The Path We Built, Rebuilding Mother’s Day and Irises
I found a photo of my garden view, where irises, a favorite, were starting to bloom in the spring of 2021. The garden is near a path of stepping stones going from our lower patio to our deck. My husband and I planned this for years and built it between appointments and rest in that first spring after his brain cancer diagnosis.
In 2021, we were preparing the house and gardens for a small gathering to celebrate my son’s high school graduation. While we moved a bit slower, we took time to work on it together. I could see it was increasingly more difficult for Jon to get things done. He had already lifted the patio bricks to level them weeks before; that took a lot out of him, too. My son and I helped as much as we could.
During that time, he was battling brain cancer that was slowly but persistently rearing its ugly head. My mom was facing her final days. We were grieving the loss of my husband’s father, who died only two months before. We were living in the midst of a pandemic with strict restrictions, complicating life, and managing the medical world. We were grieving a lack of unconditional support.
Living through a medical crisis at this time changed the support we did or didn’t receive. We did our best to move forward and tried to give our kids space to be normal young adults and teens.
While Jon and I built this path in our yard, our children began building paths of their own, each connected to our family’s journey through healing, grief, and growth.
Our two oldest were preparing to forge ahead and spread their wings. One already had her first year of college affected by the lack of support for her necessary hearing loss accommodations, so she began taking online classes at Franciscan. I was, too, a year before this, but Jon’s diagnosis put the kabosh on that season for me. Funny how I was taking classes at the same university long before most of my kids were.
Life was so radically different for us at that time. Now, it is equally different for me in now
I notice these differences even more when I come across photos that capture moments and days/seasons of diagnosis, caregiving, and loss.
This week, after the kids arrived home from Franciscan and the car was packed to the gills, I reflected on the last few years while weeding and pulling out overgrown trees from this very spot. The garden hardly looks as lovely and finished now. Weeds are growing, shrubs are overgrown, the path is slipping into oblivion, and these irises have not bloomed well in years. The lilac that my mom and dad gave us when we moved in here 21 years ago was replaced yesterday because it was damaged by the mounds of snow we had this year. A new tree, a new life is being rooted.
I am embarrassed and frustrated by the condition of this path and many places scattered around my yard and home that need so much attention after years of neglect since diagnosis and 3 years since loss. It all adds up. I have already done so much to keep up. But I gently remind myself that it is okay for things to be unfinished or messy when you are grieving or simply trying to hold your life together through hard seasons. Grace for the mess is important. If you are in a similar place, I hope you can offer yourself that same compassion.
This year, for the first time, I didn’t need to drive to Ohio for college move-outs or graduations. Previously, we attended three graduations: the first was nine days after Jon’s funeral, the second, a master’s degree, was ten days after Jon’s first anniversary, and the most recent was my son’s graduation last year. The garden path was originally prepared for his high school graduation in 2021—a full circle moment. Over the past school year, my son worked and took graduate classes. With a wedding this year, he moved home to begin his new chapter. I’m so happy for him.
Each graduation carried grief, but our family remained committed and courageous, persevering under unimaginably difficult circumstances. Grief and hope often walked hand in hand, as moments of sorrow were lightened by small celebrations, laughter, and pride in my children’s milestones. Although these moments did not erase the pain, they proved that joy and perseverance can coexist with the darkest sadness. For mothers facing similar milestones amid loss, know that hope and resilience are possible in the midst of grief.
Grief and hope often walked hand in hand, as moments of sorrow were lightened by small celebrations, laughter, and pride in my children’s milestones.
Heather Lebano
They, the kids, forged a beautiful path despite so many hardships. Despite countless reasons to stop, I kept going. They kept going, too. I truly believe Jon and I gave them wings and steady encouragement along the way, and as the solo parent these last few years, I have guided and trusted them to discern what is best for them.
This year is also the first Mother’s Day in years that I won’t be on the road driving across that state. The past three, we drove home with packed cars and tender hearts. The Mother’s Day before Jon died was the first without my mom; I am still processing that loss. But Jon was there to comfort me through that grief. The first Mother’s Day without Jon came only 10 days after his funeral in 2023.
Without him, I would not be a mother at all.
Without my mom, I would not be who I am. She taught me the importance of roots and wings and tried to give them to me. Jon and I did our best to give those to our children, too.
“She encouraged me when I became a mother to live in the moment with my own children, to try to see things from their point of view, to help them discover their uniqueness, to love them well and tell them so often.” quote from my Mother’s Day 2021 post.
I still remember that long drive home, our car packed to the gills because the kids abruptly left their dorms to rush home and be by Jon’s side. There was so much to carry, sort through, and clean while living in the immediate fog of loss. Home didn’t even feel familiar at all.
I’ll never forget the weeks before Jon died, when someone stood on my front walkway and said, “Those kids should have never gone out to school while their dad was sick,” challenging our difficult choices.
I immediately nipped that in the judgmental bud, replying, “I respectfully disagree. This was not a decision Jon and I came to lightly, and that was only ours to make.”
Not that I needed to explain; it was a decision we reached through prayer and counsel, always with our kids in mind. In those quiet moments, prayer became our anchor, giving us courage and clarity as we faced impossible choices. Our faith reassured us that we were not alone and that God would guide our family, even if the path felt uncertain and painful. We found it best to listen to life-giving voices—never those that disrupt peace or cause shame. Jon insisted the kids continue setting their path even as he fought cancer.
Of course, this was not an easy decision. It was a process filled with uncertainty.
I could have benefited from the kids being home to help, but we knew it was best for them to keep building their lives. The oncologist, medical team, and I discussed what was healthiest for them and agreed it was okay for the kids to continue. I would know when they needed to be home. They came home as soon as I told them it was time. We had everything set in place to allow them to finish online.
At the time of the iris photo, Jon was still able to live well and do things like garden work, not yet affected by the stroke and progressing tumor that eventually limited him. So it was easier for us to get things done.
On Jon’s 3rd anniversary, a friend messaged me near the end of the day. Her words—“the last six years”—made me pause, realizing she acknowledged this journey of grief began well before Jon’s death, starting at his diagnosis and the losses in between and since.
The path has not been pretty. The walkway and many other spaces in our yard and home looks different today, just as my life does. That has not been pretty either. Grieving is hard. Rebuilding will take time, and sometimes require help from my kids. It will be slow and intentional, mirroring my journey through loss. I am not rushing through it. I am simply holding space for all of it.
I recently learned that the Iris has a strong connection to, and is a symbol of, the Immaculate Conception and Our Blessed Mother, adding another layer of meaning to the garden’s story. I love Irises.
It felt like such a tender little wink to come upon this photo from 2021 on the eve of Mother’s Day. A tender signal of grace because this photo was also taken on the eve of the last Mother’s Day with my mom.
She would leave us nine days later. The irises on this path were in full bloom the day before she passed away. I only now remember writing a post about this path and the irises being in full bloom as I waited on God’s timing. In the post that day, I wrote:
“I am keenly aware that many things I wait for are out of my control, so I surrender them to the One who holds my heart and leads my steps. I can’t help but be reminded of the view from here.”
I am grateful for the solid foundation, the newly leveled, weathered brick patio, the new path, and how they connect us above.
Overcome with joy and hope seeing the blooming Irises, I’m reminded of the trinity, a divine bond between Heaven and Earth, a great gift as we watch and wait.”
Finding this Iris photo is also a sweet wink to my mom, whose birthday falls on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception in the Catholic Church—a gentle connection that brings the story full circle.
I wrote a chapter about the Immaculate Conception, my journey of faith, and my mom in a book about Mary, Crowned With Grace, published at the end of 2025. What a sweet nod to my mom and our influence and impact on one another’s faith journey.
Perhaps that is where I am on this path now, standing at a new place between memory and moving forward.
One measly little iris pushing through after a long tough season (years), fighting hard to show up, refusing to give up
Just like me.
This is the fifth Mother’s Day without my mom, and the third without my husband. I am still finding my way—our path.
This is not the path I would have chosen for my life, but I am still moving forward.
I am still doing my best to guide my children and help them find their wings while honoring their grief and trusting their stories—what God has planned for them as they discover the path the Good and Faithful Father has set before them.
“Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.”
geoRGE eliot
