The Coffee Mug

Every morning, for as long as I can remember, I’ve started my day with the same mug. It’s white, a little stained from years of use, and chipped near the handle from a move we made over a decade ago.

When life was steady, I never gave it much thought. It was just the thing I reached for when I needed caffeine before work or something warm to hold on cold mornings. But during the months when we fell behind on our mortgage, that mug became something else entirely. It became the one small piece of normal that still made sense.

When Things Started to Slip

It didn’t happen all at once.

First, my husband’s hours were cut. Then the car needed repairs we couldn’t ignore. A hospital bill showed up that our insurance didn’t fully cover. By the time I added it all up, I realized the numbers didn’t stretch far enough anymore.

We tried to make it work—borrowing from savings, paying a little late, juggling what we could—but the hole just kept getting deeper. Every morning, I’d sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and stare at the growing pile of envelopes. Each one felt heavier than the last.

The Letter on the Table

The day the foreclosure notice came, I didn’t even open it right away. I set it next to my coffee mug and just looked at it, unable to move.

It’s strange how quiet a house can feel in moments like that. The hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, the faint sound of traffic outside—it all seemed louder somehow.

For days, I avoided the letter, telling myself I’d open it later. But every morning, when I reached for my mug, it was still there on the table, waiting.

Facing It Together

One morning, my husband came downstairs and found me staring at that same letter. He sat beside me and said, “Let’s stop being scared of it. Let’s figure it out.”

So we did.

We spent that day on the phone, asking questions, reading fine print, trying to understand what could still be done. It wasn’t easy. There were moments of frustration and days when I wanted to give up. But every morning, I’d sit at that same table, pour a cup of coffee, and tell myself, just one more call, one more step.

A Different Kind of Letter

Months later, another envelope arrived. My hands shook as I opened it, the coffee still steaming beside me.

This time, the letter didn’t carry a threat. It said the foreclosure process had been paused. We had options again.

I sat there and cried—not because everything was fixed, but because I finally felt like we could breathe.

What the Mug Means Now

The mug still sits in the cabinet, chipped and imperfect. But I can’t bring myself to replace it.

It reminds me of the mornings I thought I couldn’t do another day but did anyway. It reminds me that survival isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s quiet. It’s sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, choosing to try again.

If you’ve ever had a season where even small things felt overwhelming, you probably understand what I mean. Sometimes, hope doesn’t look like a grand moment—it looks like a chipped coffee mug and a promise to keep going, one morning at a time.