Who is My Neighbor—A Widow’s Reflection on the Good Samaritan
I’ve heard the parable of the Good Samaritan more times than I can count. I’ve sat with this Gospel, prayed with it, and even taught it to my children. But today, I heard it differently—as I often do now—through the lens of grief, and more specifically, widowhood.
After the Gospel was proclaimed and the homily shared, my daughter leaned over and whispered, “This fits with the whole theme of your newsletter this week.” And she was right. Without planning it, the Gospel connected perfectly with everything I’ve been writing and praying about: friendship, presence, and what it means to truly show up for someone who’s suffering especially in loss.
This parable is often read as a call to general kindness or charity. But for those of us who have known deep suffering, it becomes something more: a model for how to love others in their pain. It’s a picture of mercy that moves toward the wounded—not away from them.
Jesus was always compassionate to the marginalized—those the world overlooked or pushed aside. In Biblical times, widows were among the most vulnerable. Without a husband or male protector, many were left economically and socially exposed and judged.
Today? Widows can still feel marginalized. The grief of widowhood—especially for younger widows or those raising children—is often met with silence, discomfort, or judgment—from others. “She needs to move on; she’s depressed; she needs to stop talking about her late husband; she shouldn’t do this or do that. She’s so strong..she’s this or that. etc….”
And older widows, too, are often overlooked—quietly expected to ‘be okay’ or ‘used to the loss’ simply because more time has passed. But grief doesn’t have an expiration date. Loneliness can deepen with age, not disappear. Every widow carries a story, and every story deserves to be heard. While it wasn’t the main message the homilist was sharing today, they did share a story about someone supporting a widow in their life.
That’s why Scripture calls us—again and again—to care for them.
It’s not a suggestion.
It’s part of true religion.
When Jesus invites us to care for the suffering, He’s not suggesting we try our best. He’s showing us what love requires.
“Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction.” (James 1:27)
And so when we see someone suffering—especially someone in the margin, someone we may not necessarily be called to help, someone who is grieving, someone silenced by sorrow or forgotten by their community—the parable of the Good Samaritan invites us to become more than just observers. It invites us to love others well.
To love others through their suffering—in the way Jesus does.
Because when someone is grieving—truly broken, bleeding emotionally from the wounds of loss—they are often left by the side of the road.
Not always literally, but spiritually. Silently. Socially.
People pass by.
Well-meaning friends and family grow quiet.
Others go back to their lives.
Relationships change.
Invitations stop.
Support fades.
Not necessarily intentionally or out of cruelty—but often out of discomfort. Out of not knowing what to do. Out of fear of “doing it wrong.” Out of not knowing what to say. (see below)
But the Good Samaritan didn’t do it perfectly.
He simply stopped.
He saw.
He moved toward.
He tended wounds, even if they weren’t his to begin with.
That is the call of compassion.
Not to fix but to tend.
Not to explain but to stay.
Not to save, but to notice—and to not walk away.
This is the call to love thy neighbor as thyself.
This is the merciful call to be a Good Samaritan.
For those of us grieving, especially in widowhood, what we long for most IS NOT someone to carry all the weight…but someone willing to walk a few steps beside us.
To notice the ache that doesn’t always have words.
To pour oil and wine into the wounds—not to fix them, but to tend gently.
To remind us we’re not forgotten.
To not judge or assume and certainly not to expect or impart “their” solutions to a situation that “just can’t be fixed.”
BUT
“Go and do likewise,” Jesus says.
Show mercy. Stay close. Move toward the brokenhearted.
Heather Lebano
Because grief doesn’t end after the funeral. Not for the widow.
Widowhood is not a moment—it’s a long, winding road.
And those who offer mercy along that road reflect the heart of Christ more than they may ever know.
The Neighbor
Today, after mass, as I set out for a walk with my daughter, something unexpected happened—almost as if the Lord wanted to speak directly into my life about the Gospel I had been ruminating on.
I had been pondering the parable of the Good Samaritan from the lens of a grieving widow—asking who my neighbor is, how I love well, how they love my family and me well in the loss of our husband and father—and then God gave me a story…with an actual neighbor.
A neighbor I’ve seen drive past my house countless times over the last few years since my husband was diagnosed and died pulled up alongside us as we set out to walk.
They rolled down the window and, after gathering themselves, said, “I’ve wanted to stop so many times. I wanted to pull into your driveway. I just didn’t know what to say.”
I looked at them—tears filling my eyes behind my sunglasses—and gently said, “Well, you just said something now, and that means a lot.”
We stood there for a few moments, exchanging silence and an understanding of how hard this must be.
They asked me, with sincerity and care, how I was doing. I shared—briefly—that it’s really hard, but we are doing our best. That my kids no longer have their dad to walk with them through life and that I don’t have my husband beside me anymore is really just unexplainable.
We talked a bit about Jon, and I asked about his family. We didn’t need to say much, but in those few minutes, something sacred unfolded.
My neighbor knew what they needed to do.
They knew they just needed to acknowledge the loss.
To see us.
To stop and show up.
While I can’t say for sure, maybe they didn’t stop before out of fear, discomfort, or the pain of not knowing how to show up that held them back. I can only guess.
But the neighbor did say, “I just didn’t know what to say.”
We don’t need perfect words.
We just need presence.
We need to know we’re not alone.
Sidenote: I’m here to tell you—silence is definitely not the better way.
It might feel safer, but to the grieving heart, it often feels like abandonment.
But today?
Today, my neighbor stopped.
They did what they already had the heart for.
They did what the Lord calls all of us to do.
They stopped.
They made time.
They moved toward sorrow.
They showed mercy.
Not perfectly. Just faithfully.
When we parted ways, I thought back to the Gospel and then to the homily I had just listened to from Fr. Mike Schmitz.
When the scholar asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus replied, “What is written in the law?”
And the man answered, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind—and love your neighbor as yourself.” Then Jesus said, “You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live.” (Luke 10:27–28)
Fr. Mike reminded us: We already know what to do. We just need to do it.
He offered something like: “It’s not a matter of knowledge. It’s not a matter of heart. It’s now about taking the time. Taking the time can make all the difference.”
The priest and the Levite likely knew what the law required.
They may have even cared.
But they didn’t stop.
They didn’t make time.
And that’s the challenge for us, too.
We live in a world of urgent schedules and good intentions.
But mercy takes presence.
And presence takes time.
Today, that neighbor took the time. They stopped, to offer love and mercy.
So, if you are wondering, like me, “Who is our neighbor?”
It might be the grieving widow down the street.
The solo parent quietly navigating a loss.
It might be the person who is a caregiver to a dying loved one.
The person sitting in the same pew who hasn’t said much—but is carrying more than we know.
It might be someone who just needs us to stop. To see. To stay.
The Good Samaritan didn’t ask if the man on the road was ready, deserving, or easy to help. He simply moved toward mercy.
And Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”
We are called to be Good Samaritans and Love our Neighbor.
We are called to stop.
Not perfectly.
Just faithfully.
Because love—real love—takes time.
And presence is the holiest Christ-like gift we can offer.
A Call to Mercy
Is there someone in your life who needs you to stop?
To stay.
To notice.
Not to fix, but to tend—to gently care for their heart with mercy?
We already know what to do.
We have the heart for it.
May we stop—and make the time.
We know what love and mercy require, May we be willing to offer it.
When Jesus invites us to care for the suffering, He’s not suggesting we try our best. He’s showing us what love requires.
Heather Lebano
P.S. If this reflection spoke to your heart, I invite you to join me each week for A Few Lovely Things—my new weekly newsletter filled with tender words, quiet reflections, and reminders that you’re not alone. It’s a little love letter of hope and faith, sent right to your inbox. [Click here to subscribe.]
