In the Rearview: What Acceptance Helped Me See

“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”—St. Francis of Assisi

I had to drive my daughter’s car on Friday.

My son had come home from college for a quick trip. His car was blocking mine. As I backed out of the driveway, I caught sight of the defrost lines and the University Stickers and Alumni sticker on her rear window—and I chuckled.

I had wanted to share the exciting news with you.

Catching a glimpse in the rearview mirror seemed like the perfect way to share it:

My youngest was accepted to her first-choice college. And to receive the news on the day after she landed her first ever aerial in dance. Congratulations to my girl for a job well done during some of the hardest seasons of life.

I never doubted she would be accepted. And it makes sense that her first choice was her only choice, even though she did consider a few other options.

But it does leave me proud and feeling all kinds of emotions.

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.”

2 Corinthians 5:7

Looking back in the rearview mirror made me think about her decision to choose this school.

With two graduates (one with her BS and MBA, and one with his BS in Education, now pursuing his master’s), one enrolled, and now our youngest accepted, being a Franny will be part of their story and our family legacy.

Fitting for siblings who have always been so close—growing, supporting, encouraging, and cheering each other on. A gift I’m grateful to witness.

Our Franciscan story began long before official visits and acceptance letters. It started in the spring of 2020 when both Sophia and I enrolled in online courses. I started pursuing a Master’s in Theology. She enrolled online because her first college did not honor the accommodations they promised for her hearing loss. She needed somewhere to breathe and regroup after she withdrew, and she didn’t want to waste time. Franciscan fit the bill.

Then the pandemic hit.
Then their dad got sick.

But in the summer of 2021, because she longed for the college campus experience, we visited the Steubenville campus—our now home away from home—and we all fell in love. Jon especially. He told me that if he had known about the school when he was younger, he would’ve been there in a heartbeat. He loved the heartbeat of the place—faith and reason woven together. No school is perfect, but this one held truth, beauty, and goodness at its center. I felt the same. My son later made the last-minute decision to go where he was called to pursue his college degree.

I can’t help but feel grateful that Jon walked those hills with us, even if only for a short time. He helped move the kids in twice—once fully present, and once barely able to stay awake as the tumor progressed and his stroke slowed him down. It was hard moving in the third kiddo, knowing her dad never got to be there—to help her move in, to congratulate her on her acceptance, or to watch her walk across the stage. And it’s hard knowing our youngest will never have those moments with him either.

It is comforting to know that each of them chose this school. And while their dad will never see any of them walk across the stage and receive their degree, he gave his full approval. I do have particular, sweet memories of him on campus with us.

What a rearview moment.

During Mass for this year’s move-in weekend, I remember sitting in the field house thinking how sad I was that Jon would not see any of the kids graduate and wouldn’t even “know” they were there, walking those same hills and paths one day. But I also remember sitting there with him when he told me why this would have been an incredible choice for him and why he was thrilled the kids were spreading their wings. So it brings deep comfort that each of them still chose the Franciscan path. That their dad would know this one campus, which turned out to be the school for all of them. Their dad won’t get to see the degrees, but he gave his full approval. He loved so much about the school. It became home for them—a steady place even when everything felt uncertain. And in many ways, it is becoming a legacy for us.

Franciscan held us in our hardest days. One of our friar friends—whom my oldest first met during her online semester and we later met on our initial campus visit, and who had prayed over Jon every time he saw him—drove hours early on the morning of Jon’s funeral to concelebrate the Mass. Several friends made the five-hour trip, too. And just ten days after we buried Jon, our oldest graduated from college. So much weight when we should have been celebrating. A holy, heavy stretch of time—but a safe and soft place to land through it all.

Looking back in the rearview this morning, I found myself quickly reviewing the last five years of college. So much time has passed. So much life lived. So many roots put down in Steubenville. So much wisdom and experience that have formed the kids and me.

When I read the final draft of my daughter’s admissions essay—her personal statement about how faith and intellectual growth (and challenges) shaped her young life—I wept. Franciscan has been woven into her story for years. She wrote that she had wanted to attend since seventh grade, watching her siblings grow spiritually and academically while walking those same hills and paths. I am not sure I knew she wanted to attend that long ago, but it makes sense. She saw her siblings thriving even when life handed them such awful things as a cancer journey and a stroke, and the loss of several loved ones. My youngest saw the right people—friends, friars, professors, households, community—supporting them and me. They became the family we needed when the void was vast, when life grew harder in the wake of loss. She saw that Jesus was present in the halls and in the Eucharist and that the Gospel was lived with purpose and intention.

I’ve homeschooled her since the middle of fifth grade. I’ve had the gift of time with her—teaching, guiding, witnessing her become who she is. There were seasons where I fell short, and at times, I have regret, but cancer caused that. Seasons taken from us by circumstances outside our control. But I would do it all again. Even with the challenging parts. Especially the challenging parts. Because in homeschooling my girls, and her, I’ve gained more wisdom from them than they will ever know. And more wisdom than I probably ever imparted to them.

And that wisdom will keep revealing itself in the years ahead.

Reading her essay broke my heart and left me speechless—not only because of what she endured, but because of the wisdom she found inside the suffering. She leaned even more into her faith.

She knew where to turn when everything else felt uncertain and when I fell short. But that is the greatest lesson…

Humans fall short.
God never leaves.
And He keeps writing beautiful stories, even in the valley of tears.

With her permission, here is a portion of what she wrote:

“The pages in my journal are not filled with questions asking God why this was happening or begging Him to heal my dad. Instead, they are filled with prayers asking God to give me grace through the journey and to keep giving me grace for whatever was ahead…”

“Every week, my sister and I went to Mass. It was not always easy. My sister did not drive, and my mom was caring for my dad. But every week we were still in those pews. My mom would drive us and then wait with my dad in the car because he was too sick to go inside. After Mass, the priest would bring them Communion. We needed to be there, not just because it was a church obligation, but because our hearts needed it. Mass became something steady when everything at home felt uncertain.“

“I never asked God to answer my prayers exactly how I wanted, but I did ask Him to show me that He was there, and He did, over and over again. Even after my dad passed away when I was fifteen, I never lost my faith. Instead, it grew. ‘To the heights’—Verso l’alto—was our family motto. My dad’s cancer journey became our family’s journey to holiness and his path to peace and healing.“

“Those moments taught me to seek truth through both faith and reason, which is why I want to study philosophy and learn how God’s wisdom shapes our lives.”

“My prayer journal still sits on my nightstand, filled with new prayers for grace, courage, and peace. I believe Franciscan will be where I find those answers. The pages of my journal are still being written, and I trust that Franciscan will be the next chapter God writes with me.”

What a grace.
What a legacy.
What a story God continues to unfold in our family.

And it looks like, since receiving her acceptance letter yesterday, Franciscan will be her next chapter. She could not be more excited about it. I am too. And while Jon will not have known her choice, we know he knew and loved the school they each chose.

That gives me comfort and peace. I pray it brings the kids comfort and peace, too, when they start to miss their dad and all that he continues to miss in their lives. She may even spend the next several days on campus when her brother drives her back. Remember the car blocking mine in the driveway?

I am grateful I had to take my daughter’s car today. It was one of those moments of clarity—you’re thankful for the detour, because maybe you wouldn’t have caught the view in the mirror otherwise.

I am excited and beyond proud of my daughter’s acceptance into college.

I wondered why I felt called to share this story. It’s not for any accolades about where my daughter will be going to college. It’s more about sharing that when we think of the heartache we all endure—when I think about how their dad won’t be here to experience these milestone moments: graduating high school (he’ll have missed two), graduating college (he will miss them all), the weddings, the future grandchildren—I can still see the threads showing how Jon is woven through, even though his physical presence is monumentally missed and nothing will ever be a substitute for him. And maybe that’s why I felt called to share this—because this is the ache we all carry. Maybe yours isn’t the same as mine, but grief and longing visit every heart in their own way.

When I look at the wisdom my daughter shared, in the heartache and devastating circumstances they lived through with his diagnosis and death, I see how they find comfort in the steadiness of their faith.

This matters.
This is why even if I regret where I have fallen short, I know God filled the gap with mercy and grace. This is why we cling to our faith and to the cross.

Every story God writes comes with suffering and sorrow, but there can still be hope and celebration. We just have to look for the threads. And maybe we won’t notice where God (and our loved ones) were all along until we look in the rearview mirror and read between the lines.

Every story God writes comes with suffering and sorrow, but there can still be hope and celebration. We just have to look for the threads. And maybe we won’t notice where God (and our loved ones) were all along until we look in the rearview mirror and read between the lines.

Heather Lebano