Rest and Rebuild

“Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while,” Jesus says.

There was a simple reason for my journey, but it became clear that rest was a necessary part of it, too. A rest—spiritual, physical, emotional—I was unaware I so desperately needed. Rest that reached beneath the surface, that could hold what I am still carrying.

Sometimes we are called to come away by ourselves to a deserted place and rest a while, when we least expect it, and the “away” and “rest” aren’t always by ourselves.

Sometimes the rest is simply away from the duties and demands of daily life, from the steady weight of responsibility, away from the struggles we carry, away from the reminders, away from the distractions.

It’s not an escape from life, but a pause within it—a stepping aside that allows us to breathe, to listen, to remember who and what matters.

To “come away” makes room for restoration. To give time and space for each stone or brick and its mortar to set in the rebuilding.

I hadn’t anticipated that each encounter, prayer, and quiet moment would feel like its own small act of rest—the Lord meeting me there, restoring me gently while also rebuilding me one piece at a time. Rebuilding is a messy process and comes with great intention. Great courage in knowing what to hold onto and what to let go. Parts that just aren’t going to fit into the rebuild.

I entered the newly rebuilt chapel for the first time for Mass since it reopened. The beauty took my breath away—the space, the light reflecting through the stained glass, the music, the crowd gathered with reverence. Familiar, and yet somehow very new.

As I sat in the chapel surrounded by those I love, and those who love the Lord, simply taking it all in, I sensed the presence of the Holy Spirit. The Gospel offered a familiar reminder from Jesus: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world. A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden.”

The celebrant friar spoke of the steel cross set upon the hill outside the friary, and of the work being done to light it properly so it can be seen even in the dark—highlighting this little city on a mountain.

The words be salt and light name who we already are when we live close to Him. Salt works quietly. It preserves. It brings out what is good without drawing attention to itself. Light stands where it is placed, steady and visible, offering direction rather than display.

I couldn’t help but think of those gathered around me—living out the call to be salt and light for one another, for the world, and, unexpectedly and unknowingly, for me. The most ordinary encounters with others are often where the most powerful moments of transformation take place.

The most ordinary encounters with others are often where the most powerful moments of transformation take place.

heather lebano

Watching faith lived with humility and fidelity reminded me that witness often takes shape through small, daily choices—choosing truth, choosing love, choosing to remain rooted.

This is what it means to be salt and light: faithful, present, and enduring.

The Lord told St. Francis of Assisi, “Rebuild my Church.” He first understood that call as one of stone and structure. Only later did he come to see that the deeper rebuilding God desired was the rebuilding of hearts, of lives ordered again toward love.

I realized the Lord is doing that same kind of rebuilding in me.

Slowly.
Gently.
With intention, patience, and mercy.
While allowing the broken places to be part of the rebuilding—to be made new.

Through ordinary encounters and quiet moments of rest, He is showing me how He is rebuilding me after loss and teaching me who and what matters most on this journey.

“We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”—Romans 8:28

It took time to rebuild this chapel, though the stairs leading to it are not quite finished. Rebuilding was a long, messy process—keeping parts of the old and adding in the new. It’s breathtaking now, a beauty that was worth both the wait and the work.

God often restores us not by removing what we carry, but by meeting us within it—and rebuilding us slowly through rest, presence, and love.

This is how He rebuilds us.

Perhaps this is how the Lord is rebuilding you, too.

This was originally posted on my substack page, but felt I wanted to have a home here, on my website, too.