It’s April—Let’s Begin Again with Hope to Bloom

As the season shifts, I find myself reflecting on the tender tension April holds—the ache and the bloom, the memory and the hope. This piece poured out as I stood in my garden, shoulder healing, heart still mending. I pray these words meet you gently.

It’s April First. The world is blooming, and so am I—slowly, tenderly, intentionally.

It feels good to slowly return to stretching my arm—basic range of motion first, strength coming gradually. I’m easing back into what I love most: gardening, growing flowers, and being outside. I’ve done a lot of work to get here, and there’s still more ahead.

Though it may feel like one at times, this dislocated shoulder—now about seven weeks behind me—was no April Fool’s joke. The real joke, perhaps, is on expectations. Because here I am, defying odds. Like the bulbs pushing through the cold soil, I’m rising—slowly, but surely—toward the light.

What a winter it has been.
What a season of healing and resting.
What a season of showing up for myself.

May we bloom and grow.

Yesterday, I walked through my yard with a dear friend.
We said goodbye to March together.
She came to help—not with a project or a list—but simply to be present.
To walk and witness. To hold space.
And to rake, if I needed.
Mostly, I just needed her to listen.

We circled flower beds and paused by fences, both literal and symbolic, speaking of things that needed rebuilding and mending. There’s much to do—but it begins with tending what’s right in front of me.

And then, as if to mark the moment—we saw a groundhog darting across the yard. In twenty years, I’ve never seen one here. Other critters, yes, but not once have I seen a groundhog running across the yard.

We laughed and paused, delighting in the surprise of it. Maybe a fun little wink from above. It felt like a small reminder: even in familiar places, new things can still show up. Surprises—even a wild little groundhog searching for its home or food—find their way in.

Life keeps finding a way.

But more than that—we talked about the deep things. The hard things.

We spoke of caregiving and widowhood. Of what it’s like to watch someone you love slowly slip away.
Of how you can hold so much love and still carry so much pain.
Of how others try to understand—but can’t fully. Not unless they’ve walked a path like this.

We spoke of the ache that never entirely leaves—the one that doesn’t scream, but whispers.
The ache a widow knows well.
The empty space at the table.
The memories that rise without warning.
The loneliness that settles into the silence of a room once filled with laughter and love.
And the challenge of guiding kids through their own trauma and grief.

As a widow, I carry truths not everyone to hear or can see—or wants to. But they are mine, and they matter. (I shared those in a recent reflection post that resonated with many widows. I encourage you to read the reflection.

And still—hope blooms.
Even in dry seasons.
Even in the wilderness.

“The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.”
—Isaiah 35:1–2

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.

Isaiah 35:1–2

April—Begin Again

April is both a hard and holy month for me.

It holds the bright hope of Easter, the promise of resurrection. But it also holds tender, painful memories—days spent caring for Jon as he passed from this life into the next. The weight of those moments still rests in my bones, even as the light of spring begins to seep in.

This year, I’m entering April, having done some of the hardest healing work of my life. I’ve been caring for my dislocated and torn shoulder, for my body—after years of putting myself last. For my heart. For my soul. For things that I can and cannot put into words to make others understand.

I’ve been tending to my grief, letting it say what it needs to say. I’ve given myself space to rest, mend, and simply be. To sit in the garden with God.

And here in the garden, I see the fruit of that quiet work. The soil of my soul has been gently tilled by grace—God tending it in ways I didn’t always see.

Today, as I pruned the hydrangeas we’ve nurtured for over twenty years‚ including those we had to transplant once, I thought about what it means to return to what’s rooted.
To tend to what has lived through storms and seasons.
Even the oldest growth needs gentle care.
And sometimes, it’s in the cutting back that we make way for more light.

Year after year, the hydrangeas, once pruned, return—sometimes fuller, sometimes slower—but always reaching for the light. There’s something sacred in tending what’s been there all along. In cutting back with care, we make room for new healthy blooms.

Reap and Sow

As I worked, my youngest joined me in the flower beds to help lift what I could not. As we gathered decaying leaves, we talked about how we raked the leaves in the autumn in another part of the yard.

We exchanged thoughts about what cultivates good, healthy healing and growth—in the garden and life.
Over the years, many conversations have taken place in this garden—
the slow, intentional work of tending plants and hearts.
The sacred work of intentional mothering. We are reaping what you sow by planting seeds, weeding, watering, and watching it grow.

Our family’s story is written, woven, and rooted throughout our garden beds—In every tree, rose bush, seed, and bulb we have planted. In every stepping stone, we’ve laid along the path.

Because beneath the surface—just like the bulbs in the soil—something has been growing all along. Not everything visible is all there is.

Healing is like that.
Grief is like that.
Faith is like that.

In the stillness, I hear God’s voice again. Not in the world’s noise, the hustle that demands I move on or do more, or answer big questions—but in the peace that comes from doing the slow, sacred work of showing up.

Of digging in.
Of trusting the process.

The garden reminds me: what looks dormant may be preparing to bloom. And even in loss, something new can grow.

So I begin again—spade in hand, heart open, listening.

As I return to the garden, to movement, to hope—
I hold this promise close:

“See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” Isaiah 43:19

May April be an invitation for you to begin again, too.

May we Hope and Bloom

Take a moment in the garden..

What in your life looks dormant right now?
Is there something you’ve buried in sorrow that God might be preparing to bloom in a new way?
This April, I pray you find moments of stillness to sit in the garden with God—
whether in a yard, a quiet corner, or a simple breath.
May you hear His voice not in the noise but in the peace.
May you trust the gentle process of healing and the quiet miracle of growth.

A Prayer

Lord, meet me in the garden of my heart.
Help me tend what’s been buried
and trust what You prepare to bloom.
May I have the courage to begin again—with You. Amen.

Heather Lebano