All the Days of My Life: Friendship and Love Beyond the Veil

On what is—what would have been if Jon were here—our 27th wedding anniversary, today the 27th, I find myself waking up not beside my beloved, Jon, but waking up to the aching reality that we are now separated by death. It is a separation that feels like the tearing of the veil in the temple, a rupture that changed everything—leaving me here with only part of myself, searching for the tattered and torn pieces of a life we built together.

I cling to the promises we made before God and His Church, words that carried us through every season of our life together:

“I, Jon, take you, Heather, to be my wife….I, Heather, take you, Jon, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

All the days of my life…even beyond the veil.

When we exchanged those vows, I never imagined the weight they would bear in our final years and days together on this side of heaven. I never imagined growing old together would only be a few months beyond 25 years. Through the trials of Jon’s illness and the tender moments of caregiving, the sacrament of marriage became a living testament to the truth that love grows stronger when tested. Two became one, as God intended, and that bond, forged in faith and fidelity, revealed the depth of what it means to love and honor “all the days of my life.”

The first reading in our wedding mass meant so much when we chose it. But I understand it more now than when I heard it read on our wedding day twenty-seven years ago today. The words from Genesis 2:18-24: “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a suitable partner for him…so the Lord God formed out of the ground various wild animals and various birds of the air, and he brought them to the man to see what he would call them; whatever the man called each of them would be its name…The Lord God then built up into a woman the rib that he had taken from the man. When he brought her to the man, the man said: ‘This one, at last, is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; This one shall be called ‘woman,’ for out of ‘her man’ this one has been taken. That is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.’”

“Two of them become one.”

Through the Sacrament of Marriage we became one.

This anniversary is not one of celebration but of honoring and remembering. Honoring the life we built together, the vows we lived, and the love that remains. It is also a reminder that the veil between heaven and earth is thin, and though I ache for Jon’s presence, I know he is not lost to me forever. I know he is close—I find him in the faces and hearts of our children, in the memories we hold dear, and most profoundly in the Eucharist, where the body of Christ bridges the gap between heaven and earth.

On the eve of the anniversary, before cancer and a stroke entered our lives, Jon and I stood in front of a large nativity at St. John the Evangelist Church, feeling a profound sense of unity and peace remembering the moment we stood at the Nativity two days after Christmas as we prayed for peace and joy, hope and life in our new marriage. Now etched in my heart, that moment in 2019 feels like a gift from the patron saint of authors, loyalty, friendship, and love. It was as if St. John told us to hold fast to each other and God, no matter what lay ahead.

St. John shows us what it means to be a friend in the truest sense. His friendship with Jesus revealed that truly loving another means standing by them—even in their pain—and carrying their burdens as their own.

heather Lebano

After Jon’s earthly life ended, I often turned to St. John the Evangelist, also known as the Beloved, especially in times of suffering and loss. It’s why I recently wrote these words (and a few others) in a column for Walking With Saints in the December issue of The Local Fold magazine: “As ‘the beloved disciple’ who rested his head on Jesus’ heart at the Last Supper and remained by His side through His passion, St. John shows us what it means to be a friend in the truest sense. His friendship with Jesus revealed that truly loving another means standing by them—even in their pain—and carrying their burdens as their own. This lesson of steadfast friendship, deeply intertwined with my marriage, has been a guiding light as I navigate life as a widow.”

Death, however, does not undo that sacred union (see side note below), It does not erase the promises spoken or the love shared. Instead, it transforms them, stretching them into eternity. The tearing of the veil at Christ’s crucifixion resonates deeply with this reality. Just as that act removed the barrier between humanity and God, so too does the separation of death invite me into a deeper encounter with God’s presence—a presence made tangible in my grief, my hope, and my love for Jon.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

Our wedding anniversary falls on the Feast of St. John the Evangelist, the patron saint of loyalty, friendship, and love. It feels like a sacred gift. Jon and I treasured the friendship we fostered not only before we dated but also as we built our lives in Holy Matrimony. That’s why I shared a reflection about this Saint and the memory of the Nativity at St John the Evangelist Church in 2019 or the first Walkin With Saints column submission for The Local Fold.

St John’s feast day reminds me of the cornerstone of our marriage: a bond rooted in faith, friendship, and a love that endures even beyond the veil. Standing before the nativity at St. John’s Church on the eve of one of our anniversaries, long before illness—brain cancer, stroke complications, and caregiving—entered our lives, Jon and I felt a grace-filled invitation to cherish each other and to hold fast to the promises we made. There was grace and a promise I would not be alone as I walked alongside Jon in his illness and through this new life without my husband. Today, as I honor this day, I hold that same grace close, trusting in the love that continues to unite us.

This anniversary is not just a remembrance of what was but a celebration of what still is—our shared love, which points toward the hope of a heavenly reunion. It is both an acknowledgment of my grief and a testament to the enduring power of love. The love Jon and I shared is not lost; it is transformed, sustained by God’s grace and the promise of eternal life. It bears all things, believes, hopes, and endures all things. Love never fails.

Today, I take comfort in that memory, in the Saint who shares this anniversary, and in the truth that Jon and I remain united in the love of Christ. Our vows lived and fulfilled, continue to anchor me, reminding me that love is eternal.

Happy Anniversary, my beloved Jon.

Though we are separated by the veil, I hold tight to the hope that we will meet again in the presence of the One who made us one. Until then, I will love you all the days of my life, just as we promised at the foot of the cross. Twenty months too long, one day closer.

A side note worth mentioning; In the Catholic faith, marriage is a sacred bond meant to be lifelong, and the love shared between a husband and wife reflects God’s enduring love. While death may separate us physically, it doesn’t undo or erase the promises we made to each other. Instead, it transforms that love, stretching it into eternity beyond what we can fully understand in this life.

The tearing of the veil at Christ’s crucifixion reminds us that death does not create a barrier between us and God. Instead, it invites us into a more profound encounter with His presence—one that can be felt in our grief, our hope, and the love that continues to live on, even in the absence of our loved ones.

Though the marriage bond is dissolved at death, the love shared is not lost; in fact, it may even be strengthened, purified through the refiner’s fire of suffering. Like gold tested by flames, this love is made more enduring, woven into the fabric of eternity, where all things will be made new. And while grief may seem overwhelming, I cling to the truth that it doesn’t diminish the beauty of that love. It deepens it as we trust in the promise that we will be reunited in God’s time and our love will be perfected.

As I honor this day and the vows that continue to anchor me, I am reminded of the eternal nature of love—the love that God gives us, the love we share with one another, and the love that calls us toward heaven. Though grief lingers, so does hope, and in that hope, I find strength to keep going.

To you, dear reader, may the enduring promises in your life, whether spoken at an altar, shared in a quiet moment, or held in your heart, remind you of the gift of love.

May you, too, find comfort in the presence of the saints, the promises of Christ, and the hope of reunion with those you hold dear and miss most.

Let us hold fast to love that never fails, leaning into its power to sustain us through all the days of our lives—and beyond.