MAY IS ALWAYS a month to get through. There’s a lot of joy in May: The lilacs bloom, schools are wrapping up for the year, the busting out of spring and warm weather in the Midwest means that everyone has a concert or a festival or a play.

This May, however, our community was struck by the horror of two young men dying in a car accident. The grief is thick and the ramifications are many and heartbreaking.

In the larger world, the Gulf of Mexico is bleeding oil, and our planet is suffering its own tragedy. The assault of oil is blotting out life as it spreads, unstoppable so far, wide and deep.

It’s been a difficult month. I have also been facing major health crises with both my father and my mother-in-law. I was talking to my 11-year-old daughter, Irene, about the month and telling her I still had to choose something to write about for this column.

“You should write about pie,” she says. “You should just not get into any of it and write about pie.”

Did I mention that I love this girl?

Sometimes the pain of living can feel so unbearable. But, especially where we live, there is always some kind of pie around. When our hearts ache and our bodies sway with heaviness, it’s only finding those moments of beauty and grace that allows us to continue. That eventually allows us to find some way through to a steady place.

I believe in rhubarb pie. My kids and I pick my neighbors’ rhubarb. We cut it, then chop it. We use my brother Daniel’s pie crust recipe and roll out two (we always make two pies at a time.) We line the pie pans and eat the scraps, baked and with a dab of jam.

I have a bit of experience with pie. When I used to host my huge family for Thanksgiving, everyone would bring a pie. I think our record was 32 pies. We lived on pie for days. It’s a nice way to live.

The other day, two friends, raucous on my doorstep, brought me a strawberry pie. They know that pie is a source of happiness. Right now, we need every source of comfort that we can offer each other.

Harold, equipped with his purple crayon, knew the secrets of pie as well. If you remember, from the children’s book, Harold went for a walk in the moonlight with his purple crayon. When he got hungry, he drew himself a picnic. “There was nothing but pie. But there were all nine kinds of pie that Harold liked best.”

What a fantasy, for a child, to eat just what pie he likes. What a great idea to think that we could all be comforted by lightness, by the small and everyday moments that make up the majority of our lives. It’s more than a great idea: It’s how we make it through these times.

I’m not suggesting that we eat pie at the expense of a clear and forthright reckoning of what we face. There’s no way around the pain that comes: We go through it or it stays. In this past month, I have seen so many face the pain of loss with an unflinching and courageous openness. I am heartened by this bravery.

But I also know that there are dark moments, debilitating anguish, frustrating feelings of helplessness that can lead to hopelessness. These are the real deal and we can all expect that many of us in the community will be working through these feelings. More so, perhaps, with our young adults who are embarking on their first steps into the world and wanting a piece of solid ground underfoot.

This coming month is a month of great celebration: Our young people are graduating, heading into the next phase of their lives. It is also a moment, with the tension and stress that has been a major part of these past weeks, that we must hold each other closely, that we take the care that we need to remain sound, that we help each other not face these realities alone, but with the comfort of what makes life worth every difficult moment.