April Showers, May Flowers, Singing in the Rain—Two Years

Today marks two years.

Two years since I heard Jon’s voice.

Two years since I have seen his smile.

Two years since Jon took his last breath here and entered the arms of the Father.

Two years since everything changed in a way that cannot be undone.

Two years of crying more tears—oceans of tears—than I ever thought possible.

Two years of reconciling things that don’t make sense.

Two years of learning to forgive many hurtful things said and done while Jon was fighting for his life and since his funeral.

Two years of reaching for every moment of this life—to cling to hope and find joy.

“Those who sow in tears will reap with cries of joy.
Though they go out weeping, carrying seed for sowing,
they shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves.”

Psalm 126:5–6

They say, “April showers bring May flowers,” a phrase meant to offer hope, to soften the harsh edges of life’s storms. I have been repeating that phrase for weeks now—maybe to give myself hope after a very difficult month. Or maybe because I want my garden to grow. And there is truth in those words. But truth, in its fullness, is rarely that simple. Like so many other platitudes, it doesn’t tell the whole story.

April has brought its showers—steady, stubborn, unrelenting. Tears that rise without warning. Moments of sorrow that settle in like a fog. The ache of missing that no season can erase.

Yes, flowers will come. Healing will come. Growth will come. But they do not come instead of the rain. They come alongside it—growing in soil watered by sorrow. Grief and beauty live tangled together, refusing to be separated into neat seasons.

I was gently warned by other widows that the second year might be harder than the first. I didn’t want to believe it—I couldn’t imagine how it could be harder than all those firsts—but they were right. It’s not harder per se, just differently hard. The first year carried a kind of shock—a numbness that insulated parts of the pain. But as the second year unfolded, the weight of reality settled in deeper. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t something we could wait out or fix. Jon’s absence was—and is—woven into every corner of our lives.

We don’t want to live in sadness. We aren’t choosing that. We long to find joy again. And we do. We laugh. We dance—we sometimes even sing in the rain. We have fun. We laugh until we cry. Joy and sorrow live close together now, each holding space for the other.

But grief shows up when it wants, where it wants. It lingers, sometimes loud and sometimes silent, but always somewhere close. We cannot will it away or pretend it into a smaller shape. We can only choose to recognize it when it rises, to honor it, and to keep walking forward—carrying both the sorrow and the hope.

This year also brought another unexpected chapter—an injury that sidelined so much of daily life. A shoulder injury that, for nearly 11 weeks, demanded my full attention and forced a slower pace on a life already marked by loss—a life where my partner and built-in caregiver was missing. It was another reminder that healing—real, honest healing—is slow. Invisible wounds take time. Recovery is rarely quick or complete. Like grief, it has to be carried carefully. It requires work. Progress looks different every day.

Some days, surviving is enough.

Some days, rebuilding feels possible.

Some days there are setbacks—one step forward, two steps back.

Healing, I’m learning again, isn’t about returning to what was; it’s about learning to live well within what is—and finding a new rhythm, a new life, without our beloved living in it.

Another year Jon would never have stepped into with us. There are birthdays he will never celebrate. Graduations he will never attend—one is coming up in a few weeks. Baseball games, proms, musicals and shows starring our kids. Business triumphs. “Spaces” being shared courageously. Vacations. Everyday (and huge) decisions he will never weigh in on. Quiet moments and loud ones alike that he only witnesses now from Heaven’s side.

And yet—we know he is still here. We don’t need signs, though in His mercy, God has given us many. Jon’s love is etched into the walls of this house, woven into the laughter we still somehow find, stitched into the way our children move into the world. His absence is real. His presence is, too.

Yesterday’s Gospel—Divine Mercy Sunday’s—speaks straight into the ache: “Peace be with you.” Jesus spoke those words not after the wounds disappeared, but while they were still fresh. He offered peace—and infinite mercy—not as the absence of suffering, but as His presence within it. That is the kind of peace we seek, the kind we cling to—one that doesn’t erase the ache, but meets us inside it.

In the years and sacred days and conversations leading up to Jon’s death, we spoke often about how we would want each other to live if the unthinkable happened. Those conversations are tucked away in the hidden places of my heart, too sacred to share here. But I know—my kids know, too—with every fiber of my being, that the path the kids and I are walking—however halting, however imperfect—is one that honors the life Jon lived, the life we built, the love we shared, and the God who created us, sustains us, and one day will call us Home.

A few weeks ago, I sat in a theater, surrounded by my other kids and some of their special friends and watched our daughter step onto a stage in a production of Singin’ in the Rain. She danced. She smiled. She sang with joy and courage—right there, in the middle of it all. There was so much to be in awe of—her light, her bravery, the way joy and sorrow somehow stood side by side in that room. We applauded, tears filling my eyes, wide grins splashed across our faces. So much joy for her bravery in spite of many things, and hope for how we have lived through all of it. So much sorrow that Jon was missing this moment.

It was a reminder that even when life has soaked us through, even when the weight of missing feels too heavy to bear, there is still room for joy. There is still music. There is still life. Even in the rain. Even in the storms.

It was a reminder that even when life has soaked us through, even when the weight of missing feels too heavy to bear, there is still room for joy. There is still music. There is still life. Even in the rain. Even in the storms.

Heather Lebano

Two years have passed.
Two years of standing in the space between what was and what will be.
Two years of holding sorrow and hope in the same fragile hands.
Two years of learning that healing is not about erasing the brokenness, but about letting God breathe new life into the places that still ache.

The showers have been many—long, heavy, and at times, overwhelming. But even so, the flowers have come too—quiet, stubborn signs of grace that keep rising from the soil of sorrow. Not in spite of the rain, but because of it. The stubborn beauty of growing May flowers, even after so many storms.

There are places in our story that will never be filled in the ways we once dreamed. But even in those spaces, because we are rooted, redemption is growing. Even there, beauty rises. Even there, laughter still echoes. Even there, love endures.

We are still grieving. We are still healing. We are still becoming. And by grace, we are still walking each other Home.

Two years later, I’m still learning that the rain doesn’t wash away the flowers—it waters them. Grief and joy can live together. Hope blooms stubbornly in the rain. Healing is not about returning to what was, but about becoming something new. And those April showers will always bring May flowers.

“Lord, keep Your grace in my heart.
Live in me so that Your grace be mine.
Make it that I may bear every day some flowers and new fruit.”
— St. Gianna Beretta Molla

A Letter to My Love.

My Dearest Jon,
There is so much to say. So much I have already said. I miss you every single moment of every day. And I am still living, still healing. And that shoulder? I know you would be incredibly proud of—and not surprised by—how I endured that excruciating pain, the limitations, and the long recovery. Never mind how the ER staff told Sophia and me (and my dear friend—you loved her too, who came running to sit with us) that I was “a bada$$” for how I endured those seven hours waiting to be treated, not complaining—suffering in silence while offering it up for the family who learned about a diagnosis similar to yours across from me—hardly even wincing when they set it back in place. Laughing uncontrollably after the light pain meds took off the edge. I can’t say I did that year ago when I had to have my toe reset. LOL. You and I spent many moments in the ER and in many hospital waiting rooms in our lifetime together. I missed you fiercely for that one. And I know even with your training and love of orthopedics—you’d still likely have to turn away when you saw the X-ray of my shoulder because it was mine. It was that hard to see. You would never want to see me in pain. Yet, somehow, I know you were close through every part of this ordeal—every pain, every tear, every triumph, every PT visit, every doctor connection made to help me heal.

Two years. Twenty-four months. Seven hundred and thirty-one days too long. and One day closer.

Thank you for building this life and raising these amazing kids with me.

Gosh, I can’t believe you don’t get to be part of these moments. It’s so hard for them and yet, they persevere and are doing amazing things. But I know you are watching. I won’t stop praying for you, please keep interceding for us.

Until we are Home.

I love you with my whole heart. I miss you with everything that I am.

Love, H.

“Love and sacrifice are as intimately connected as sun and light.
We cannot love without suffering or suffer without loving.”

St. Gianna Beretta Molla

“Even when the weight of missing feels too heavy to bear, there is still room for joy. Even in the rain. Even in the storms.”

Heather Lebano