No One is Coming to Save Us—Except He is

“No one is coming to save us.”

My daughter and I both said the same words recently—without planning, without knowing the other had been carrying them, too.

It was not said in despair. We were not looking for pity. We just naming something grief, life, and adulthood was slowly teaching us.

There are seasons when you realize that the people you once thought would come…don’t. They fall silent. They don’t know how. They don’t stay. And somehow, you learn how to keep standing anyway. You do your best to reconcile—with God and forgive—for yourself. So not to become bitter.

I used to believe that if you were honest enough, vulnerable enough, clear enough about what you needed, help would come. I believed that if you asked, people would respond with mercy.

But caregiving taught me otherwise. Loss taught me more.

There were moments when Jon was sick—moments when I did ask for help. Specific help. Necessary help. Not favors or luxuries, or anything extra. Things we needed to be safe and well cared for. To move. To eat. To live with dignity. As he was fighting for his life.

These are tough stories to share.

I remember asking for a simple railing to be installed so Jon he could steady himself. I wasn’t trying to remodel my home; I was trying to make it safe for a man who could barely walk and who I’d have to help up and down the steps for the rest of his days. I was only trying to give my husband something solid to hold onto in a very quick amount of time before he came home from rehab.

Then I needed help finishing a bathroom that Jon had started and would never finish, not because I wanted my house to be pretty (I mean, I did when we started it years before). But this became more about survival. He was never able to finish it, and that upset him a great deal, because he felt like he let me down and that others had let him down when he knew I needed help finishing it.

There were people who could have helped. People who were capable. People who said they would. People I thought would come when I asked.

But they didn’t. They never showed up again.

And then—in the middle of all of that—Good Samaritans, perfect strangers, who eventually became friends, showed up and helped me.

They were not the ones I thought would come. Not the ones who knew our story best. Not the ones who I prayed would come around. But those with no obligation, no history, no reason to step in—who simply did because they wanted to help. And boy, did they get the gift of time with Jon because of that.

There were also meals I asked for—because they were some of the only foods he could tolerate and maybe I needed, out of comfort—and later those requests were laughed at. Dismissed. Mocked. Thrown back at me, as if needing care in the smallest gesture of a meal had somehow made me unreasonable or high maintenance during a moment when my husband was fighting for his life.

As if asking for mercy or support had been a burden.

Those moments leave a mark.

They teach you something very quietly: asking is risky. Hoping is risky. Depending on people can cost more than you can afford to lose especially when you were holding on by a thread.

Over time, you begin to carry a sentence in your heart:

No one is coming to save me.

In a way, that becomes a kind of survival. Because it’s the truth, and maybe a painful experience, maybe abandonment.

You learn how to do the hard things yourself. You stop asking. You stop expecting. You trust your own hands because too many others have let go.

Yet—God has always been writing another part of the story too.

Even as I learned to stop expecting help, there was another truth quietly unfolding alongside my grief.

Which is why what happened this past Monday—in the middle of a snowstorm clean-up—undid me.

Two days away from being discharged from PT for my back, feeling strong and yet still a bit timid, I stood shivering in my driveway staring at a mountain of snow I could not safely move. There was no way I could clear it without risking another injury. I had been careful for weeks, actually three months, and I knew one wrong movement could set me back again. I just did not need another setback.

It was quite overwhelming to see my daughter want to do it all in that moment knowing it would be too much for her, too. We even had taken some time the day before to shovel the early snow as the snow fell and temperatures dropped.

But then I did what I have learned to do.

I closed my tearful, weary eyes and prayed.

I prayed in desperation.

“Please, God. Send help.”

I knew I couldn’t get this done without hurting my back. It felt a bit like my recent blog post about betwixt and between coming to life—learning it’s okay to be carried and ask for help, even if God was the one I would ask. In His providence, He always shows up for me, even if it’s not as I expect. I already put in a few calls hoping a plow to come by—no response.

Then someone appeared.

A man I did not know. A neighbor. A stranger.

A neighbor I had never met, even after living here for two decades.

He sat in his car at the end of the driveway, a passenger beside him, both smiling and leaning toward us. With the sun beaming behind the car, I could barely make out their faces. I had no idea who it was. Maybe I saw halos.

He was talking to my daughter, and the sound of her voice told me help was on its way. Tears filled my eyes.

With a pep in his voice, he promised he’d be right back.

Without being asked. Without knowing my story. He simply stopped and joyfully offered to help. They said, “You cannot do this alone.”

I walked into the garage and let the tears fall. Someone was coming to help—maybe save me from a fall or injury while lifting that heavy snow.

And just like that, he came right back

He returned with his snow blower, while his friend carried a gas can in case they needed more fuel.

I had my own gas, I told him. He said, “Not to worry, I got you,” and just like that, he began clearing my driveway, which was heavy with icy snow. Like the weight of a cross I have carried.

We worked together as I cleared the cars and the mounds of ice; he powered through joyfully, helping. My daughter kept his friend company as they exchanged many stories for those moments. I wondered who needed whom at that moment more.

Something about them reminded me of the team Jon and I used to be. The way the guy showed up reminded me of Jon, who would just show up to clear a driveway (with the snowblower that wasn’t working for me), to unload groceries, to do things for others. That feels like a lifetime ago. But Jon was that guy.

Only later did I learn something that undid me all over again.

This neighbor has walked a familiar road. Caregiving. Loss. A story not so different from mine.

But he did not know my story when he came.

He did not know how close I was to tears, though he saw tears fill my eyes again when I thanked him as he walked his snowblower back to his house, while I carried the gas can for him.

Just like the Good Samaritan. Just like the neighbor, we all aspire to be. Just like the neighbor we hope shows up.

Last summer, I wrote about neighbors and the parable of The Good Samaritan, which has followed me through grief. Grief has taught me that a neighbor is not always the one who lives closest, though this one doesn’t live far. A neighbor is the one who chooses nearness, who notices, who pauses, who moves toward mercy, who stops at your driveway after the snowstorm.

In that reflection, I wrote:

“Today, that neighbor took the time. They stopped to offer love and mercy.
So, if you are, like me, wondering, “Who is our neighbor?”

It might be the grieving widow down the street.
The solo parent quietly navigating a loss.
It might be the person who is a caregiver to a dying loved one.
The person sitting in the same pew who hasn’t said much—but is carrying more than we know.
It might be someone who just needs us to stop. To see. To stay.

The Good Samaritan didn’t ask if the man on the road was ready, deserving, or easy to help. He simply moved toward mercy.

And Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”

We are called to be Good Samaritans and love our Neighbor.

We are called to stop.
Not perfectly.
Just faithfully.
Because love—real love—takes time.
And presence is the holiest Christ-like gift we can offer.”

The message is clear.

The Good Samaritan did not ask if the man on the road was ready, deserving, or easy to help. He did not ask how long the care would take or whether someone else should handle it. He simply stopped.

Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”

Monday, that neighbor took the time and did likewise. Like Jesus would. Like Jesus does.

The parable didn’t feel like a distant story from Scripture or like a symbol. It felt like snow boots on a driveway. Like quiet help I prayed for and answered in an instant. Like love in motion.

It made me ask the question again:

Who is our neighbor?

It is the grieving widow down the street. The solo parent who quietly navigates loss while guiding her kids. The caregiver walking beside a dying loved one. The one sitting in the same pew who smiles and doesn’t say much—but is carrying more than we know.

It is the one who may seem strong but is quietly struggling to lift the mountain of things, including heavy fresh snow…

And it might be someone who once asked for help and learned not to ask again.

We are called to be Good Samaritans. We are called to love our neighbor.

Heather Lebano

We are called to be Good Samaritans. We are called to love our neighbor.

We are called to stop at the driveway or wherever they are needed. We don’t have to do it perfectly. We just have to do it faithfully.

Because love does take time. And as I have said so often on this grief journey, presence is the most Christ-like gift we can offer.

For a long time now, I have believed a very honest (and humbling) truth.

No one is coming to save me.

In a sense, that is true. I get it, people go back to their lives after the funeral. And I do too, but in a life forever altered by loss and I am doing my best to keep up and keep going.

And no one is coming to save us.

No one I know. No one I can depend on in the way I once did. That breaks my heart. Maybe it’s because I know my husband was once that person for me and sometimes for others.

But God is always showing up. He saves me every day in many ways.

He sees. He hears. He knows exactly when we are at the edge of our strength.

And sometimes—often—He saves us through the hands of strangers.

Through neighbors with shovels. Through quiet obedience. Through Good Samaritans we did not know to look for. Through the Body of Christ. It’s in these moments—when help arrives in unexpected forms—that I see what it truly means to be part of the Body of Christ in action.

This is what it means to be a neighbor: to stop, to see, and to move toward mercy.

God is good.

And there are so many Good Samaritans in this world.

Look for them.

They are there.

God is there.

And somehow, in the way only God can manage…

It may seem that no one is coming to save you.

Except He is. Always.

“I lift up my eyes toward the mountains;
whence shall help come to me?
My help comes from the LORD,
the maker of heaven and earth.“

Psalm 121:1–2

A Call to Mercy

From that same reflection, Who is My Neighbor and the Good Samaritan I wrote this as a call to action. I thought it was fitting too:

Is there someone in your life who needs you to stop, to stay, to notice?

Not to fix, but to tend—to gently care for their heart with mercy.

Maybe it looks like shoveling a driveway, offering a meal, helping mend a fence, or taking on a small project that requires extra strength or skill.

We already know what to do.
We have the heart for it. God made us for love.

May we stop and make the time.

We know what love and mercy require.
May we be willing to offer it—and go and do likewise.

Presence is the most Christ-like gift we can offer.

Heather lebano