Life As You Picture It—Take the Picture and the Trip

I have always been someone who takes pictures — call me a photojournalist, a life historian, a memory keeper. In a way, I think I take after Mary, who “treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” —Luke 2:19

Once upon a time, I was a budding photographer who dreamed of studying the likes of Ansel Adams, Mary Ellen Mark, and any National Geographic photojournalist. More recently, I’ve come to admire the talented Jeffrey Bruno—the way he captures sacred moments in the church is breathtaking. I took classes, invested in gear, and even imagined traveling the world and becoming a professional.

I loved capturing moments—life as we lived it, and life as we pictured it.

In fact, I spent several years photographing families—capturing their stories, their love, their sacred moments. The tagline for my small photography business, which barely covered a grocery bill once a week as I was giving away my service, was: “Life as You Picture It.”

I have always been a collector of photos, with albums on shelves, in boxes, and now on my phone.

Not long after Jon left this world for eternal life, I found myself scrolling through old photos, showing a few to our kids—snapshots from the days when we were in the thick of the fight. Two of our children were home during much of that season when Jon was working so hard to both recover from a stroke and resist a growing tumor. The other two were working hard in college and had less involvement in the day-to-day caregiving.

Our calendars were full. Our plates were heavy. And honestly, some days, I forget just how much time and energy we poured into simply surviving.

Then a photo pulls me back—and I remember. I am grateful for the pictures I have captured (and even got into thats to selfie mode) and the words I have written to remember what I have forgotten about this journey.

I show the kids a picture and share what was happening that particular day—what we ate, what doctor we saw, what we were praying for, how he smiled, or what made him laugh despite it all. Sometimes tears well up in my eyes and swell up in my throat.

One of my daughters recently told me how grateful she was that I took those pictures. Images from hospital waiting rooms, from the little shop outside where we ordered lunch. From MRI days and infusion days to nights on uncomfortable hospital couches and chairs.

She said they gave her a glimpse into the world we lived in while she kept going, attending school and holding onto hope from afar. Through those pictures, she could see what life looked like from inside the cancer treatment journey.

Because life was still happening around us in the blur of it all. It wasn’t as we pictured it, but it was still our life.

“Things were in God’s plan which I had not planned at all.” —St. Teresa of Benedicta of the Cross

Years ago, before any of this, I was invited to photograph families navigating the unimaginable—a diagnosis, a goodbye, the sacred space of time running out. I considered it a profound honor to be entrusted with those moments. I didn’t know then that I’d one day be the one on the other side of the lens.

I remember thinking about my tagline and wondering if I should change it. I was certain this particular family hadn’t pictured this story as part of their lives. Years later, the young daughter-in-law came to me with tears in her eyes, sharing how grateful she was for those photos knowing her loved one didn’t live many weeks beyond the shoot.

Take the picture.

My daughter quietly captured the photo and shared it with me later. It has come to mean the world to me. While I was gathering words for my recent issue of A Few Lovely Things, I came across another widow’s post about the last picture she took with her husband before their life collapsed just days later. Her message was simple and powerful: “Take the picture.” I was inspired to include my own in that issue.

Unlike the widow who shared her last photo with her husband, the picture I shared in the newsletter (and at the start of this reflection) wasn’t the last picture I took with Jon. We had nine more months together after that. We even returned to that same beach again in March, in the raw winds between my birthday and my daughter’s, just days after a hospital stay for seizures. That visit was tender and weighted — we were counting days, hours, minutes.

But the photo of Jon and I walking off the beach… It was the last time Jon and I would walk off the beach together. Just the two of us as the sun began to set in the distance, the kids walking slowly behind us.

We spent so many summers walking hand-in-hand on and off that beach—33, to be exact. A lifetime of memories in sand and salt and sun. Watching rising and setting suns, many times. Watching the kids build sandcastles and jump and dive into the waves. These memories now bring a wave of nostalgia and appreciation for the beauty we shared.

A life not as we pictured it at times, but one we built—with heartache and hope, with suffering and joy, with tears and laughter and, most of all, with love.

A few weeks after my dad passed away, we chose to head to the beach to heal and grieve after many weeks of watching him heal after a heart attack and struggle from too many other medical crises. We made space for my mom to join us for part of that time and I’ll never forget it—it was her last time feeling the ocean breeze. It wasn’t easy getting my aging, grieving momma to the beach, but it was made possible and I was grateful for it and for the memory. I will never forget her sheer joy, the moment the water rushed over her feet. We didn’t know it yet, but could only surmise it was the last time she would be at the beach.

It wasn’t the life we’d picture at that moment, but it was a beautiful, treasured memory.

And it was the same feeling that final summer with Jon. Before we left the empty beach well past 7 (the best time on the beach), the kids and he and I stood together at the edge of the water. Only this time, we held him up, cautiously steadying the man who had once held me and our babies through every crashing wave.

Then we sat him in the chair so he could safely feel the water wash over him. He lacked the strength to stand against the crashing waves and the impact of them knocking into him. What a metaphor for life.

Our life was crashing around us, too. You can read It is Well written only days after that trip.

But what a gift it was to witness our children holding onto this memory and holding onto their father (while tending their needs)—the same way he had once tended to them. It was surreal. Holy. Beautiful.

A lifetime of memories in sand, salt, and sun.

A life not as we pictured it, but the one we built and that built us. I am grateful for every moment, every memory, every struggle, and every triumph. They are the fabric of our life, and I cherish them all.

Recently, I read a story on IG by someone who lost a friend too quickly from brain cancer. She wrote about how staring at a grave changed everything—and how she took a leap of faith and bought the property she has now where she gathers others and serves. Her message reminded us of that powerful quote: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

I tried to live with that type of message in mind during the 33 months of Jon living with brain cancer, of caring for my strong, kind, handsome, hardworking husband who also endured a stroke.

Life changed in every possible way.

It was not how I pictured it—it still isn’t—but it was exactly where God poured into me. Into our kids. Into the ache and the mess and the miracle.

And it’s where I learned: life on this side of heaven is not guaranteed. But the Beatific Vision is the life we hope and pray for—the Life we picture it should be.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

tolkien

In that same reflection in the newsletter I shared at the beginning of this, I wrote that we should not only “take the picture,” but also take the trip. It doesn’t have to be far or extravagant. It can be a walk to the park or a sunset at the highest point in your town. We chased many sunsets during those years. We walked paths slower than ever before. And in that slowness, I saw heaven brush up against earth. I watched the sun kiss the horizon.

My life stilled.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” —Psalm 46:10

This is not the life I pictured. But in the suffering we endured, the veil lifted, and I saw how our Savior gives us Hope for Heaven. I see it still, as I journey through this earthly life without Jon.

And when the sun sets on the day—and eventually, on my life, I hope what remains is a picture of faith, hope, and love.

May we take the picture, even in the hard moments.
May we saunter and notice what matters.
May our lives tell stories of faith, hope, and love—even when they don’t look like we pictured.

“For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.” —Luke 12:34

If you could “take the picture” of one moment from your life right now, what would it capture? I’d love to hear your story in the comments below.

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This is not the life I pictured. But it was there in the suffering we endured that I saw the veil lifted, revealing how a Savior has given us Hope for Heaven.

Heather Lebano