Turtle (Sneak Peek - Chapter 7)

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The manuscript is finished.
The book is coming.
Here’s a bonus sneak peek - thanks, friends.✊🏼💙

SNEAK PEEK – CHAPTER 7

I waited three weeks to have Jason’s funeral.
My parents and brother’s family went to Yosemite National Park in California the week after Jason died.
Coleman was already scheduled to go with them.
I didn’t want Coleman to miss that trip.
I tagged along instead.
Ten days after Jason passed away, Coleman and I were in Yosemite.

Gorgeous hikes to powerful waterfalls were healing. The Yosemite Valley is picturesque and almost heavenly as the sheer cliffs rise up from the meadow.
I felt peace there.
I felt love there.
I felt light there.
And every handicap sign with the stick figure wheelchair guy made me think of Jason. I saw him everywhere.

We drove four hours from Yosemite to spend our last two days in Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. When we arrived at our hotel, Coleman opened up his backpack and pulled out his blanket then started digging for his all-time favorite stuffed animal, the first Beanie Boo he ever got, Turtle.

Turtle was loved.
He was worn.
He was one of about thirty Beanie Boos that live in Coleman’s room.
But Turtle was his favorite.

And Turtle was gone.
We looked everywhere. In the suitcase, in the backpack, in the hotel room, under the beds, in the drawers, in every car of our caravan.
We said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, please help us know where to look for Turtle.”

Coleman went to look in another room, and I cried.
I cried hard.
I cried harder than I had cried in the two weeks since Jason had died.
In discouragement and defeat, I thought, “It’s bad enough that Coleman had to lose his dad, does he have to lose Turtle too?”
I knelt on the floor and pleaded. “Please. Help us find Turtle.”

We didn’t find him.
As we drove to the airport, I felt the loss of Turtle sink into my chest, and I just wanted to fill the empty space.

I immediately went to eBay to search for the exact replica of Turtle.
This is it! This is the same one! Same flippers. Same smile. Same non-droopy eyes.
We bought it to replace the Turtle he loved.
It arrived a week later.

But it wasn’t exactly right. The cheeks weren’t exactly the same.
The worn spots weren’t there. The love wasn’t there.
It wasn’t Turtle.
I went into the bathroom and cried again.

Turtle is missing. Just like Jason.
And replacements are just not the same.

I miss the things that are missing.
I can’t replace the irreplaceable.
These wounds might never heal completely.
My scar might never fade.
The holes left from things that are missing might never be filled.

But the wounds and scars and holes from missing pieces are now part of me. Signs that I did something hard, that I’m still doing hard things.
Evidence that I’m leaning in, taking a deep breath, gritting my teeth, and slowly pushing over yet another threshold.

In spite of what’s missing.