What the Lone Chair Teaches Me Now

A year ago, I shared this reflection not knowing how much I would continue to unpack about grief, letting go, and holding on. Now, one year and nine months since Jon’s passing, the chair and its memories still whisper lessons to me in ways I couldn’t have imagined then. Little did I know how much a lone chair would teach me. 

The Reflection from Last Year

I have spent the last nine months remembering and unpacking many memories and things about the life I built with Jon.

I am finding my way and a secure footing, but I keep getting up each day to start again as I cling to the memories surrounding me.

This photo (below) from 1/28/22 holds memories.

The chair does too.

We had two matching Adirondacks for longer than we lived in this house.

We searched and saved for these chairs. They gave us a soft place to land as we/they weathered many storms. They are woven into a lifetime of memories.

In time, we added 4 more chairs to our fire pit area. We love this cozy, safe spot where many s’mores, stories, and seminal moments were made while sitting in those seats.

I remember the day we realized one of the original chairs was worn beyond repair and no longer salvageable. The irony.

Oh, the ache of thinking of having only 5 chairs.

I held on to it as long as I could.

One day after his stroke, Jon stopped and took notice: “It’s okay to let it go. It was good to us.”

It struck my heart much more than I expected as I imagined that one of our chairs would no longer be there. What a metaphor.

I swallowed my tears and made light of the moment. We reminisced about the day we brought them home (edited to add: like so many pieces in our home they hold stories for how we acquired them or they made their way to us.)

It made its way to the curb for bulk trash. But I hold the memories.

Jon later told me he wanted me to let go of the chair while he was still with me to help ease the pain of letting go of something he knew we both cherished so much. We approached many things this way in the gift of time we were given. He told me he trusted my judgment and heart when letting go in the coming days. (Edited: he gave me permission to let go of so many things especially that which and those who compromise our peace.)

I won’t forget what it felt like to see the lone chair the day I took this photo on the day. I let go of the broken one not long before I took this photo.

Finding this picture of the lone chair today wasn’t just a reminder of Jon’s absence but also the lifetime of beautiful memories we shared.

That’s the funny thing about memories. We collect these moments that we sometimes don’t recognize as important when we are in them. Sometimes we do. But we spend the rest of our lives looking back at them, trying to remember all the details as we sit inside them.

That’s the funny thing about memories. We collect these moments that we sometimes don’t recognize as important when we are in them. Sometimes we do. But we spend the rest of our lives looking back at them, trying to remember all the details as we sit inside them.

Heather Lebano

The Chair Today

A year since I wrote this reflection, the lone chair now sits just beyond the arbor entrance, tucked away in the rose garden—a sacred space I’ve sowed and created to hold Jon’s memory. Around it, tulips, daffodils, rose bushes, lily of the valley, and a weeping cherry tree bloom. Some of these plants were gifted to me on the first anniversary of Jon’s passing or lovingly planted in the months since. This quiet corner, where favorite birds find a place to land and gather nourishment during the long winter, has become a space for me to sow seeds, prune branches, tend to the fragrant blooms, and mend fences. Over the last year and nine months, I’ve watched the garden—and my heart—grow and prune in unexpected and beautiful ways

This garden has become a place of quiet reflection and sacred memories, a spot where I can sit and feel Jon’s presence. It used to be where we built and cultivated an abundant vegetable garden. The lone chair, along with vintage benches I’ve collected—one Jon and I purchased together and one Sophia bought me for this space after her dad died—remind me of the beauty we created and the legacy of love he left behind.

Then, there’s the planter, an urn.

Jon brought home two large flower planters one spring, excited to place them on either side of the garage doors. When one broke several years ago, weathered by a long frigid winter, we moved the surviving pot to the center of the garden, where it’s held a prominent place as I tended this flower garden topped by an obelisk at a thrift shop many years ago and used to hold a place inside the house. Jon always told me I needed to find a proper stand for the obelisk outside—something sturdy, something that pointed the arrow straight to heaven like it was meant to. The lone flower urn seemed like a perfect place to hold the garden obelisk now. Study and tall. 

Yesterday morning, Rue, our new pup, wandered through the garden arbor, into the mostly untouched snow. I followed her, and as we passed the planter holding the large obelisk, I noticed the ground was beginning to soften beneath it from the recent deep freeze. The urn was falling forward.

While holding the leash of a tugging puppy, while trying to adjust it I heard a crack. I thought it was ice being dislodged from the packed snow and clump of ice. 

Before I could stop it, (because I was tangled in the antics of the pup—oh the metaphor) and because it was so heavy, the urn and obelisk toppled to the side with a loud thud. It snapped at its weakest point. Such irony, I’ve been feeling very much like that in this longest-ever month of January. 

For a moment, I felt a familiar ache of loss. 

Another thing gone. 

Another casualty. 

Another thing broken, that I would have to let go.

But then I started to laugh.

Chuckling under my breath imagining Jon standing there with me, laughing. I knew what he would tell me. I imagined him flicking at the planter, as if he knocked it over. 

Earlier that morning, I’d seen a photo that caught my eye of a garden stand at a local antique shop—a stand I’d thought might work perfectly for the garden. A stand Jon and I both wanted to hold the garden obelisk but could never find. But I dismissed it because of the urn that already stood there. I really didn’t need to buy something new for the garden, certainly not in the middle of the deep freeze of winter. And I didn’t want to let go of the planter that I loved. 

I could almost hear Jon’s playful voice in my head, teasing me: “Oops, I guess you can get that new stand now.” I imagined him pushing over that urn joking with me like he always did. 

I texted the kids a picture of the broken urn with the words: “Another casualty.” They asked what had happened, concerned about why it fell and my safety and asked if it was the pup’s fault. I told them the story and funny part about the stand I’d seen and how I wouldn’t buy it because I already had the planter.

But we all said we could imagine Jon orchestrating the whole thing just so I’d finally bring the stand home. Sophia laughed (not knowing what I imagined myself earlier) and said, “I could see definitely Dad tapping it and knocking it over while saying, ‘Oops, I guess you can get that stand now.’”

No doubt it felt providential. Though I have not gotten that new stand yet, like Jon said about the Adirondack, “It’s okay to let it go. It was good to us.” 

Those gorgeous planters watched many seasons come and go, filled with blooming, fragrant flowers in the spring and summer, and dried blooms left parched by the winter cold and scorching sun. Each season marked its own place in the story.

This garden, this chair, the planters—they all remind me of what Jon taught me about holding on and letting go. There’s a balance to be found, a rhythm of gratitude for what was and hope for what’s yet to bloom. In the moments when something breaks, something fades, or something must be released, there is always the whisper of love and the promise of growth, even in the soil of sorrow.

As I move through each day, I realize there are moments of stillness, moments when everything seems to pause, just like when the urn fell and broke. It’s still on the ground, its pieces waiting for me to gather them, but there’s something about it that makes me hesitant. Perhaps it’s not just the fear of making a mistake in trying to fix it; maybe it’s about giving myself permission to leave it for now—knowing it’s there, acknowledging its presence, but not yet ready to make it whole again.

The fragility of it all—of life, of grief, of our hearts—sometimes feels like this planter. Broken and in pieces, but still holding something precious within. Just as I wait for the right moment to carefully pick up the shards and make it whole again, I find that my heart, too, is in the process of being made whole. Slowly, in time. And maybe that’s part of the healing: knowing that, like the planter, there’s no rush to put everything back together just yet.

The Promise of New Life

And so, as I stand in the quiet of this garden, the lone chair beside me, admiring the garden in this winter season, the growth beneath the cold, dark soil, beneath the ice and snow and muddy puppy prints, there is promise. 

I am reminded that even in the seasons of grief and loss, God is faithful. He is making all things new, even when we can’t see it yet. In His time, our hearts will bloom once more, and all that is broken will be redeemed. Until then, I will continue to trust in His perfect timing, knowing that each step, each moment of letting go, is preparing the soil for the new life He is bringing. For the new planters, obelisk stands, chairs and growth yet to come.

As the flowers will eventually rise from the earth, so too will we rise in His grace, with the promise of new beginnings, even after the deepest of winters.

Today, as I wandered through this sacred space again with our new pup, I see it not just as a garden but as a metaphor for my journey through grief and healing. It’s a space where broken things find new life, where seeds planted in faith bring forth beauty, and where I’m learning—bit by bit—to trust the process. It’s a space that holds Jon’s memory, not as a weight, but as a light that guides me forward—Verso L’alto.

And perhaps, that’s what the chair teaches me most now: that even when things feel broken, lonely or empty, life continues to find a way to grow, heal, made new and bloom. It’s okay to let go of the things that were good to us in their time, trusting that they’ll always hold their place in the story while making room for what’s to come. There is no need to hold onto what is broken, it’s okay to make room for healed and whole.

As I stand in the garden now, surrounded by the stillness of winter, I am reminded that grief, like the earth, sometimes requires a season of rest. The blooms are not visible, but there is beauty in the quiet sowing and growing that happens beneath the surface. It’s in these moments of stillness that we prepare for what is to come, even when it’s not yet clear. There is beauty in the broken, worn, weathered and tattered. 

I reflect on the garden I’ve been tending for the past year and nine months, the sacred space that has become a living memorial to Jon. The lone chair, once a symbol of what was lost, now rests in a place filled with intention and remembrance. It sits amidst roses, daffodils, and tulips—flowers planted in love and faith. Though these blooms are not here today, I know that this garden is growing in ways unseen. Just like the chair, it’s holding space for what was and what will be.

Healing doesn’t always reveal itself immediately. Like the garden in winter, there are seasons when we are called to wait, to trust, and to allow space for the quiet work of growth to unfold. What I’ve learned is that sometimes, letting go is part of the preparation for what is yet to bloom.

Just as the chair stood for so long before it became a symbol of letting go, the garden is an ongoing work—a place where memories and beauty find a new rhythm. The lone chair that once seemed so empty now feels more like an invitation: to rest, to reflect, and to remember that even in the quiet and in the waiting, there is always the promise of something new.

Looking back at the reflection I wrote this time last year, I remember writing, “I’m finding my way and a secure footing, but I keep getting up each day to start again as I cling to the memories surrounding me.” Now, a year and nine months later, I see how those memories have been part of the journey, helping me tend to this sacred space—this garden of grief, healing, and hope.

So, here’s what I’ve learned: it’s okay to let go of what was good to us—a broken Adirondack, a broken urn, for whatever else is broken in loss—for even in winter’s rest, there is the promise of what’s to come. The garden—and our hearts—will rise again. Though it’s a slow, steady process, there is grace in the waiting, just as there was grace in the moments when we chose to let go.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 says, ‘He has made everything beautiful in its time.’ Even in our waiting, God is working. He is making things new, just as He promises to do in His perfect time. The garden and our hearts will rise again, and each new season brings with it the hope of something restored, renewed, and made whole.

And perhaps, that’s what the chair teaches me most now: that even when things feel broken, lonely, or empty, life continues to find a way to grow, heal, be made new, and bloom.with the promise of new beginnings, even after the deepest of winters.

Heather Lebano

Note

It’s the 28th. Twenty-one months into this loss—and even longer since Jon was able to care for our home and share in the duties that I have now taken on—I’ve felt the shock waves of his absence reverberate through our house more than expected in this season. The winter is long, stretching far beyond the firsts, and grief lingers like the chill of a season that refuses to thaw.

Jon was always the one who helped us dig out after a storm—steady and strong, his presence making the work feel a little less heavy. I was surprised by how much I missed the simple sight of him firing up the snow blower, lifting a shovel, or even playing in the snow. That memory hit me like the sting of cold air on a harsh winter morning—piercing straight through, stealing my breath. Every pile of snow I lifted, every slick spot I navigated, every patch of ice I had to break—it felt like a reminder of the weight of the tasks that are now mine to bear alone, each movement a little heavier without him beside me. That’s the weight of grief and the hope for spring.

Twenty-one months too long. One day closer. Miss you and love you all the days of my life, Jon.

That’s the funny thing about memories. We collect these moments—simple, ordinary, even fleeting—that we often don’t recognize while we’re in them. Sometimes, we do. But more often than not, we spend the rest of our lives looking back at them, trying to remember all the details, sitting inside them, wishing we could somehow live them again with the wisdom we have now.

heather Lebano