The first turtle encounter happened sixteen years ago, in the early winter of 2010. 

During this time, I found myself, day after day, driving aimlessly along Midwest backroads. Both unemployed and steeped in the heaviness of grief, I steered my blue Honda CRV up and down the steep wooded hills outside of Nashville, Indiana. Taking those daily drives was pretty much the only thing I wanted to do at the time. Or could do, for that matter. 

My baby had died, and I was adrift in a grief so deep it seemed to have no bottom.

Endless days stretched out before me, quiet and colorless. There seemed to be no better option than to get in my car and start driving. 

Mostly, I drove in silence. Prayer wasn’t an option—God and I were on the outs. Music felt too loud, chirpy, hopeful. Eight years earlier, my mother had also died, and it didn’t seem like any other human (besides my husband, and even then…) could offer solace or understand the depths of my despair. I felt disconnected and friendless. 

I followed long stretches of sparsely traveled paved and gravel roads snaking through dense woods. Gripping the wheel, I thought about grief and death and love. I wondered what to do with the rest of my messy, colorless life now that it had taken a tragic detour.  

One particularly cold, wet November morning, driving up a steep hill, I happened to glance over to see a small, round object in a puddle near the side of the road. Pulling off, I hurried back to check. It was a box turtle, and she had recently been run over by a vehicle. Deep red cracks ran down her shattered shell, and liquid oozed. Her prehistoric-looking claws gripped the ground feebly. 

I knew there was nothing I could do for the turtle. Oddly, I felt responsible, as if her trampling was my personal mistake. If only I’d come along earlier, if I’d prayed and listened harder, maybe I could have moved her out of the road. I could have saved her life. The way I felt about the dying turtle mirrored how I felt about my son’s death. My despair, so close to the surface, burst through, and I crouched by the road for a long time, sobbing. The tears I shed that day joined the others in my own river of flowing sorrow. 

The second turtle encounter happened this past Saturday.  I had just finished a bliss-filled four-day writing retreat at a retreat center tucked into the greening spring woods outside of Nashville, Indiana. 

The retreat was a bookend to a six-month writing and leadership course I had undertaken. Writing, connecting with other writers, participating in and facilitating writing circles, discussing writing, and wandering along Bear Creek had fed my desire for connection and creativity.

When the retreat ended, I found myself with a few extra hours before I was scheduled to pick up my 12-year-old daughter at a friend’s house not far from where I’d been staying. 

It turns out that I was on the very same backroads I explored all those years earlier during what I call my “Year of Living Faithlessly.” I had hardly driven those roads since. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve— subconsciously or not— avoided the entire area. 

But there I was, windows down, moonroof open, Van Morrison singing as I sailed through a spring landscape so green it made me take deep breaths and smile spontaneously. 

Roadside flowers bloomed, birds twittered, and forest glens glowed with emerald light. I even passed by the site where I’d found the turtle. Soon after, I took a wrong turn and ended up on a narrow side road. Cresting a hill, a large group of motorcyclists passed by on the opposite side, and I almost missed spotting a small object in my lane. Could it be…was that…a turtle?!  

Unsure, I pulled over at the next turnoff and jogged up the road, praying that no car would come barreling over the hill. None did. It was, indeed, a turtle the size of a shot glass with a dome-like shell, nearly to the middle of the road by now. I picked her up, praising her for her bravery, and scrambled up a ravine in the direction she appeared to be heading. It was imperative that I place her somewhere far away from the road. After trudging through the woods for five minutes or so, I happened upon a small idyllic pond—the perfect spot for Ms. Turtle’s new home. 

Gently, I placed her on a log and sat down.

All around us, leaves rustled and birds sang. Sunlight glanced through the boughs and touched us—my skin and her shell. My gratitude was expansive enough to fill the woods. No one else needed to validate or support how I was feeling in that moment—in my right place, strong, hopeful, and content, topped with a tinge of sadness. All on my own. 

It occurred to me that maybe I have found the bottom of my grief, now that I’m no longer carrying vast amounts of unexplained guilt around the loss of my son. It wasn’t just gratitude for the successfully rescued turtle. It was acknowledging that I have sixteen years of grieving and learning behind me now. There is nothing to atone for—I’ve done my best. Surviving the very worst, getting sober, and creating a life I love has made me strong, content, and grateful.

It is clear to me that this is what my son, Cypress, who would turn sixteen this May, wants for me, too. 

Giving the turtle’s shell a soft pat, I stood up. 

It was time to pick up my daughter. Time to return to my messy, beautiful life.