Crying into Chili

For more tales about chili and hospitality, don’t miss this conversation with Melanie Dale on the podcast!

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I stirred the slow cooker with a large ladle, careful not to spill the thick, red chili. Dipping in a small spoon to sample it, I smiled at the perfect sweet and spicy flavors, then moved on to the second slow cooker, equally full of chili.

Once I confirmed the chili was ready, I glanced at the clock—5:45. I began pulling out the toppings—sour cream, Fritos, and freshly shredded cheddar cheese. I set soup bowls (only recently unpacked) onto the counter and placed spoons into a mason jar. I glanced around the kitchen, still somewhat foreign to me, to make sure everything was prepared before walking into the living room.

“Everything ready?” my husband glanced up from putting a cupcake costume on our six-month-old daughter. I took my matching chef apron and hat costume.

“I think so!” I replied, tying the apron strings around my back. “I hope we have enough food. I’m not sure how many people will come.”

“Who all did you invite?” my husband asked.

I thought back to the previous Sunday, when we visited a small group at a new church for the second time. I was starving for community, missing friends we had left three months before—at the height of my postpartum depression and anxiety. Our move across the state also coincided with my decision to quit my job and stay at home. Overnight, my world shrank to just me and my tiny baby girl in a house that seemed too large and unfamiliar. I longed for our tiny apartment, once filled with messy potlucks, board games, and laughter over inside jokes.

After spending too many days stuck at home by myself and having weekends with no plans, I decided that if I was going to make new friends in this new place, I would have to take the initiative.

“I think I invited everyone in the class!” I grinned at him. I had approached each woman, offering our address and an invitation into our home the Saturday before Halloween for a chili bar and costume party.

Now the day had arrived, and I couldn’t wait to meet who I hoped to be my new best friends. I flipped on the outdoor lights (taking a few tries to find the correct light switch) and waited by the front door.

The clock ticked 6:00, and I peered through the front window blinds.

“Maybe they’re in traffic,” my husband offered. “We don’t know much about traffic delays here.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.

By 6:10, I was too antsy to sit. “I’m going to stir the chili,” I told my husband. “Make sure you stay by the door.”

At 6:15, even my husband was getting nervous. “Are you sure you gave them the right address?”

I shrugged and peered into the thick autumn darkness—praying I would see headlights round the corner onto our suburban street, bringing light into this hard transitional season.

When my watch read 6:30, I wordlessly untied the costume apron and took off my chef’s hat. I nursed my daughter and put her to bed. Then I scooped myself and my husband full bowls of chili—barely making a dent in the slow cooker—and sat on the couch.

Without asking, my husband turned on an episode of The Office, and we ate in silence. I quietly cried, salty tears dripping into my untouched bowl of chili. My stomach churned at the thought of eating my favorite soup alone when I had imagined sharing it with a new friend.

“Will we ever feel at home here?” I sniffled and asked my husband.

“Of course we will,” he pulled me into a reassuring hug. “It’s just going to take time.”

We left the lights on the front porch until 7:00, then snapped them off. I didn’t own Tupperware big enough for the two slow cookers’ worth of uneaten chili. So I shoved the pots straight into the refrigerator, closing the door with an exasperated bang.

I walked into our bedroom, which still felt like a guest room, and crawled into the unfamiliar sheets. My mind replayed what I had done wrong, how I had ended up alone in this new and challenging season of life. I cried myself to sleep.

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Twelve hours later, my eyes still puffy from lack of sleep and lamenting my lack of community, we entered the small group classroom again. I nervously wondered how to interact with my absentee guests. Did they forget about the invitation? Intentionally not come? Did I get our new address wrong?

Before I could spiral into anxiety, several wives approached me and shared their disappointment in missing my party. I hadn’t thought to give my phone number when I invited them, so they had no way to send their regrets—most of which were due to a football game in double overtime and bad traffic.

One woman, whom I had most hoped to kindle a friendship with, approached me and profusely apologized. “How did the party go?” she asked.

I didn’t even think about my answer. The words flew out of my mouth, “It was so much fun!”

“I’m so glad!” she replied. “Let’s find a time to get together soon!”

I inwardly kicked myself. I cannot believe I just lied—in church! I just didn’t want others to think that I was someone no one thought worthy of friendship, that no one wanted my hospitality or fellowship.

People continued chatting about the ball game the day before, about their babies’ Halloween costumes, about a life they all seemed to share together.

I listened quietly, wistfully wondering if I would ever feel at home in a group again. Motherhood had made me crave friendship in a way I never had before—adult conversation felt like oxygen. And I felt like I was drowning without it.

An hour later, I picked up my daughter from the church nursery. She was playing happily on the floor with the other babies. At least someone is making friends, I thought to myself. Another mom arrived at the door shortly after me, and they handed her a baby girl who looked the same age as my daughter.

I took a deep breath and said “hello.”

We began the mom small talk: How old is your baby? She’s so sweet. Is this your first? Do you stay at home?

“Well, it was so nice to meet you, Bethany!” She pulled her diaper bag on her shoulder and turned to leave.

“Wait!” For the second time that morning, my mouth went ahead of my brain. “Do you want to meet up at a park sometime?”

Her smile widened until it reached her eyes. “Absolutely!” she replied, almost as if she were as hungry as I was for friendship.

“Great, let me make sure you have my phone number.” We exchanged numbers and made plans to meet at a nearby walking trail the next week.

I grinned all the way to the car, buckled my daughter in, and climbed into the front seat. Before my husband could pull out of the parking lot, I declared, “I think I just made my first friend.”

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After the Halloween party disaster, I swore off big gatherings. I couldn’t bear the thought of opening my home—and my heart—only to feel overlooked or ignored again. But staying tucked inside my house wasn’t an option either, not for me and not for my family. I had to learn how to practice hospitality in small, everyday ways.

I invited people to what felt manageable: playdates at the park, lunch at a Mexican restaurant after church, pizza and a board game at our kitchen table.

And I said yes to their invitations too: tailgates for teams we didn’t follow, painting nights (despite my abysmal skills), women’s Bible studies where I barely knew anyone.

I had hoped one grand gesture would magically rebuild the kind of community I’d left behind. However, motherhood had changed the way I made friends. Gone were the long evenings, elaborate parties, and spontaneous hangouts of my working years.

They were replaced by messy Tuesday mornings, sipping cold coffee with a new friend while our babies played on my un-mopped floors. Friendships formed as I put myself out there—with all my insecurities and fears. Not every invitation led to a best friend, but I learned I would never know unless I took the first step to say hello.

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Six months after that fateful Halloween, I sent invitations to the same church small group for my daughter’s first birthday. This time, everyone had my phone number, and the RSVPs poured in. We’ll be there! Can’t wait! Want us to bring anything?

My stomach churned as I set out cupcakes and snack trays, hung pink flowers around the room, and again dressed up my daughter for the occasion. Deep down, a part of me was still worried that no one would show—that I would still be isolated and unknown in this new season of motherhood.

Then I looked around the kitchen, where my favorite dish towel now hung from the oven and my daughter’s crafts covered the fridge. I exhaled, thinking of the faces that had become familiar at the park, at church, in our everyday routines. This is home.

The oven clock read 1:58, and I heard a knock. The door that had remained closed six months before now stayed open as families filed into our home. The living room which had seemed too large and empty now overflowed with warm bodies and laughter.

I floated through the party—serving drinks, refilling crackers and cheese, taking picture after picture. I realized I would have missed this if I had let one disastrous party keep me from putting myself out there again—and again and again. But here I was, hosting my daughter’s first birthday with new friends (and a few old ones, too).

Six months earlier, in that quiet kitchen with untouched chili, a moment like this would have felt impossible. But slowly, the emptiness in my heart and home filled—not all at once, but every time I bravely opened the door.

I still couldn’t stomach chili for two years, but I was no longer afraid to set the table.

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Guest essay written by Bethany Broderick. Bethany is a speaker and author of Perfected: Trading Shame and Striving for Wholeness in Christ. Her work has been featured on The Gospel Coalition, Journeywomen, Gospel-Centered Discipleship, and more. She lives in Birmingham, AL, with her husband and three young children. You can connect with her on Instagram and her website

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.

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Hospitality without the hype. Friendship without the filter.

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