Shouldering the Cross: Hope and Love Beyond the Veil
The past two weeks have been challenging. With my arm strapped in a sling from a dislocated shoulder, I’ve found myself limited in ways I never anticipated.
What a cross.
Simple tasks—driving, folding laundry, lifting weights, even showering—are difficult. It’s tough for someone like me, who’s always on the go and has a long to-do list.
On top of that, the pain and exhaustion made sleep nearly impossible. We all need rest to heal, but sometimes, pain makes it feel out of reach.
Yet, in the thick of waiting for answers and praying for relief, I found the grace to paint a simple, imperfect watercolor swan—a small act of creation in suffering. Never mind the symbolism of a swan.
This shoulder injury came at a particularly challenging time. Frustration reached its peak, and desolation nearly took over. The past few months had already been more difficult than expected, and these last two weeks, I had hoped to catch up on so many things. I am so far behind.
But in that frustration, I learned something—suffering can be transformed when we offer it up. May we have eyes to see and hearts to know where God meets us in that offering.
Uniting our suffering with Christ’s takes effort—a conscious choice to lift our wounds to Him. But in that offering, something shifts. The weight may remain there, but we no longer carry it alone.
I remember two years ago when Jon was rapidly declining, crisis after crisis. Each crisis felt heavier, endless. The cross was unbearable. But we were not alone. Jon was not alone. My children were not alone. Even if it felt like it at times.
Many “Simons” met us along the path to help carry that cross.
Simons
A holy couple came to pray with us when we learned that our options were more limited than we could ever fathom. Time was slipping away. One of them urged us to unite our suffering with Jesus, to offer our pain for His—for the agony He endured on the cross 2000 years ago, just in time for Lent.
That thought and image greatly impacted me and has never left me.
It remains one of the most profound meditations of my life to date. To unite our suffering with His has been life-changing for me. I don’t always get it right, but imagining His suffering instead of my own has helped me.
In November, a holy priest friend encouraged me to step outside of myself in my pain. I didn’t fully understand at first—it wasn’t about dismissing grief but finding consolation beyond human understanding. The Holy Spirit inspired him to say it to me. He said it was up to God to reveal its meaning.
That wisdom didn’t settle with me right away, but now, in these weeks of physical suffering, I see what he meant. I stepped out of my pain and united it with Jesus’ pain.
It’s still not easy. I am still in pain.
While I was trying to get comfortable the first night home from the ER, as the pain meds started to wear off, I simply could NOT get settled to go to sleep.
The pain was like nothing I could remember short of the hours, days, and weeks following Jon’s death. Nothing could ease the pain.
That night in the ER, when the IV slipped out of my arm unknowingly and I found myself soaked in blood, it had been almost laughable—just one more thing in a long, exhausting day.
But later at home, when I woke in agony, unable to find relief, that moment came rushing back. I thought of the wound at Christ’s side, of the blood He poured out for us. And as I prayed, imagining His mercy washing over me, peace found me. Sleep followed. Covered in His love.
As the comfort and pain would come and go the last 14 days and nights, I would meditate on the wounds of Christ and on the wounds Jon endured after his diagnosis and stroke.
Many moments these past few weeks, I thought of Jesus’ painful shoulder wound as He barely was able to carry the heavy cross to Calvary after begging for the cup to be passed. In His moment of profound suffering, He was not alone. Simon of Cyrene, a stranger, met Jesus on the path and stepped in to help lift the unbearable weight.
Much like Jon’s intercession from beyond the veil, the friends who have come alongside me during this time continue to echo His love and care in unexpected ways.
The one who brought the fragrant tulips, a reminder that spring—and renewal—is coming, and the friend who dropped off a meal without hesitation have all been Simons in my life. Their prayers, thoughtful gestures, and generous offerings remind me of the love Jon always showed in tangible ways. These small acts, as simple as they may seem, have been profound reminders that the love we give on earth continues to ripple outward, even when we can’t see it. Just as Jon’s presence continues to guide me, these friends’ prayers and actions have been a living manifestation of God’s love—helping me carry my burdens and reminding me I am never alone.
It reminds me of the Simons in my own life—the loved ones and even strangers who helped shoulder my burdens in ways seen and unseen.
Who are the Simons in your life? Maybe they are apparent or quietly walking beside you, lifting your burdens in ways you haven’t noticed.
We cannot carry our crosses alone. We are not meant to carry them alone.
And we don’t.
“The cross is the greatest gift God could bestow on His Elect on earth. There is nothing so necessary, so beneficial, so sweet, or so glorious as to suffer something for Jesus. If you suffer as you ought, the cross will become a precious yoke that Jesus will carry with you.”
St Louis de Monfort
Pain of the Cross
The past two weeks have been marked by pain, restriction, and frustration—but also by profound gratitude. The Simons in my life, those who have stepped in to help me and my girls (the two at home), have lifted burdens in ways big and small, seen and unseen. Their love has been a tangible grace, a reminder that we are never left to bear the weight of our crosses and sufferings alone.
I wish Jon, my orthopedic guy, was here to carry this one with me. It really has been difficult without his wisdom to help me navigate it all.
I cannot help but remember a moment two years ago, standing in the kitchen, when my ankle—already weakened from years of trouble and surgery—gave out. I stumbled, fighting back the tears from the pain, knowing that Jon was living on borrowed time; my ankle had been too with the threat of any new injury that would likely need surgery.
I turned to Jon with pain (and tears) in my eyes and an ache in my chest and asked: “How will I ever get through if I have to have a surgery without you?”
The air left the room.
Jon, who had kept his own wounded shoulder in a sling for over a year, stood up effortlessly, held me as I cried, and whispered, “You won’t ever need surgery if I have anything to say about it.”
Time stood still as tears streamed down both of our cheeks.
What a painful reality for both of us to accept, knowing Jon would not be there to support me in those moments going forward. Though I would rather he be here, I held in my heart Jon’s love and prayers would guide me from beyond the veil.
Prayers from Above
For the past two weeks, I have prayed and waited for confirmation about the status of my shoulder—whether it would require surgery or if I had a bad break. And then, just two weeks to the hour from the moment we drove to the ER, I received the call I’d been waiting for.
There is a tear. The break the doc thought she saw on the X-ray was no longer a concern, AND there was NO need for surgery. “Not if Jon had anything to say about it.“
I WILL need rehab.
I WILL need rest.
I WILL take it slow. I WILL be open to receiving the help sent my way.
I am grateful for all the love and support these past two weeks. Check out the sweet God wink I wrote about and received when a long-time friend dropped dinner for us today (Friday as I wrote this.)
I will still create and write to continue healing.
I will continue to offer up this pain. Yes, I am still in pain and very limited—in oh, so many ways.
This pain has kept me awake, the pain that has brought me to tears, the limitations that have reminded me over and over again all that Jon endured as I cared for him in his limitations.
But I have no doubt that Jon had his hand in this story, reaching from the other side of the veil to be sure my prayers were answered. Wrapping his arms around my shoulders to comfort me.
Even in suffering, there is hope. Our prayers are heard—though sometimes, the answers come wrapped in the most unexpected ways.
Even in suffering, there is hope. Our prayers are heard—though sometimes, the answers come wrapped in the most unexpected ways.
Heather Lebano
Perhaps you, too, have carried a burden that felt unbearable. Maybe you’ve seen prayers answered in unexpected ways.
The intercession outside of time, the offering of our wounds for the wounds Christ bore for us, can bring healing, peace, and hope—just when we think we have reached the end of ourselves.
And when we reach that end, we find that we are/were never alone.
Jon is still with me. His love, prayers, and presence beyond the veil continue to guide and comfort me in ways I never imagined. I wish he was still here to be the one to take me to the MRI. I am grateful for the friend who drove me.
If you are in a season of suffering, take heart—prayers are heard, hope remains, and love never fades, even beyond the veil.
There is always hope and love.
Hope and Love
Thanks, Jon, for your intercession to ensure my prayers were answered. I know the road ahead includes rehab, but I am ever so grateful I won’t need surgery. Not now, anyway.
I am thankful I can transition from wearing this sling, and physical therapy will begin this week. I have some big things to lift in the months to come.
As we hold space for another 28th—22 months too long, yet one day closer—I find comfort in knowing that love, prayers, and hope continue beyond the veil.
Thank you, Jesus, for the grace to endure and even laugh in the face of this pain and the healing that continues. And thanks, Jon, for your unwavering love and prayers, still guiding me beyond the veil.
I see the work God is doing—inviting me to be open to receive while I create in the waiting, in the pain. Take the swan (and a few others) I somehow painted this week to distract from my pain and limitations. A symbol of grace, peace, love, and transformation, it reminds me that beauty is often formed in the stillness—in the quiet places of suffering and renewal.
Along this path, God has sent me gifts through many Simons—fragrant tulips and gluten-free brownies from a friend, a sweet little cupcake from my girls—reminders that spring is coming, that strength is found in endurance, and there will always be some sort of cake.
“Blessed are they who hope in the Lord.”
As I continue on this healing journey, I am reminded of the support and love surrounding me—even from the other side. In these moments of suffering, it’s easy to feel isolated. Still, I know now, more than ever, that we are never truly alone.
Love and prayers carry us and our crosses when we don’t have the strength to carry them ourselves.
If you’re walking through your own struggle today, big or small, I hope it’s not a dislocated/broken shoulder. I want to remind you that you don’t have to bear the weight alone. Turn your suffering into an offering, as Christ did, and know His love will transform it in ways you can’t imagine. Like Jon’s prayers still reach me, I trust God’s grace will meet you right where you are.
Our crosses, though heavy, are never the end of the story. They lead to resurrection, renewal, and hope. Whatever you are carrying today, know this: You are seen. You are loved. You are never alone. And when the weight feels unbearable, may you find rest in the One who carries it with you.
Even in suffering, there is always hope. And beyond the veil, love endures and helps us shoulder the cross.
St. Maximilian Kolbe
“The cross is the school of love.”
