It’s simple things, like a glowing sunset, the sound of a running stream or the fresh smell in a meadow that cause us to pause and marvel at the wonder of life, to contemplate its meaning and significance. Who can hold an autumn leaf in their hand, or sift the warm white sand on the beach, and not wonder at the creator of it all?

Wendy Moore

Have you ever heard the expression, “When one door closes, another door opens?” by Alexander Graham Bell? As overly optimistic as this quote sounds, we can apply the meaning to most of our endeavors and outcomes. Some doors we close ourselves. We choose to wait, say no, or just not now. There are poignant times when a no means a loss, but it also opens up doors of opportunity that would not have occurred if you had said yes.

On one such occasion, I found myself walking on a trail in Lynchburg. My only reason for being there is because space and time opened up for me to experience the trail. I think of all the random things that morning that occurred to allow me to be at the right time on the trail to be deeply moved and overwhelmed. The second cup of coffee, the “I can do this last line on the spreadsheet,” the decision to go left instead of right, and the beautiful weather that encouraged us to walk.

Now, I’m getting ready to write something that has no business on paper but instead stored in the heart. I hesitated to write this post, but I decided I needed to remind myself of the moment in the coming years. I also found the courage to write after I read “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Albom. It’s a book I hope to read with a friend who has experienced a lot of loss lately. If you’ve read the book, you know that the meaning or message is love.

“The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.”

Mitch Albom, “Tuesdays With Morrie”

We are distracted by the beauty, wonder, and the bikers on the trail. You have to pay attention so you don’t get in the path of someone more interested in exercising. The trail was filled with so many different kinds of insects, plants, and rocks. My senses were overwhelmed. We even stopped to gaze down at the little creek running through the town below the hill we were walking on. We reminisced about the creeks we hopped through as children and adults. We said we would return and take the path with the creek and proper shoes. I’m fascinated by little things, like a centipede. I stop and talk to her. All those little legs you can’t see, and she is trying so hard to scurry about on a busy trail. All through the trail, we encounter these little creatures.

Moments later, I stopped abruptly on the trail. You know the short stop where you almost fall over yourself when you encounter something in your path, like a pet toy or Lego from your child’s play? I looked down, and there she was, a precious little baby snapping turtle. A million emotions washed over me. I didn’t know much about the species, so I applied human experience to her situation.

“Where is your mother?”

“How did you get here all by yourself?”

“Do you realize that a bike could come right now and run over you?”

“I’m so glad I did not step on you.”

Carefully, I pick her up to help move her to the brush area filled with water options due to the rain and lovely greens. As I pick her up, I want to look at her. Reassure her and somehow believe that I can speak turtle. I carefully hold her by the tiniest shell on both sides. She looks at me and opens her one eye, with her mouth wide open. My heart broke in that moment. It was obvious that she had been injured. After placing her a little in the water to be covered with moisture, I put her gently beside the water. Her inability to travel fast made me wonder if she could swim, so I placed her on a blade of green grass beside the water. As crazy as this sounds, I prayed for her–that God would give her strength and a fighting chance to become an adult and flourish, but if not, at least she was in a space to die with grace.

We were alone on the trail briefly, and I just started crying and weeping. I wept for all things and the hearts that break, the loss, the suffering, and the brokenness. My husband did his best to comfort me and recognized my tender heart. I didn’t need reassuring or fixing but just a space to let go of the sadness I felt in my chest. That I carry throughout the day. What can you do when someone is in this state in a public place? I gather my emotions, wipe my face with my hands, and close my eyes. I place the feelings in God’s hands, and I move on to taking pictures of a family we happen to see, a man who walked 9 miles that day on the trail, and his story about the trumpet flowers and hummingbirds. Life moves on. We flow in and out of connection, love, and moments God wants to show us something extraordinary.

I think of that little turtle after the encounter. I researched their habitat and felt better about where I placed her. I learned that they grow enormous and live long. I pray this for her. It is no coincidence that I came home to my book in the mail–the Albom book. I started reading the book and realized that my encounters and expressions are connected not only to a meaningful life filled with love and compassion but also to the experiences of loss in my past and for those that are coming. I closed my eyes and began to think of my father, my lost babies that I’ll see in heaven one day (this one really got me), my brothers, my aunts and uncle, my friends, and my 93-year-old mom. Each of these has its story in my life. It’s like the dam broke. In my bed that night, I allowed myself to cry and recognize the loss. The suffering. It was a prayerful moment with God, my book, and the realization that the little turtle God created and put in my path was the conduit for such release. I smile in connection to the turtle with the bit of strength she had to open her mouth. Perhaps an expression of her suffering. Connection. It’s okay to feel and to cry.

In my book, Morrie shares that he allows this expression, usually in the morning when he wakes up to realize his disease that will take his life, and then he moves on to gratitude. He gives space for sadness and joy. When Ted Koppel interviews Morrie, they discuss the loss of his mother as a little boy.

“Koppel said, ‘That was seventy years ago your mother died. The pain still goes on?’

“You bet,” Morrie whispered.

As I’ve aged, I’m in this complex space of recognizing my blessings and feeling guilty over feelings of pain. I’m overwhelmed with the knowledge that we all have stories of loss and grief. “There is nothing special about your heart, Anna.”, I would ponder. I realize I don’t have to compare or prove my worth to grieve. It’s part of our human experience that deserves attention.

So, thank you, God, for books, turtles, connections, and conversations. Thank you for showing me it’s okay to be me.