Our Long—Awaited Time Has Come

Five years ago, a woman reached out to me after reading my story because her husband had been diagnosed with GBM several months after my husband.

Today, she walked through my front door—with a bouquet of flowers, a huge grin, and a hug—as I fought back tears. We finally met in person. I have long awaited this day.

After many messages, we finally spoke on the phone. We shared everything—symptoms, treatments, disability, finances, unexpected generosity, and disappointments. That conversation is unforgettable; I even remember the parking spot where I sat alone at the grocery store. That feels like a lifetime ago.

We tried to meet, but caregiving and the distance between us kept us where we needed to be.

I remember quietly hoping Jon and her husband would meet. (I have no doubt they have met by now.) That they could look at each other and say, “You too?” and understand what this disease takes—the weight of it, the reality of it, the way it slowly strips so much from strong, capable, handsome, faithful, loving husbands and fathers.

Because I know how much it meant to Jon to know another man was walking this road. It made him feel less alone—just as her friendship made me feel less alone.

When Jon died in April 2023, her daughter reached out. Though it would have been a long drive, they were trying to come to the funeral to support us.

I told them not to worry. I knew they were thinking of us.

I knew their husband and father still needed them and they needed to stay close to home.

I knew that the grief would be too much on them while they were still living with precious time.

I trusted our time would come.

Like me, my friend understood what it meant to remain—fully, faithfully—by his side. That kind of love stays, no matter what it asks of you. It may look like sacrifice, but it is sacrificial love.

Her husband passed away that November peacefully.

When I heard, my heart sank—not only because of the loss, but because I knew what was ahead for her. I was already more than six months into widowhood, trying to hold life together for my children…and for myself.

I wanted to be there for her, but grief has its own weight. Sometimes it holds us in place, and I was not ready to attend a funeral so soon after my husband’s.

Still, what a grace it was to know someone who understood this journey of widowhood and grief.

What a grace it was to know someone who understood.

Heather lebano

And so today, we finally met.

After two quick days of travel for my daughter’s performance, (10 hours total for a 2-1/2 hour show, that I would not miss) I came home tired, but determined not to miss this opportunity to see a friend who would be in town. My friend and her daughter arrived early, and finally, our long-awaited time came—right here at home.

It felt like sacred ground.

We sat at the counter with homemade lattes and muffins, sharing stories of our husbands, of those days, of everything that comes with loving someone through suffering and loss.

We sat in the warm Saturday sun on my deck and went on a little adventure, and had lunch in a favorite place with my girls while her daughter attended a local event.

It was a day I didn’t know I needed. But I very much needed this day and for my heart to be heard.

And for once, I didn’t have to explain. What freedom for a widow to not have to explain herself as she simply shared her heart.

When I spoke about the heartbreak—the dark humor, the devastation, the reality of watching your husband die too young—I wasn’t met with explanations or silver linings.

I was met with understanding.

I was met with “yep, me too. I know exactly what you mean.“

At the start of our conversation, which immediately felt like good company and rich conversation among dear friends—her daughter told me that my writing had been a gift to her, helping her process her grief, and she encouraged me to please keep writing.

It brought me back to something I shared just a few days ago about words I had written years earlier (likely around the time this friend I first spoke on the phone:

“Your suffering and your hope will help others…”

Have you ever wondered if the hardest parts of your story are the ones meant to be shared?

What if the life you wouldn’t have written is the one God is using most?

I also found myself thinking about a post I wrote three years ago today—For All You Give—the day I shared that Jon had begun hospice. How that it feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

And all the people who have found their way here (to my writing space and my heart) through their own stories of loss…especially the unique and often hidden story of widowhood.

If I’m honest, I am often torn about sharing my story.

There are days I wonder what is mine to hold quietly, and what is meant to be given away.

But moments like this give clarity.

God continues to show me how… and why.

Not only to help others, but also to help me. (Writing has helped me more than I realized all of these years.)

To remind me I am not alone.

And to give Him glory in the telling and sharing.

We spoke of our children, too—the joy and ache of watching them step into milestones without their dad. And how they still need their dads even as young adults. That part of life was taken from them.

And how joy and sorrow are intertwined in it all, with God’s version of our story ultimately being the best one for us—even if it remains a mystery. Amen, Sister.

Friend, the flowers you brought…every bloom, the color, the fragrance felt like a quiet wink from Heaven. Your peace, you presence, your time, your patience. today was a gift I don’t have proper words for. Not yet anyway.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2

Today, I saw that truth come full circle.

As I said earlier, just the other day, I shared that telling our stories is meant to help others.

Because sharing my story didn’t just help someone else—

It brought someone to my door.

It reminded me I am not alone.

It showed me that God does not waste what we have lived.

And that sharing our stories matters more than we will ever know.

And maybe don’t believe the lie that the internet is only a place of noise or division—because sometimes, it’s where light finds you in the darkness, and real, meaningful friendship begins.

I love you, my friend, more than you will ever know. Thank you for the flowers, for the hug, for your time today. I am grateful to know you.