To Be Met with Reverence, Compassion and Love

“Father of the fatherless and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation.” — Psalm 68:5

I remember a time when death was met with reverence and compassion. When those who lost a loved one were met with silence if words could not carry love, or with kindness if they could. My mother and other steady voices of reason taught me when I was a child: If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Or better yet: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Of course, there are moments when we must speak truth with charity in the name of justice, but wisdom reminds us there is a time and a place.

Lately, I wonder if we have forgotten that wisdom. Too often, grief is met with noise instead of reverence, judgment instead of kindness.

I have witnessed things and heard stories from widows that often leave me speechless because they were not met with understanding, compassion or reverence.

Since becoming a widow myself, I have experienced this at times too. Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do or say.

Since becoming a widow, I think often of my mom and other widows, especially young widows.

I feel deeply connected to the unspoken and unseen suffering of widows and of fatherless children. In moments of tragedy especially in the early days of loss words flung in outrage and division can wound as deeply as the loss itself.

I don’t know every particular horror of loss. But I do know what it is to lose a spouse—to wake each day to a life rewritten and marked with grief at every turn. I know what it is to endure the sting of careless words, spoken while my husband was fighting to live, and long after he left this world.

In 2023, I wrote the words below as I was seeking to understand my new role as a widow while reflecting on and remembering my mom’s loneliness in her grief after my dad died. Back then, I could only imagine what she felt. I didn’t understand. I do now. I better understand even further down this path of grief 2 years later, even if I don’t understand all the whys.

I wrote:

*”I went to bed praying for God to reveal wisdom about a widow’s place in His heart.

I remember feeling an enormous ache when my mom became a widow in 2018 after 50 years of marriage. I couldn’t fathom her pain after losing her husband. Hmm.

While navigating the grief of losing my dad, it broke my heart more for her because I could do nothing to take away her pain. Whether young or old, being a widow is incredibly lonely and painful. My mom always said she felt lonely. Two plus years into this grief journey, I understand that loneliness.

God hears our hearts. Today’s (9/19/23) Gospel reading speaks of a widow. This reading tells of Jesus coming to the widow in her desperate need.

“A man who had died was being carried out,
the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.
A large crowd from the city was with her.
When the Lord saw her,
he was moved with pity for her and said to her,
‘Do not weep.'” Lk 7:11-17

I’ve noticed a theme among the widows I know—forgotten, lost, lonely, pitied, tasked to carry on more quickly than truly humanly possible as they grieve the loss of their spouse while often still raising their children, who are suffering, too.

I dug deeper to find more meaning in the Gospel. I stumbled on a reflection in the Hallow App: ‘Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit the orphans and widows in their affliction’ (James 1:27). God is the Defender of widows and Father to the fatherless. He keeps them close to His heart.

I remember trying to keep things together when my life went in many directions after my dad died—supporting my daughter’s hearing loss, guiding my other kids who were suffering, too, and caring for my home and marriage while grieving the loss of my dad. It was painful.

But I knew my mom needed extra love and support, even if it cost me more. No matter their story, she lost her husband and was now a widow. I would often show up with her favorite milkshake, a cheesesteak, or flowers from my garden. I realized the little things always meant so much to her in her loneliness and pain.

I prayed for wisdom about being a widow.

God gave me a Gospel, a beautiful reflection to let me know our faith calls us to support widows and orphans, and a friend who said yes to sending flowers to me to let me know she cared for this widow.”*

Layered Grief

Those words mean something different now. I didn’t know then. I know even more now.

Widowhood is a layered grief. We grieve the loss of our husband, and we also quietly mourn the loss of who we were with him—the life we built, the rhythms we knew, the future we assumed without thinking. That ache is not visible, but it is constant.

Like a cutting set in water, widowhood leaves us suspended — no longer rooted where we once stood, not yet fully planted where we will belong. At first the change is fragile and unseen: a small, trembling shoot in a bowl, the slow, patient forming of new roots. With steady, tender presence — the friend who brings flowers, the hand that simply holds — that cutting will take root. It does not erase the place it came from; it carries the memory of those roots forward as it grows toward new life.

As St. Gianna Beretta Molla once said, “Love is the most beautiful sentiment the Lord has put into the soul of men and women.” Grief is the cost of that love. It lingers because love lingers.

This is why we must be careful not to put a widow on a pedestal. Widowhood is not a mantle we would ever choose, nor a title we desire. It is the wake of devastating loss. In time, purpose may rise; we should not expect them to step into a role we create for them. They are already trying to find themselves in the rubble.

Strength may surface. But at the beginning—and for a long while after—the only thing we should expect of a widow is that she breathes, that she survives, that she somehow learns to navigate a new life without the one person she built her life with.

Reverence, Compassion, Respect

A widow should never be asked to justify her grief or fight for it to be met with dignity. Grief, in all its forms, deserves to be honored with respect. You do not have to be a widow to deserve that respect—every grief is worthy of tenderness and respect. No one who has not walked this road should set a standard for how quickly or how beautifully or however it’s done.

If you find yourself wondering what to do, choose compassion. Choose silence over criticism, prayer over judgment, presence over noise. Sometimes the simplest gestures carry the greatest mercy.

Honor a widow not by lifting her onto a pedestal, but by surrounding her with compassion. Let her be human—held, unhurried, and allowed to mourn.

HEATHER LEBANO

Honor a widow not by lifting her onto a pedestal, but by surrounding her with compassion. Let her be human—held, unhurried, and allowed to mourn. Do not make her a symbol or measure her strength; instead, sit beside her and make space for the grief she carries, both seen and unseen. Chances are she is carrying more than you can see. And may the God who defends the widow keep her close.

In a post last year I wrote: “Sometimes, it’s the smallest gestures that hold the most meaning—when someone truly notices your pain and responds with care and love, it becomes a balm for the soul. The detail of a Blue Heron can do/be that for me.”

Oh, to be see, known, loved.

Grief is tender and layered. It reshapes us in ways often unseen, and it asks more of the heart than words can hold. This is part of why I write—to give shape to what so often feels unspeakable, and to offer a soft place to land for those carrying sorrow.

In the Bible, we are called to support the widow and the orphan. How each of us is called to do that is not spelled out in detail, and there is no guidebook for how to walk with someone in this place. What I know is this: the experience of one widow cannot be measured against another’s. Each grief is entirely unique, yet each is wholly seen by God.

May we live this call with reverence and dignity.
May we walk gently with those who mourn.
May we honor grief in all its forms with respect, tenderness, and presence.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Matthew 5:4

Footnote:
This post is written in honor of every widow I have encountered both before and since losing my husband. For those who have gone before me and quietly shown the way, and for those who have trusted me with your struggles, pain, heartbreak, and even your hard-won triumphs in the face of loss—thank you. You are seen, known, and loved.

I pray you are always met with reverence, compassion, and love and the tender support you deserve.

One more note:
The image of the plant cutting in the bowl of water, with roots slowly forming, felt like the most perfect photo. As a widow clawing her way out of the ashes of loss, I see myself in that fragile cutting — suspended, yet still alive, slowly finding strength to grow again.

I have a friend who shows up in the way I described here. She has often given me gifts that remind me of my roots, supporting my growing forward while never being afraid to give me space, to listen intently, and to lean in when I have shed a tear.

This post is also a quiet thank you to that friend—and to those friends—who have reminded me that even in widowhood’s ache, roots can grow again. Like tender gardeners, they have offered gifts that point me back to where I’ve come from, given me space when silence was needed, and leaned in when tears came. Through their presence, I’ve learned that friendship itself can be a vessel of God’s reverence, compassion, and love.