Remembering Who I Am and Standing in the Snow

Last night, I waded out into the thick, wet snow, boots sinking, breath fogging the air, the world muffled and white. I’d spent weeks grumbling as each storm layered another blanket across the yard, burying the garden, making everything seem heavier.

Just the day before, I’d cleared away what was left behind by the snow that finally melted after weeks of winter’s grip. I fixed the line I cut while shoveling on the lights on the arbor.

But in that quiet, under the soft glow of the garage light and of the arbor, I looked up and let the flakes settle on my face. Something unexpected stirred inside me: a faint, familiar sense of who I was, like a memory waking up in the cold.

I realized, too, I no longer felt that familiar sense of dread with this impending blizzard-like storm.

I stood there, looking up into the sky, remembering.

This wasn’t nostalgia, but something deeper, like a quiet recognition. In the midst of so many changes, I remembered who I was: the little girl, the young adult, the young bride, the young mom. The daughter saying goodbye, the friend, the sister, the teacher. The caregiver to my “too-young” husband, the wife letting go, the mom guiding adults, and now the widow navigating grief and rebuilding a life. The writer, co-authoring her story with God.

Early Sunday morning, I heard a homily on Hallow by Fr. Mike Schmitz that opened with a striking question: “Have you ever wanted to write a book? What kind of book would it be?” I almost didn’t listen, busy with plans for the snowblower and Mass, but the question and talk of writing caught me.

So much of that homily felt like it was meant just for me. The Holy Spirit poured out as abundantly as the falling snow. I’ll be unpacking its message for some time.

One message stayed with me: Remember who you are. I remembered who I was and that I’ve always loved snow. Even with so much in my life changed—losing my husband, carrying new crosses—I am still the woman, daughter, mother, wife-now—widow God created me to be.

The homily wasn’t really about writing, as I mentioned, at least not on the surface. It was about co-authoring our lives with God—about trusting Him as the Author while consenting, day by day, to the story being written. There isn’t enough space here to share all that stirred in me as I listened, but I know without a doubt that the Holy Spirit spoke directly into places that had been weighing on my heart. Between that homily and the one I heard at Mass, centered on the “if” and identity, in Sunday’s Gospel, something began to take shape.

The Gospel for the First Sunday of Lent tells the story of Satan tempting Jesus in the desert, pressing Him with that quiet but dangerous word: if. If you are the Son of God…The temptation is not only about hunger or power, but about identity, about living apart from the Father, about seizing control, about rewriting the story.

Jesus refuses.

He does not argue or perform. He remains rooted in who He is and whose He is, telling Satan to get behind Him and choosing to walk with the Father rather than apart from Him—an invitation we carry into our own journey through Lent. And as Jesus stood in the wilderness—tempted, yet unwavering (see Matthew 4:1-11)—He showed us that our truest identity is found not in what we’ve lost, but in being rooted in the Father’s love.

Jesus refuses the temptations and chooses to walk with God. I refuse to believe the lies Satan feeds me, that I can’t keep going even when its hard.

I haven’t been shy about how hard this winter has been. Just days ago, I wrote: “Long. Cold. Heavy—like the mountains of snow. I’m craving sunlight and signs of life as we slowly defrost. I’ve missed the garden, and now more snow pours out of the sky, refusing to hurry along. This winter exposed all that’s changed and what’s no longer shared. Yet standing in the snow, my burden eased—not because life changed, but because I remembered myself within it.

As I stood there, the arbor—something meaningful, I’ve written about before—glowed behind me, a quiet reminder of healing, hope, and the thresholds we cross when life changes, and we keep showing up, continuing to co-author our story with God. It’s a choice, it comes with courage and perseverance.

I’ve never been someone who sat around waiting for others to “come save me.” Though I have had people say they are coming to help and not show up. So I’ve done what needed to be done, and sometimes grace and support showed up along the way. What felt different this time was remembering that I still get to decide how help shows up in my life, without waiting for a crisis to force it, without waiting for others to show up with unconditional love and support. Stepping out of survival mode.

Maybe that is part of healing—not only after the death of a spouse, but after years of physical injury and strain, relational loss, and the compounded grief that requires constant adjustment.

I remembered who I was and chose for myself, just as Fr. Mike referenced Frodo in The Lord of the Rings in his homily, and as I am learning to do now with the Lord of my own life: “there is always a moment in every story when someone picks up the pen and begins to write on purpose.”

Standing in the snow, I was able to marvel at its beauty because I was no longer burdened by the thought of carrying and clearing it alone or even falling in it. I had already made a plan that fit my life now. That may seem ordinary to some, but when you are emerging from survival mode, those are big steps.

I remembered that I love the snow and being outside in it.

Though I know I am not the same person I was before my husband died or even before he was diagnosed with brain cancer, I was able to remember who I was before—for a moment—and recognize her still here.

I remembered that I was still the one who was giddy alongside Jon when snow fell. We skied, made snow angels, tossed snow at each other, and laughed without thinking twice. We shoveled sidewalks and driveways together, helped our neighbors with theirs over the years, and even went sledding after a big snowstorm on one of our early dates.

I remembered I am still the one who bundled my young and growing children then took them outside at night just to watch the flakes fall because it felt magical. I pushed them down hills and snow-covered deck steps in sleds early in the morning and late at night—because you only live once.

I’m the one who said, “Let’s go sledding at the park, because we may not get to do this again with your dad.” So we went, and we never had that moment again.

I remembered I am still the one (while standing in the snow laughing) who delights in watching a puppy leap through fresh snow with unfiltered joy, who laughs at the ridiculous snowballs clinging to her fur as she barrels back into the house.

I remembered I am still the one who loves being outdoors, in the snow, and in the garden—even when snow feels like a thorn in my side, just as tending roses can cut my hands. I am someone who keeps tending what is beautiful, even when it costs something.

Loss has shaped me, but it has not erased me.

There are practical realities now, too. I didn’t have to clear this snow event alone. I made solid plans to clear the driveway. I accepted help. I accepted that adapting is not failure. Wisdom looks different in this season, and I’m learning that receiving help—even the kind I secure myself—can lighten the load without diminishing who I am.

It allows me to enjoy the snow again, to stand in it without resentment, trusting that it will melt, trusting people I call will show up, and some show up on their own volition, trusting that I don’t have to carry everything the way I once did to be myself still. I am learning this is a new beginning—one I am co-writing with the best Author. (If you want to hear more, you can find Fr. Mike’s homily on Hallow. I highly recommend it.

That is the invitation I heard this First Sunday of Lent and while standing in the snow: remember who you are… and whose you are. Remembering I am loved even when snowstorms come, even when I feel weak, even when I am mourning and trying to find myself in the heap of loss while rebuilding a life that looks nothing like I planned. We are His beloved even in our weakness, sin and mess.

While I’m not entirely sure who I am becoming in this new chapter being written, what is beginning, what is still unfolding, what I am seeing God is asking me to leave behind.

I know this: I will remain faithful to who I have always been in Christ. I will do my best to walk with Him (and follow His Will) as the story continues to take shape.

Even in storms, harsh winters, in loss, failure, and transition.

I am still a beloved daughter of God. I am still walking with Him. I am still co-authoring a life marked by love, perseverance, and joy reclaimed without guilt. And I am still someone who absolutely adores the snow. Maybe not quite the amount we have accumulated this winter, but I am grateful this late February blizzard reminded me. You are, too.

This is what I want to be remembered for—not that I avoided hardship, or grumbled about the storms, but that I lived fully inside it while walking with God.

That I carried my crosses, that I stayed. That I tended what was given—gardens, blizzards, roses, thorns and all.

That I remembered who I was, even when it was hard, even as I was trying to figure out who God is calling me to be in this season. That even in winter, I did not live apart from God, but walked with Him, letting the snow fall without stealing my joy. Not only am I co-authoring this story with Him, but I’m also sharing my journey through these words—offering them as a kind of map, so that others might find themselves, too. Because I believe we are all invited, no matter how lost or changed we feel, to remember who we are in God’s love.

May we remember who we are.
May we remember who we are.
May we remember we are loved.

This is what I want to be remembered for—not that I avoided hardship, or grumbled about the storms, but that I lived fully inside it.

Heather Lebano

Thus says the LORD: Just as from the heavensthe rain and snow come down and do not return there still they have watered the earth, making it fertile and fruitful, Giving seed to the one who sows and bread to the one who eats, So shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth; It shall not return to me void, but shall do my will, achieving the end for which I sent it.—Isaiah 55:10-11