Job, a Widow, Waiting and Hope—The Story Is Not Finished

The other day, I read a post that quoted the book of Job, paired with a caption that had me thinking.

“He so often chooses the humble, the overlooked, the ones shaped by hardship and quiet suffering—not to leave them there, but to lift them up in His perfect time. If you’re in a season that feels hidden, painful, or insignificant, don’t lose heart. God sees every tear, every unseen act of faith, every moment you kept going when it was hard. Your story is not finished.” (Shannon Centore)

The timing struck me. Just the day before, I had been talking with a friend about a writing project—one I know the Lord is calling me to write. Job resurfacing so quickly felt like more than coincidence, especially because, in that same conversation, I had shared about my early grief journey—only months into life after losing my husband.

It was the first holiday season.

The first round of birthdays.

My first wedding anniversary without Jon.

These past few weeks, I have been praying a lot about how the Lord wants to use me—and my writing—in this coming year. I know there is something tugging at my heart. In some ways, I’ve known for a long time it may be a project for such a time as this. I’m not trying to be mysterious about that project, but when you’re discerning a project you believe you are called to create or write, you have to be certain it is truly yours to carry before you share it.

Only in God’s time will I know if this writing comes to life in a way that bears fruit—offering hope and healing to others, and to myself. I ask for prayers as I walk through this discernment.

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton once said, “I resign the present and the future to Him, who is the author and conductor of both.”

Those words feel like a prayer for this season. 

Maybe Job has something to do with it. 

Maybe this story from two years ago reminds me how God often uses ordinary people to do extraordinary work for Him.

Maybe St. Elizabeth Ann Seton’s feast reminds of the journey I have walked. 

Maybe, like the caption I read, I am beginning to realize that God does see every tear, every unseen act of faith, every moment I kept going even when it was hard. Maybe my story—like yours—is not finished.

Here’s where Job came to light in my life.

Two years ago, on my wedding anniversary—the first without Jon—a long-time friend reached out to say they were thinking of me and sent anniversary sentiments. I told them the truth: that I was drowning in grief, trying to survive the weight of so many “firsts” after loss—the birthdays of our children, Thanksgiving, Christmas, our anniversary. None of it felt happy.

It was too much to hold all at once.

And yet, despite how unnatural it felt, we chose to host a small birthday celebration for my then eighteen-year-old. After years of caregiving, cancer, and survival, we were trying—haltingly—to keep living. I have read accounts of the church triumphant and militant who have walked through difficult journeys and kept going because they found hope despite their story.

That friend was there to celebrate the birthday two years ago. They had celebrated many milestone events with our family over the years. They knew how deeply we loved to celebrate, and how hard it was to do it this time without Jon. They knew Jon and watched our family grow and have continued to watch our family keep going. They knew why it mattered that we kept showing up.

So when they later messaged me on our anniversary and said, “Happy Anniversary, I am thinking of you” it stung. Don’t get me wrong I absolutely appreciated the message. There was just nothing happy about it—just as Thanksgiving wasn’t, or Christmas, or the birthdays. The weight of that season—dark, lonely, heavy beyond explanation—sat on my chest every day. Some days it still does. The smile, the laughs, the dancing, could barely mask the weight of grief.

And yet, I was grateful.

Grateful the friend acknowledged something that still belonged to Jon and me. The very essence of our union. The very reason the loss was so monumental. We were joined in holy matrimony. Two became one. And when Jon died, part of me died with him. That is what the death of a spouse feels like. It still does—even now, after walking through our third full cycle of holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries without him. 

When I shared with that friend how much I was suffering, they responded in a way I did not expect. They said that by sharing our story on the occasion I had, I was helping them—and likely others. And “Thanks for being a physical example of heavenly perspective.” Insert tears. And that perspective mattered.

They said no one wants to walk through this kind of suffering, but eventually all of us will. And somehow, even in the middle of it, I was offering hope.

They needed that hope in their own life right then. It helped them keep going. I didn’t want to hear any of it, but I was open to what they had to say. They were a safe place to land and let my grief flow.

Then the friend called me.

We talked for a long time. I cried. We laughed. They listened. They sat with my pain. They spoke about Job and Jon and pointed everything back to God.

They didn’t try to fix me or rush me through grief. They didn’t know the road of widowhood, but they said that if they or their spouse were ever called to walk it—and inevitably one of them would be—I would be the example they would look to. I didn’t wear a badge of honor after that.

What I felt instead was a quiet peace that somehow came from God—that maybe my suffering was not going to waste. That it could be turned into a meaning and purpose.

I am still humbled by that thought—of being a witness—not because I think I’ve done this “widowing” well, but because it reminds me how much our lives speak even when we don’t mean them to. Or how our most painful moments can be a witness of hope, and maybe the hope we need as a model for ourselves and/or for our children as we keep going. 

The friend then told me my story was like Job’s.

So much taken.

So much suffering.

And yet still clinging to God.

Still holding onto faith and hope.

I pray I remain as faithful and courageous as Job. I pray I remain faithful and courage in my calling. 

Later in conversation, my tears turned in in a blog post, I told the friend that my life was a Psalm. We joked, that should become a title to a blog post. And it did.

At the time, submerged in grief, I could hardly understand or see how anything I was doing—or not doing—could give anyone hope. It’s not that I felt hopeless, I just didn’t want to feel the depth of pain or endure suffering that I was experiencing. And then I united my suffering over and over to Jesus on the Cross.  

As I look back, I can see how God has been at work in my story—and I share that carefully, without rushing or bypassing anyone else’s grief. None of us should want that for those we love who are grieving. I never wanted anyone to brush past mine or offer too much encouragement, because what I’ve learned in this grief journey is that there is no way around it, only through it. Grief asks to be acknowledged and walked through in our own way, as we honor both our loss and our love. We need people to sit with us—in the fire, sometimes just outside the door—at the slow and steady pace healing requires. And along the way, we may lose people who are impatient, unsafe, or unaware of what grief truly asks of us.

Maybe I understand a little more now.

Maybe I’m beginning to understand that while we don’t get to choose the circumstances that shape our lives, we do have a choice in how we live within them—sometimes by lifting our eyes, even briefly, toward heaven.

Maybe there is something about courage and calling in this and being obedient to where The Lord is calling me.

Suffering remains a mystery.

“Afflictions are the steps to heaven.”

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton 

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton reminds us that faithfulness doesn’t mean being spared from loss—it means trusting God enough to keep walking with Him through it.

Most days, I still don’t understand why I was chosen to walk this path—learning how to live without my spouse, learning how to parent my children without their dad here on earth, learning how to find myself in the rubble as we become new people in the slow work of rebuilding, learning how to take what I have been given and offer it back to God for His glory.

But I am beginning to understand that when we walk through deeply painful places, we can allow God to use our suffering. We can become a voice that points back to Him. We can be a soft place to land for those who walk the same path. We can be an example—or a quiet teacher—for those who want to learn how to support the people they love who are navigating grief. At some point in time we all will lose someone we love and experience grief.

And this much I know, as Job knew: the Lord never leaves us.

He never leaves us.

My story is not finished—and yours is not either. The Great Author is still at work.

He is making all things new.

I didn’t wear a badge of honor—what I felt instead was a quiet peace that maybe my suffering was not going to waste.

heather Lebano

A note to and about those who mourn.

If you are walking a new journey of grief, take all the time you need to heal.

If you are supporting someone who is, give them all the space and time they need—and still let them know you are near. Short, simple messages matter: I’m thinking of you. I love you. No need to respond.

And give them grace when they can’t be all you ask of them, as they find their way forward and learn who they are becoming in the midst of the mess.

If you’d like to read more reflections on suffering, grief, widowhood, or any related themes, you can explore past posts using the search bar to find topics that may speak to you.

My story is not finished—and yours is not either.
The Great Author is still at work.

Heather lebano