To Love Someone Home

I often write on the 28th. It’s a date woven into our story, one we will forever hold special in our hearts. It’s when we loved someone home. That was 33 months ago, when Jon went home.

Today, instead of celebrating a quiet victory—being discharged from physical therapy, strong from hard work—I find myself needing to be home. Fortunately, resilience and stronger, I was discharged yesterday. The anticipation of returning strength is overshadowed by a deeper, unexpected ache.

I didn’t expect to share today that we loved our Little Buddy, Clyde Vader, home.

He came to us 10 years ago on Good Friday. We just celebrated his 10th birthday on January 15th.

So this is our 2016 memory—that trending thing. What a season of joy it was to welcome home this “rabbit, chicken, pig” dog who who quickly stole our hearts and many treats and food off the table and out of our Easter Baskets. That boy was fast. And those chompers could not be opened one he clamped down. He brought so much fun, chaos and laughter to our lives. He was faster than his little legs knew as he zoomied through our yard, house and hearts. Though he had hair more than fur, and wasn’t exactly cuddly, he was just the best to cuddle up next to you when you sat on the sofa. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. that was our stubborn mule of a boy Clyde, Like when he whined and scratched or screamed at the freezer until he got another ice cube. Or scratched or threw himself at the door to come in. But he was always a gentleman and stepped out of the way for the ladies, Bonnie and Rue, to let them in first. He was the best companion, friend and dog. He clearly taught rue to scratch at the door. She is doing that right now. Long live the King.

I cannot believe we raised him from that sweet, little face in Jon’s hand to the most beautiful, regal, stoic face who literally was always a mess. Trust me we became best buds with the Vet who guided us once again with much tender care and love these last few years and days with Clyde’s ever high maintenance medical needs. This dude had like 9 lives. I am glad he is resting in peace, this week was rough.

Life surprises us: healing and heartbreak can arrive together, blurring hope and sorrow. What stays with me is how God gently enters these raw places—ordinary, beautiful, brutal moments where loss meets love.

The weight of losing those we love over these past few years feels heavy today. So much loss has shaped our days. This one was not unexpected; we saw it coming for days, maybe for months, or the last two years. we’d say “Please hold on Piggles until we get home.”

Still, it aches—a sharp, consuming pain. Just weeks ago, laughter filled our home for his 10th birthday. Now, all that love aches sharply, without warning.

The girls and I did our best to live life to the fullest while caring for Clyde in his final days this week. It felt like a small week of hospice—ordinary, gut-wrenching days of letting go again. He suffered very little. We suffered a lot. My daughters cared for him with extraordinary love in between work, school, and the chaos of a snowstorm. Sophia is quite the caregiver, they all have learned how to care for the dying. Isabelle stayed by his side through this rough days.

The kids who were meant to come home this weekend loved him from hours away, doing their best through FaceTime. Technology is a gift, but it doesn’t replace the ache of one last goodbye. Piggles did his best to hold on, we are grateful he isn’t suffering. Good thing Clyde —and his stinky-self—spent Christmas break sleeping in Olivia’s bed and hanging with Ian on the sofa during the winter days.

There is so much to say about the way these kids love their dogs. I have so many stories, but not enough headspace to gather them and share. I want to share about lessons learned in training puppies and having a house full of dog joy and kids toys. It brings so much life. This home has seen so much beauty and life. In time, I will share more.

I’ve written before that we rarely know when the last will be, until it is.

Yesterday, while carrying all of this, I listened and wept through a breathtaking homily at the funeral of two young souls from Franciscan. The Gospel was the Wedding Feast at Cana—my favorite Gospel, my favorite mystery of the Rosary. Mary notices the need. She tells her Son. They need the miracle now. They need you. And Jesus responds—not just with wine, but with abundance.

Father Dave spoke about Jesus and that “the wine that never runs out.” Jesus is the wine. A love that does not abandon. A presence that does not disappear in sorrow. Two young adults, who dreamed of a future together, now live free of pain and suffering—remembered, mourned, and forever stitched into the lives of those who loved them and will mourn them until they reach eternity.

Grief does that. It stitches.

This week brought me back to a memory from Jon’s final days. The tender journey of caregiving and hospice. A friend showed up with sandwiches—manna for a long, exhausting road. We didn’t yet know those were Jon’s final days. I asked if he wanted to step inside and see him. He did and said a few brief words but was overcome with emotion.

I will never forget the message he left me with.

He told me how people gather around new life when a baby is born and that it beautiful and then said, this is also how death should be done. Quietly. Peacefully. With love. Right in the middle of the life being lived. Because we are meant to walk our loved ones into eternal life.

I will carry my friends sentiments in my heart forever. The image of dying this side of the veil and being born into eternal life will forever bring me hope for heaven.

It’s our job to walk our people home to heaven.

It’s our job to love our people home.

It’s our job to love our people home.

Heather Lebano

This week, that’s what we did again.

We loved him home.

We loved and walked Clyde “home” in the middle of school schedules, snow chaos, work deadlines, tired bodies, and tender hearts. Ordinary life didn’t stop. Grief simply moved in beside it.

He will be missed by many, including his new puppy sister, Rue. She didn’t leave his side much this week. She got to say her goodbyes this morning, too. I am sure Clyde was glad to see his sister Bonnie and of course, Jon and by now I am sure he has met the great Gracie Girl, who left a legacy in our family to always want another furry friend.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted. — Psalm 34:18

Loss has become an ordinary part of our lives now. Not because it hurts less, but because love keeps asking us to show up anyway.

Years ago, when our children were young, our first dog, Gracie, was taking her last breaths. It was late at night. Jon ran upstairs to wake me and tell me, “Heather, hurry, I think its time.” I have never been afraid to look death straight in the face. I don’t know what that says about me. I wish I didn’t know so much loss.

We ran downstairs to say our goodbyes and console one another. Gutted, she was our first “baby,” who we rescued from the SPCA and who rescued us from a few things in life.

I told him I thought we needed to wake the kids so they could say goodbye.

He hesitated, “Wake them up?” And then we agreed, because he and I knew we couldn’t hide from death or spare them from pain.

And one of the kids accompanied Jon to the vet after because it was late and I couldn’t leave the babies. She was the same one who cared for Clyde this week and carried Clyde today. Oh, the circle of life.

They still tell me today they were grateful to say goodbye. Little did we know how much loss they’d endure in the years that followed. It is part of life. And even more, it is part of the Resurrection life.

Do I know the theology of animals and heaven? I don’t pretend to. But I do know that St. Francis loved creation deeply. Maybe that’s why we are Franciscan at heart of our family. And I believe love is never wasted. So today, I trust that Jon, Gracie, Bonnie, and all those gone before greeted our Clyde with joy.

We cannot avoid death or suffering. But we can cling to the Father who holds us when no one else can ease the pain. We can learn to hold space. To stay. To love well. To love someone home. To face death with courage and strength from Christ.

Please say a prayer for our family today. Each of us is carrying this loss in our own way—alongside memories of Jon, my parents, of other beloved pets, of young lives lost too soon, of the life we thought we’d be living.

Still… There is hope. There is beauty. There is love. There is an ache. We are hollowed by loss. And We are Easter People. Remember, Clyde came on Good Friday.

Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, There can never be an Easter Sunday.”—Ven. Fulton Sheen

This is life, and there will be death. We are weeping. And Jesus wept, too.

With every goodbye, our longing for heaven deepens. Each loss reminds us: we are not made for this world—it is in loving, and letting go, that we glimpse our true home.

To love our people and even our four-legged friends home is a sacred gift—one that anchors us through pain and stirs holy hope in each ordinary day.

Whenever I face loss, one line in the song Man of Sorrows, by Ellie Holcomb, always echo in my head and heart.
“He is acquainted with our grief.“

“Man of sorrows, what a name
Bore our suffering, bore all of our pain
Man of sorrows, broken sinners to reclaim
Overcame the darkness, and walked out of the grave
Lord, You’re aching with me
Help me to believe
That when my soul, is lost in the storm
You’re acquainted with my grief”-Ellie Holcomb

We are full of sorrow, yet I imagine Jon and Clyde running on the beach, you know it was our favorite place to be, at this very moment. Like the rest of us, Clyde was never quite same after Jon died.

Have fun my favorite beach-loving guys. You have lots of catching up to do and getting all the ice cubes and ear scratches and peanut butter. You are missed beyond words and loved beyond measure. 33 months too long Jon. One Day Closer.

And forgive the need for edits, I’m typing through tears.