Those Who Mourn

by Heather Lebano

As June unfolds, I reflect on the quiet ache this month carries. This year will be the seventh Father’s Day without my dad, and the third my children and I will mark without theirs. Time keeps moving, but some dates never lose their weight.

Father’s Day now holds both a void and a vessel—while absence lingers, I lean fully into the presence of the One who has never left. Only our Father in Heaven can fill what’s been emptied—left void, and He does so not with noise or fanfare, but with quiet, everlasting nearness. We are not left to navigate this alone—for “you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption” (Romans 8:15).

Even in our grief, we belong. We are held.

This Father’s Day, I find myself wanting to pull closer to the Heart of the Father—the One who has never left, even in the quiet absence of the two men who shaped so much of my story: the father of my children, and the one who raised me.

Grief is rarely tidy. It doesn’t always arrive with answers or fade with time. It weaves itself into the fabric of our days—sometimes boldly, sometimes as a faint thread barely noticed until it catches the light. Some losses come all at once. Others unfold over the years. Some are loud and noble, others more subtle—a slow unraveling of what might have been.

This time of year brings memories to the surface—not just the Hallmark kind, but the deeply personal ones: how he grilled dinner like it was an act of love, or how his face lit up when the kids ran into the backyard. We built entire evenings around that grill—music playing, barefoot kids chasing fireflies, and Jon behind the flame, proud and steady, flipping burgers. After dinner, he’d stay out there helping them roast s’mores, as if the night depended on his quiet presence. It wasn’t just about the food. It was about being there, about presence, about fatherhood lived out in the little things.

Now, the grill sits quiet. Covered. Still. There are moments we still can’t bring ourselves to open it. There’s something too sacred about it, something too hollow. It’s strange how grief hides in ordinary places—how something like a barbecue can feel like a sanctuary and a wound.

Jon fathered with everything he had, even when he was sick. Even when his body was failing, he still found ways to lead, to love, to be present. And I still see him in my children—in their sense of humor, gentleness, and grit. He doesn’t get to see them grow into who they are now, but I know he helped shape them.

There’s a particular kind of ache in watching your children grieve their dad—when you wish more than anything that you could bring him back just for one more Saturday evening, one more set of arms to wrap around them, one more moment of being known by the one who loved them first.

And yet, somehow, God gives us grace for this, too.

Psalm 68:5 tells us that God is “a father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.” And Romans 8:15 reminds us that we have received “a spirit of adoption,” by which we cry, “Abba, Father!” These are not just poetic lines. They are promises. And in our house, they have become lifelines.

Still, Father’s Day doesn’t only bring memories of Jon. It also draws out the quieter ache of my own father—the places where love felt complicated and healing took longer to find. And yet, I truly loved my dad. I hold some of the best gifts only a dad could give in my heart, and I carry the quiet strength he once saw in me. I wrote my first public post in honor of him. In some ways, everything I’ve written since has carried traces of that love—the longing to honor what was good, even in the middle of what was hard.

Some memories bring comfort. I hold others gently, turning them over like smooth stones—grateful for what I received, and choosing to release what I didn’t. At times, my relationship with my dad had cracks—places where love felt uncertain or uneven. Not every story begins with strong beams. I’ve had to rebuild some parts with perseverance, mend others with grace, and hold them upright through the quiet, holy work of repair.

Redemption hasn’t erased the brokenness, but softened the sharp edges.

And even in the messy, imperfect parts, love still found a way through. I hold onto the memories that speak joy and peace—gifts from those who formed me through their example of fatherhood. Imperfect and messy as they were, they still carried love.

So on this day, I press close to the Heart that beats behind it all—the Father who remains when the rooms feel empty. The One who refines my heart with fire, even as the grill outside no longer burns. The One who writes beauty into broken places, who sees the spaces we’ve patched and calls them beloved.

There is space for those for whom Father’s Day feels complicated or hollow. There is a tenderness that doesn’t demand resolution, only honesty. And a Love that does not falter, even when the ones we long for are no longer here.

May you find rest in the arms of the Father who stays.

May you see glimpses of grace where grief once clouded your view.

And may you carry both sorrow and strength, knowing you are not alone.

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