightly dialysis and congestive heart failure had weakened my lively friend to the point where she was sleeping “a lot of the time.” When I called, the phone jangled her from sleep. She called me back later and we talked for 45 minutes. She told me she was on a transplant list for a new kidney… but they’d cautioned it would take about seven years.

I knew better than to tell her I was praying for her. I’d said that a year or so back and she blasted me with, “Cut out that prayer crap! I don’t believe in that @&#*^!” Thereafter, Eileen and I kept our copious daily prayers on Jackie’s behalf to ourselves… but we never stopped praying for her.

A little over a week ago – shortly after 11 a.m. on March 25 – my phone rang. When I answered it and heard sobbing, I knew something was terribly wrong. Eileen was calling to say Jackie had died… a week earlier – and her husband had, just minutes earlier, called to tell her.

Right about now, Jackie’s enjoying a grand reunion with Christopher. According to her obituary, there won’t be any calling hours, but they’ll have a celebration of life… at some point. Being 900 miles away, I probably can’t be there; but that’s okay. She’ll remain forever in my heart, that sweet girl with the infectious laugh and the smile that could light up a galaxy. Jackie was always her own celebration of life.

Has a Fictional Character Ever Broken Your Heart?

Last August, I was out mowing the lawn, tooling around on my little John Deere lawn tractor and grooving along with some of my favorite tunes, alphabetically arranged (hey, it’s how my mp3 player sorted them). I’d just gotten into the Cs when the Barenaked Ladies’ “Call and Answer” came on.

As the singer’s plaintive vocals began, I found myself overhearing a snippet of conversation between two of the characters who live in my head. And it wasn’t pleasant. Apparently, the couple who’d just gotten married in my (at the time) soon-to-be-released third novel, The Unintended Hero, had experienced serious marital difficulties, and were already on the other side of their breakup.

That can’t be right, I thought. They’re so good together!

Little by little, other priorities filled my head and Marc and Marie’s heart-wrenching breakup fled my memory banks.

But in the past few days, as I’ve worked more on the sixth book in the series – I tend not to write in order – what’s unfolding is exactly what I’d dreaded so many months ago: It seems the S.S. Lindemeyr has run aground. Marc and Marie are in serious marital trouble; they’ll end up separated… perhaps even divorced.

And I’m heartbroken.

Theirs is a love story that was years in the making. Sweet, shy Marc had been enamored with his best friend’s successful, confident, worldly sister since the night they met at a radio-station function in December of 1982. Nearly a decade passed before Marc found the courage to ask Marie out. After a brief courtship, marriage and babies followed. All seemed rosy… but things aren’t always how they seem, and you never know what curve balls life will throw your way.

The other day, I told my husband, “Marc and Marie are having problems.” Ordinarily he’d have said, “Who?” But I’ve been reading The Unintended Hero aloud to him, so he knew enough to reply, “That’s too bad,” as if he actually meant it.

Just the night before, we’d gotten to where Marc tells Gary (his best friend/co-worker), “Marrying that sister of yours was – no lie – the best thing I’ve ever done.” I told myself aloud, “I’ve got to make sure he remembers that.”

A non-writer friend offered a “simple” solution: Just write it differently, so they don’t break up. Gee, why didn’t I think of that? I wish it were that easy. These headstrong characters have been with me for decades, so I know what they’re capable of. And what Marc and Marie seem to be capable of is unfathomable to me.

This morning I cried as I wrote the scene where Marc returns Gary’s grandfather’s wedding ring to Gary (he said he doesn’t feel he can, in good conscience, keep it). I only hope Marc and Marie can figure out some way to repair their faltering marriage before it’s too late.

What are your thoughts? Is it ever “too late” for characters to turn things around? What about in real life? Is a relationship ever beyond salvaging?

A Mother’s Day Reflection

I didn’t want today to get away without wishing you and yours a Happy Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day observances have long been bittersweet for me because in late summer of 1997, I suffered an ectopic pregnancy and lost my itty bitty baby – and, as it turns out, my only chance at motherhood. Then, in 2015, Mom passed away from Alzheimer’s. So, Mother’s Day that year was kind of a double whammy for me. What made it bearable, however, was the thought that Mom was getting to spend her first Mother’s Day with her granddaughter.

Today I was really missing Mom. This was my fourth Mother’s Day without her… and it was the most difficult one so far. I woke up missing her… and then all morning I was beset by little things that triggered memories.

Memories are strange things. They crop up at odd moments – and for the most unusual reasons.

When a butterfly crossed our path this afternoon, it reminded me of the time Mom and I were heading home after going out to dinner one Thursday night (because Dad worked late on Thursdays and we decided we didn’t want whatever it was that was in the fridge). We noticed a hot-air balloon with a great big butterfly on it flying low overhead… so we decided to follow it. It eventually landed on the golf course. And oddly enough, it had been Mom’s idea to chase it.

Songs are big memory triggers.

My local Kroger occasionally plays Vaughn Monroe’s “Ballerina”; Mom and I both loved that song. And I always thought he had the most magnificent voice! Go on, give it a listen and judge for yourself.

Or I’ll hear one of the songs she would call and ask me to play when she’d listen to me on the air at work (like “Life in a Northern Town” from the Dream Academy; Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You”; “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra; “Lotta Love” from Nicolette Larson… or even “Penny Lane” by the Beatles). Those are the songs that generally bring a smile.

Then there are the songs attached to  memories of Mom that make me laugh out loud. One morning in 1974, over breakfast, Steve Miller’s “The Joker” came on the radio. At the part where he sings, “I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker,” my sister Áve and I, being of tender age and having no frame of reference for that particular term, asked, “Mom? What’s a midnight toker?” Not surprisingly, she had no earthly idea. And we had no clue until years later how truly hilarious it was that we’d asked her that!

Another time, in the mid ’80s, Áve and I were listening to WFCS, the radio station at nearby Central Connecticut State University. “Never Say Never” from Romeo Void was blaring from the little radio on the kitchen counter. Mom happened to wander in just when the chorus came on and we were singing along, “I might like you better if we slept together…” She made her infamous “Mom lips” (a dead giveaway of her utter displeasure) and muttered, “Oh, that’s just nice!” and left the room. I won’t even tell you what she said when she heard the Rolling Stones’ “She’s So Cold.”

But music isn’t the only memory trigger.

Mom was big into words. She was a terrific writer – and a fun storyteller. And she used to write some of the best letters I’ve ever received. She used to write me letters all the time while I was away at college.

This morning, on our way to church, something triggered a memory about those letters. She’d write two or three times a week, usually during her lunch break, typed on the clunky old electric typewriter at her desk in her office at the City of New Britain’s City Improvement Commission. When she and Dad came back from a 25th-anniversary trip to Italy, she wrote extensively about that. But mostly, she’d tell me what was going on at home or at work, or she’d regale me with the latest antics of Rehab – a cranky old stray she and her coworkers adopted. He wasn’t the nicest cat (a far cry from our dear Scruffy at home), and he had a penchant for sleeping in open file cabinets and getting black fur all over the files, but Rehab did manage to keep most of the rodents at bay in that drafty old City Hall building.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but those letters were as much for her benefit as mine. I was the last of her brood to leave the nest and she was probably really missing having someone there when she got home after work… not that she missed the loud music and the phone being tied up all the time. But it gave her a connection to her youngest kid. And it was nice to open up my mailbox in the student-center mailroom to find a small envelope with my name and address neatly typed and the New Britain postmark and return address.

Yep, memories surely are tricky things. Some are wonderful; others not so much. They sneak up on you at the most unexpected times and, if you’re not careful, will burn a hole in your heart. If you’re lucky, though, they’ll warm a small cozy place in there and leave you with a smile.

What are some of your favorite Mom memories? And what triggers those memories?

Reflections on Two Years Since Mom’s Death

Tomorrow will be two years since Mom died. She’d languished in the nasty clutches of Alzheimer’s disease for a little more than eleven years and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit her eventual passing was as much a relief as it was wrenching.

Through the ensuing weeks, I was fortunate to have many family members, friends and, yes, even clients, around to support me. My husband and I relocated from Connecticut to Tennessee a year and a half earlier, so I wasn’t even nearby when she passed away… and it took us two days of driving to get back there. Along the way, I kept in touch with family and friends via email and text. I also found myself borne up on the prayers and support of dozens of Facebook friends. Aside from a few moments that stand out in my memory, much of our time there is a blur.

At the wake, we saw streams of people – many of whose faces I recognized but whose names I don’t recall. It was a steady flow of friends, neighbors, coworkers, clients, Dad’s coworkers, a state Senator, the daughter of one of my brother’s colleagues (from a job twenty years earlier), my husband’s former business partner, his office manager, our former pastor, our favorite waiter from our favorite Chinese restaurant (yes, really!)… UNICO members, my parents’ longtime friends and even their longtime friends’ grown children.

Afterward, Cousin Maria invited everyone back to her house, where she’d amassed a feast that could have fed 50 people. Socializing was the last thing I wanted to do, but I went because it afforded me a way to reconnect with family after being so long away. What a blessing that was! It was a little like being in a beehive – a constant buzz of activity – surrounded by people who’d known and loved me my entire life. And there’s something oddly comforting about being amid people who all have the same nose. Then there was the food. Oh, the food! Pasta, meatballs, chicken… every manner of Italian food, on platters piled teeteringly high with assorted deliciousness. Did I mention that Maria must have, in a former lifetime, been an Army cook?

If you asked Maria why she did that, she’d probably say, “We’re Italian. We feed people.” But it was more than that – what she did was a tremendous ministry to our family. She reached out and took a tangible step to help when we were immobilized by grief.

If you’re on the periphery of a loved one’s grieving process, there are concrete ways to help. There’s always a plethora of hugs and the obligatory “I’m so sorry” murmurings. And everyone says, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Trouble is,  grieving folks are so numb at this point, they can barely think of what they might need, let alone conceive of articulating it – or reaching out to ask someone to help.

Fortunately, Jodi Whitsitt (a recently widowed mother of three) has provided a baker’s dozen of specific, real-world ways to help a grief-stricken loved one.

What are some of the ways you reach out to the newly bereaved in your life? Please share in the Comments section below.