SLOW STEADY STRONG

The hallway outside my small tutoring room at Gibbs Elementary was filled with the sound of children as they scurried from place to place. Before greeting my students, I glanced down at the small hand-carved sea turtle bracelet on my wrist, worn smooth by years of memory. To the kiddos who sit across from me, I am simply “Mr. James.” They do not know the story behind that little sea turtle—or the hospital rooms, cemetery visits, difficult days, and how God carried me through it all. When I accepted this tutoring position in the summer of 2025, I did so after months of feeling a familiar, quiet prompt from the Lord. I had learned that grief can make the quiet feel empty if you let it. But as I looked at the sea turtle on my wrist, I was reminded that slow, steady steps still carry a man forward. Every line on my hands, every scar on my body, and every memory in my heart belonged to a story God had been writing for a long time. After the tutoring session was over and my students had scurried back to class, I sat for a moment in the quiet and looked again at the little sea turtle. It always carried me back to Sarah, and in that quiet moment, it brought Mary to mind as well. She had walked every step of Sarah’s journey with me, and she understood what slow, steady, and strong had come to mean in our family. Long before cancer became part of our story, Mary had already shown me what steady faith looked like in everyday life. Life rarely moves at the pace we plan for it. We live in a world obsessed with speed—faster results, quicker answers, instant relief. But when life breaks apart, speed becomes an enemy. Healing, faith, and grief do not move on a schedule. They move like a sea turtle making its way across the sand toward the ocean: slow, steady, strong. The sea turtle became special to our family long before we knew how much we would need it. It carries its house on its back, moves slowly but keeps moving, and endures rough conditions to reach its home. In time, that small symbol came to hold more than Sarah’s courage. It also carried Mary’s steady faith and the way God would teach me to keep walking after both of them were gone. That little sea turtle on my wrist is more than a bracelet. It reminds me of a motto born out of pain, courage, and faith—a motto that came to describe Sarah’s journey, Mary’s quiet strength, and, in time, mine as well. But before I could understand all God was doing through slow, steady, strong steps, I first had to face the day no parent is ever ready to face. It’s not supposed to be this way, yet here we are. On this chilly January afternoon in East Tennessee, family and friends gather in the middle of a quaint countryside cemetery, teary eyes all focused on what is before them—my daughter’s casket as attendants lower her to her final resting place. Young or old, children are not meant to leave this world before their parents, but for our family, God had a different plan. The past few weeks have been unlike anything I have ever experienced. They have been some of the worst days of my life, yet some of the best days of my life. The worst because it is not easy having a child pass away before you. It’s not easy watching your son-in-law bury his wife. It’s not easy knowing your grandchildren have lost their mother. It’s not easy watching family and friends shed tears for your daughter. It’s not easy going to a mortuary and seeing your daughter’s body lie in a casket. Death of a loved one is just not easy. Even though, as a Christian, I have the absolute assurance of life eternal, it is not easy. These days have been the best because of the memories that will forever be engraved in my mind. The best because of a Celebration of Life service where the pastor said our daughter wrote her own eulogy—the way she lived for and served Christ. The best because of a service where God was glorified through the life of His child. The best because of the overwhelming outpouring of love from people. The best because of the two-mile-long processional with people pulling to the side of the road, getting out of their cars, and either bowing their heads or placing their hands over their hearts. The best because my daughter is face-to-face with Jesus and is pain-free. The best because I know that God will continue to use my daughter and her story to inspire others. The best because God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He never fails.