To the Moon and Back

I often stand at the edge of this sacred space of ours and remember all the life we lived and built here.

The dreams we shared.
The hopes we carried for the future.
Where the life we built was no longer what we thought it would be.
Where we watched our children grow, and we launched them into the world under some really hard conditions. And I now continue to launch them without my co-pilot at the helm. I trust he’s working on our behalf from the other side. Even earlier today, I received the most beautiful signal grace before I published this, just as I was pondering the words for this reflection.

But today, I did something as I do every day to keep moving forward. Some are big, others are little steps. Sometimes it’s something as big as having to remove Jon’s name from something that was ours together, or it’s something as small but as meaningful as hanging a very special sign Jon and I bought so long ago.

I love you to the moon and back.

Something we have said to one another and our kids forever.

Each day, the sun rose above the horizon in the distance and set on the other side of the house. Sometimes a full moon would rise above the yard, lighting the very dark spaces. What once felt bleak was softened, illuminated, and made beautiful in a different way.

I’ve always loved the way the most ambient and subtle light meets the dark.

Maybe that’s why, when the moon rises—especially a brilliant full moon—it feels like the closest thing to heaven. The moon is something we can all see, from wherever we are, even if at different times, in different seasons, weather permitting.

I’ve always loved noticing both the sun and the moon lighting the sky, each in its special way.

God made the two great lights, the greater one to govern the day, and the lesser one to govern the night, and the stars. Gen 1.

I don’t care what others believe about the moon, or space travel, or what can or cannot be proven. I know there are unbelievers, dissenters, people who question what they cannot understand. They did the same to Jesus. They still do the same to a good and gracious Creator.

All the noise about space travel is not worth listening to. Grab hold of the beauty of it—if you want—and don’t look back. Life is too short.

For me, I’d like to believe that people use the gifts God calls them to for good—even in science and space. St. Thomas Aquinas did teach that faith and reason both come from God.

I believe there is a lot in life we won’t or can’t fully comprehend. There are many things in life that are a mystery. So we just trust and believe.

But I do believe there is a moon, because I see it. I do believe in heaven.

And maybe I believe the moon is the closest thing to heaven that the eye can see.

There is something about looking up that reminds me I am not alone in any of this.

Maybe that’s what wonder is—holding what we can see, and trusting what we cannot.

Maybe that’s what wonder is—holding what we can see, and trusting what we cannot.”

Heather Lebano

Something about the sky has always felt like a quiet reminder that there is more than what can be held here on earth.

Sometimes we hold onto what brings us peace and hope, especially when the ones we love who have gone before us feel as distant as the moon.

I know I do.

Sometimes, for me, just staring at the moon brings me peace.

The moon has felt especially meaningful to me these past 10 days for so many reasons. Not the least of which is a tender story. We all heard the story of the widower Captain of the Artemis II who launched into space, and of a crater named Carroll after his late wife, who told him to follow his dreams even as God was numbering her days on earth. I know this story touched so many. I know I am grateful Jon encouraged me to continue to follow my dreams and to be who and where God calls me to be as I navigate his death and the life I am working so hard and intentionally to rebuild.

As a widow, I also know how much it means when someone says the name of the one you love and lost.

And yet, fewer and fewer people say Jon’s name to me or to the kids as we approach his third anniversary. I don’t know if it’s fear of death, fear of hurting me, or fear of reminding me that he is not here.

But I can never forget that my husband is not here. And saying his name only honors his life and our memory of him. Trust me, grievers WANT and NEED you to say their name.

Please say his name.

Three years ago today, April 10th, Jon and I (mostly me) made the very difficult decision to begin hospice, knowing his days would become fewer and that he would one day be closer to the moon than to me. It was one of the most excruciating days of my life. I remember stepping outside to catch my breath and I looked up to the sky to talk to God about all that I was carrying and all the ache and unknown of what was to come.

Maybe that’s why I sometimes look up and feel like I am talking to the moon, when really I am talking to him—and often to my mom and dad too. I pray they are all together, living the life we were promised—Resurrection life, eternity, we are Easter people—maybe from the far side of the moon, and also simply from the other side of the veil, right up against my aching heart.

I love you to the Moon and Back, Jon.

After many years of this sign leaning against the very spot where we see the moon in our backyard, I finally gave it a permanent home—attached to the place where dreams were made, and futures were bright right here, where the light still falls, and where I still look up. This feels like a tender little step in honoring the life that was, as we keep going and growing in this new life.

It feels fitting that today, as Artemis II splashes down on Earth, it all comes full circle here—
in this space, in this life, in all that has been lived and lost and tended to again.

Jon, I love you to the moon and back.
And everything in between.

Maybe my message for today aside from “talking to the moon” and the hard—both big and little—things that we do while navigating grief and rebuilding a life is:

May we not be afraid to remember, to believe, and to keep loving—
even when it hurts.

And when we look to the moon, may we be reminded they are not as far as they feel.

Maybe the moon is the closest thing to heaven that the eye can see.

Heather Lebano