How Do You Want to Be Remembered

“Take a few minutes to sit in silence—to ponder and pray about how you want to be remembered,” Father said at the end of the homily during the Vigil Mass for All Souls.

Within minutes, I knew that despite this not being our usual mass, this was where we were meant to be.

This homily felt as if God were speaking only to me. He was—and doesn’t He always speak so personally to each of us? He was speaking to every person sitting in that church, each heart hearing what it most needed. May we have ears to hear and eyes to see, for He is an intimate and personal Father.

Earlier that day, the conversation around our table with the kids and their friends had been much the same—about how He is a good, good Father. We talked about how we want to live, how we love, and what our relationship with Jesus looks like. And how it’s so easy to get caught up in the world’s version of success—power, riches, recognition, and things that fade away.

It always comes back to relationship, to walking with our Good and Faithful Father.

The homily and the priest’s own moments of surprising and holy vulnerability became a living witness to how God shows His face. Not always at the most convenient times, but always at the most needed ones. Maybe we just don’t always recognize it in the moment.

Given our earlier conversation around my kitchen table, it felt like a wink, one of those unmistakable moments when the Holy Spirit moves through hearts and threads our stories together.

The minute I stepped into the church, I could feel His presence. We don’t usually go to the Saturday vigil, and I was already grateful to be there, especially after I saw the priest who would be celebrating this mass. It was clear the Spirit was moving through the heart of the elderly, holy priest whom I knew and had past encounters with Christ through his words.

It’s like this seasoned priest has celebrated countless Masses through the years, yet I got the feeling this one touched him differently. The Lord used this moment to reach him deeply. After Mass, he mentioned to me that he wasn’t exactly thrilled with God’s timing, as he fought back tears during the Feast of All Souls Mass.

It touched me, too, as I sat there pondering the souls of those I love—especially my husband, who left this earth far too soon on April 28, 2023, just two and a half years ago. Conversations about death and dying sting a bit more and stir a cascade of emotions when you’re praying for the soul of your husband and both of your parents. There I was, in this same church on the Feast of All Souls—where I have mourned his passing, celebrated his life (and my mom’s) and prayed for his soul—with my oldest daughter seated beside me on a day of remembrance, only six months and a few days after his death.

I quickly scanned the church and noticed those—the Church Militant—in the pews stirring, uncertain what was happening when the priest paused to gather himself. I could see and hear that he was fighting back tears—the gift of tears from the Holy Spirit for others to witness.

How poignant that he asked the church to consider how we want to be remembered. Maybe he began to ponder this himself. Only he and God will ever know what transpired at that moment. But, I think I’ll remember that mass for a long time to come.

I found myself overcome by the gift of tears, too, thinking about the conversations Jon and I had about how he wanted to be remembered as he was facing the tender end days of life.

Roots and wings.
Branches and vines.

I looked down the pew to see it full of young adults—my kids and their friends—wondering what this moment might be stirring in their hearts. I can’t quite capture in words how deeply it touched me. The absence of their father, the weight of responsibility for their hearts—to give them roots and wings—over the years, and the sacred gift of being chosen to be their mom.

After mass, and again this morning before departing for school, the kids and I spoke about the beauty of that moment of silence and the message it conveys, all of which echoed our conversation at breakfast earlier that morning.

And later in mass, as I sat with it all, that I noticed another gentle thread. Another wink for me when I remembered that this same priest had celebrated the mass at a retreat where I was invited to be a speaker and share some of my faith journey, just weeks before my mom passed, and as my husband’s tumor was beginning to show more consistent growth. Such a time to be sharing about clinging to faith and the cross.

The uncertainty was tangible, and the sting of death felt close then. The theme that day was Abide—rooted in John 15:1-8:

“I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.”

Turns out, without the retreat planners realizing it, the Gospel theme chosen for that retreat was the very same Gospel proclaimed at this Mass. And when we read further in that passage, we hear the call to love as the Father has loved us.

“I have loved you just as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love.
If you keep my commandments, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my own joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.
This is my commandment: love one another, as I have loved you.
No one can have greater love than to lay down his life for his friends.
You are my friends if you do what I command you.”

That connection felt like a holy reminder—that abiding and loving are inseparable, that to remain in Him is to love as He loves.

It was truly a wink. So many times surrounding those days, I wondered what life would be like without my mom—and then without my husband. I prayed that faith would get me through. I did my best to cling to hope and knew, without question, that faith and trust in God, and the love I had for my husband, my mom, and our children would carry me, too. That was the message I shared at the retreat.

Looking back, I can see how that word—abide—was already preparing me. It was as if the Lord were whispering, “Stay close. Remain in Me.” Even as life shifted and grief drew near, that invitation became an anchor.

And as Father spoke last night during Mass, another familiar verse stirred quietly in my heart—a gentle reminder of my mom and what she taught me: to trust that the Lord is always with me.

It felt like another golden thread, this time as the Psalm was sung.

Psalm 23, the verse and prayer I have known by heart like my own name and recited for as long as I can remember.

“The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.
Though I walk through the valley of darkness, I fear no evil, for You are with me.
Beside restful waters, You lead me; You restore my soul.”

Psalm 23 has constantly reminded me that God goes before us, beside us, and behind us. It’s a psalm my mom loved—a promise she lived. A quiet echo reminding me that, even in the valley, He leads us to restful waters and refreshes our souls.

It is a verse I prayed on repeat when life felt scary, uncertain, or when I found myself in a valley of darkness and death, and wept.

That prayer shaped how I see life and death. It reminded me that choosing Jesus—the Way, the Truth, and the Life—is the only way to truly live. I am so grateful my mom instilled this in me.

Over the years, I have heard others speak often of the importance of “remembering your death”—Memento Mori—as a sacred reminder of how we want to live. Not in a dark way, but as an invitation to stay awake to what matters. To live in a way that reflects our relationship with God. To live each day with heaven in mind, holding close the truth that eternal glory is our true home and destiny.

I knew that eternal life was always our final destination, that this is not our final home. Only recently, as my husband was growing closer to God and journeying further down the narrow path, did it become more clear how important it is to understand, remembering our death is a reminder to love well and to stay close to God now. To know what THE MOST important legacy is that we want to live.

How do you want to live?

How do you want people to remember you?

That’s what I heard again in the priest’s voice last night—his gentle question echoing long after mass ended. How do we want to be remembered? The answer, I think, isn’t about accomplishment or legacy as the world defines it, but about love. It’s about how we live our relationship with God—how His love flows through us into the lives of others.

This past weekend, surrounded by seven young adults/teens striving to stay close to the Father’s heart, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful convergence of days—to witness God in them, to feel the thread of heaven through our shared stories of loss, grace, and hope. One of them said quietly, “I hope if I ever lose someone, I can remain as faithful and open-hearted and healthy in the loss as you all have.”

I quietly and humbly choked back tears.

Because the truth is, it has been very hard. Hard to live without my husband. And hard to no longer have my mom and dad here. Just as I imagine life is hard for every person who mourns someone they love. And we don’t just remember them on All Souls Day. We remember them everyday. It’s hard not to remember those we love and who have gone before us.

Just as the priest had to pause to gather himself during Mass, I have had to pause and collect myself a million times since April 28, 2023—the day the kids and I walked my husband, their father, into the arms of Jesus as Jon took his last breath on earth.

What a sacred gift it was to be present in that moment as he entered eternal life, and what a profoundly human ache to endure. The image of both sides of the veil clinging to Jesus is one I will never forget.

I imagined too many times what it might be like to lose my husband, but living it has been nothing like I ever expected.

It has been harder, more heart-wrenching, and holier than I could have dreamed.

I have said it often, and written about it, but I am still only half of myself. I probably always will be. Two became one, united in the Sacrament of Marriage.

I’m still not sure how I’ve made it through these past 2-1/2 years.

I think hope—hope in the Lord—is what carries me through most days. Maybe the mercy and grace of God have too. Not, maybe, but definitely.

But I know that how I live now matters. It matters more than ever.

Today—this moment, right here and now—is what matters.
And how we live and love matters most.

It matters so I can give my children the hope they need to keep going. So the children Jon and I brought into this world can continue to witness faith, hope, and love—even on their darkest days. This is how I want to be remembered: for having faith, showing hope, and offering love.

I fail often at being all that I want to be to the kids and others. I am doing my best…considering. Only Jesus is perfect at any of this. But God’s mercy, grace, and forgiveness sustain me.

Life is hard—for all of us. Every person carries a cross unseen by most.

It’s not lost on me that I first wrote about remembrance in the days Jon was dying—almost two years to the day from when my mom entered hospice. Love and loss have always been intertwined for me, both tracing back to the same invitation: Do This in Remembrance of Me.

To live remembering Him—Jesus.
To love in the way He loved, even through the ache of goodbye.

Love and loss are never far apart; they are the threads that weave heaven into the fabric of our days.

Love and loss are never far apart; they are the threads that weave heaven into the fabric of our days.
Heather lebano

Even Jesus’s life was marked by both the love that healed, forgave, and gathered, and the loss that came through surrender, betrayal, and the cross. His story reminds us that love and loss are not opposites but companions, joined in the mystery of redemption.

On this Feast of All Souls, may we remember those we love and those we pray for—the faithful departed who have gone before us, marked with the sign of faith. In the words of the Father’s pause to ponder, may we ask God to reveal to us how we want to be remembered and how we want to live.

May we remember, too, that life on earth is not our final destiny. We are all journeying home.

As we walk this narrow way, may we not be consumed by what fades—the wealth, the material, the temporary—but fix our hearts on what endures. We all return to dust, yet we are made for eternity.

So we pause and ask, quietly and honestly:
How do we want to be remembered?

Abide.
Faith. Hope. Love.

I want to be remembered for how I clung to faith, to hope, and to love as I walked in the valley of tears while I experienced the sting of earthly death.

Because love remains. Hope endures. And faith leads us home.

“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

I have prayed this prayer countless times for the soul of my husband and for all those dearly departed in my life.
I will never stop praying for him—for his soul—and for those who have gone before me.
And I pray that when my time has come, those I leave behind will remember to pray for all the Holy Souls in purgatory, too.

This post is written in loving memory of my husband, Jon; my mom, Janice; and my dad, John. There is not a day that goes by I don’t think of them and all that they each brought to my life and the love they gave to me.
May their souls rest in peace, and may they never stop praying for the kids and me.