The Blue Heron: To Be Seen, Known, and Loved

Sometimes, it’s the smallest gestures that hold the most meaning—when someone truly notices your pain and responds with care and love, it becomes a balm for the soul. The detail of a Blue Heron can do/be that for me.

To be seen. To be known. To be loved.

I’ve had my share of painful and confusing moments, both during Jon’s illness and after his passing. People have said and done things in the name of support that only deepened my wounds. There’s an expectation that, with time, life should return to “normal”—as if this loss is something I could walk away from. But how could I? How could life ever return to what it was? The lessons I’ve learned—about the human condition, about compassion, and about God’s mercy—have left me forever changed like Jon’s death has.

As time stretches further from the last breath Jon took, it feels as if the world forgets. There’s a subtle pressure to carry on, as if nothing happened. But from the moment of his diagnosis, everything shifted for us. Life took on a new shape, one molded by grief, perseverance, and trust in God’s plan.

Most days, I can’t make sense of it. All I can do is look to the brokenness of our world and a choice made in a garden long ago, an apple, and a snake and say: Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”-Luke 23:34

And forgive me, Father, for the times I have hurt others in my grief. Navigating such unimaginable loss is messy, and I pray others offer me the grace I’ve tried to extend to them.

I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. The depth of this loss, the severing that happens when two, who were joined in marriage and became one flesh, are torn apart by death—it’s indescribable. How can it not feel like a part of me has been cut away?

Even so, in the midst of the hurt—the abandonment, false narratives, insensitive comments, the unintentional wounds—I’ve seen how God swoops in. He is generous in His ways. With His grace, I am learning to accept these hard parts of the story of loss. He fills the cracks with the most beautiful gestures of love and kindness —like this act of kindness I wrote about from Jon’s birthday—from people, who don’t turn away from the fire of grief but instead draw closer, to hold space for grief, offer small acts of presence and love that carry more meaning than they could know.

Yesterday, I received a card in the mail. It included a small bag of sand, lovingly scooped from a beach in South Carolina on Jon’s birthday, along with a photograph of a Blue Heron standing on one leg. The message inside was tender and full of love for my children and me. Oh, the details.

This gesture was more than just thoughtful—it was a whisper from heaven, a reminder of the connection we’ve felt with Jon through the beach and more importantly the Blue Heron. Since Jon’s second surgery and stroke, the Heron has become a symbol of God’s presence, a messenger of sorts, showing up when we needed comfort the most while he was battling cancer and learning to regain himself after a stroke and as we walked the path of losing him.

The First Blue Heron

The night before Jon’s second surgery in September 2021—a surgery that came about unexpectedly and with urgency—I felt a strong calling to go for a walk with him. It was almost a desperation, a need to have one more moment together. We walked a familiar path, one we had traveled many times before, with the kids in strollers or on bikes, or our dogs in tow.

Jon, always the determined worker, had been feverishly trying to finish tiling our hall bathroom. Despite the tumor growing inside him, he chose that summer to focus on home projects, unaware that the tumor was growing faster than anyone expected. We didn’t know how quickly things would change or how much time we had left.

During that walk, we saw a Blue Heron. It stood so close to us, and oddly, no one else on the path seemed to notice it. It was as if the bird was there just for Jon and me. The Heron walked toward us, stopping to stand on one leg—patient, calm, and still.

We crossed paths with a Blue Heron. I pondered and prayed why this creature, why here and now. We stopped and gazed in awe as it stood on its one leg.
They are creatures known for patience in waiting and strength while standing on one leg. I find it interesting that this is the beautiful creature of all of God’s creation that we encountered that day. I wonder if this bird was standing on our path as a messenger from God for Jon and me. Oh, the metaphors the Blue Heron represents.
Seeing truth, beauty, and good in these moments can always point us back to God, the creator of all things—it’s the evangelical beauty of God.

h. Lebano, October and a Messenger, Oct 2021

The next day, the surgery was moved up, and our lives were never the same. Jon would never walk, talk, or move his right arm the same way again. Our walks continued, but they were slower. I pushed him in a wheelchair as we navigated the slow recovery process. Eventually, Jon regained the ability to walk short distances, and we cherished those moments—taking in sunsets together, holding onto the time we had left.

The Blue Heron Appears Again

But the Blue Heron? It wasn’t a one-time encounter.

The very first day I pulled into the rehab hospital where Jon stayed, one appeared atop the building next to the hospital as if to say, I am watching out for Jon and you as you walk this next leg of your journey.

Later after a long series of therapy appointments and some great healing steps were made in Jon’s first outpatient rehab visits, a Blue Heron flew across our backyard while Jon rested on the deck. Jon said it felt like a message that he was on the right path to keep going. And it didn’t stop there. The Heron showed up in so many unexpected places, as if God was sending little reminders that we were not alone.

On drives to treatments and therapy appointments, a Blue Heron would fly by or land nearby. In artwork on vacation and outside chemo treatment rooms, we’d spot one. Friends, knowing our connection, would send cards and gifts featuring Herons, as if they understood the weight of its meaning after they read or heard our story.

One particularly meaningful moment occurred this past December when my two oldest were driving to a party for my 18 year old. We had chosen a local venue that just opened so aptly named “The Blue Heron“ to celebrate this milestone birthday, and on the way, a Blue Heron flew right in front of their car. It was the first birthday for any of us without Jon, like a reminder that he was with us. The owner of the Blue Heron showed generosity and compassion beyond our wildest expectations in a very tender way when she learned of the connection and knew it was very heavy to host a party at home in the wake of such loss. We will never forget her generosity and hospitality.

I also can’t forget about the time early in the year as I was working through some alarming medical challenges the many times Blue Herons were showing up to ease my mind. I wrote these words in a reflection:

“These moments of consolation are not by luck. The details are too intricate not to be designed by the Creator and the Great Author.The Blue Heron has landed in our lives many times these last several months. The details of this story of consolation this past weekend and yesterday, when I needed a hug and reassurance from above, still take my breath away.”

H. Lebano, Little Stories—A Motorcycle, Blue Herons, Triumph, Splendor and the 28th,

Another time, during a walk on the beach this past summer, a flock of Blue Herons flew over us as we spoke about Jon. It was the same beach we had walked with him two years before when a flock of six herons flew over us. And just this summer, while sitting poolside with friends, a Blue Heron flew very low above us as we talked about Jon and our kids. The owner of the house mentioned that, in over 25 years, he had never seen a Blue Heron in his backyard. The next morning, his wife, my friend, texted me very early to tell me a Blue Heron was standing on a float in the pool, as if to say, “Thanks for loving my wife and kids.” So many poignant reminders Jon is with us.

A Constant Reminder

The Blue Heron has become more than just a bird to us. It’s a symbol of presence, love, and the assurance that Jon is still with us—watching, guiding, and reminding us that we are not alone in this journey and of a good and Faithful Father’s holding us under his wing of protection. He hears our prayers and knows our hearts.

As we drove to our first day of co-op this year, a Heron perched on a guardrail, turned its neck to look at us to be sure we saw it as we passed. It felt like Jon was right there, cheering us on as we timidly stepped into this new chapter. From that moment on, there were many signals of grace to let us know this is where we are meant to be.

And then, there was Abbey Fest last weekend—a moment meant just for me. As I sat alone, listening to Seph Schlueter sing “Counting My Blessings,” watching the sky, a Blue Heron sailed overhead, looping around as if to ensure I saw it. Jon’s presence felt so close, even though I longed for him to be there with me in the flesh.

Time and time again, the Blue Heron has appeared at just the right moment—on difficult days, on birthdays, on quiet afternoons when I need a reminder that Jon is still near or as the kids drove to pick up last minute items before we trekked out to Ohio to start college.

One of the most beautiful memories was when I sat on my deck on Jon’s birthday, it was a particularly hard few days for the kids and me knowing the first birthday without him here in the flesh was near. I looked over and saw a Blue Heron standing tall on the chimney of my neighbor’s house. I am not sure Blue Herons are known to land on structures like that. But it stood there a long time and I ran in the house to get my phone to take a photo. Once I did, it took flight and sailed down to our yard and flew past me. It was tearful and breathtaking. This Blue Heron remains a love tap from above from Jon.

These moments have become whispers of love from above. Signs that God is with us, and that Jon’s spirit remains close, guiding us through each new chapter.

“But you, O Lord, are always my shield from danger; you give me victory and restore my courage.”

Psalm 3:3

God’s shield comes in many forms—in gestures of kindness, in the love of friends, and in the sight of a Blue Heron. Through these, He restores my courage, and for that, I am deeply grateful.

May you see the details in the consolations that surround you—the quiet ways God shows you that you are seen, known, and loved. Whether through the kindness of a friend, a simple gesture, or a familiar presence—a Blue Heron. May you find His peace and gentle reassurance in those small, tender moments.

Also to those of you—there were a few—who sent me this video/song…Thank you, I won’t forget it. It is really fitting to our story.

And by the way, one final God Wink. The length of the song/video is 4:28. Never ever doubt God is in the details.