The sea turtle, ancient and mysterious, spends most of its life navigating vast oceans, crossing thousands of miles in silence and solitude. Yet, despite the distances and the passing years, sea turtles always find their way back—to the very beach where they were born—to lay their eggs, to complete the circle of life. There is something sacred about that journey home, something that resonates deeply with the work of spiritual care and chaplaincy.
Chaplains, like sea turtles, are often travelers—called into spaces that are unfamiliar, sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm. We enter hospital rooms, correctional facilities, classrooms, and homes—spaces where the spiritual waters are unpredictable. Like the turtle in the open sea, we navigate by unseen currents: grief, loss, hope, faith, regret. We may not always know exactly where we are being led, but we trust something deeper is guiding the journey.
And yet, no matter how far the sea turtle travels, it carries an inner map—a sense of where it comes from and where it must return. Chaplains, too, carry this internal compass. We are called back again and again to the core of who we are—our spiritual grounding, our sense of calling, our own inner work. In moments of deep listening, when a patient’s story stirs something within us, we find ourselves returning to our own beginnings: our own griefs, joys, and unanswered questions.
There’s also an unseen burden sea turtles carry—the weight of survival. Only a tiny fraction of hatchlings make it to adulthood. The odds are against them, and yet, they press forward. In chaplaincy, we often walk alongside people facing impossible odds: terminal diagnoses, fractured relationships, unresolved traumas. We witness the rawness of survival, the resilience of the human spirit, and the aching desire for meaning in the face of mortality.
And then, there are the “turtles” in the room—the silent, hidden things we rarely speak of but always feel. In a patient room or a CPE classroom, unspoken grief, cultural wounds, theological struggles, and personal fears quietly crawl across the sand. Sometimes, chaplains or students choose—consciously or unconsciously—not to see them. But the work of spiritual care invites us to notice, to name, and to sit beside those silent travelers.
What can we learn from the sea turtle? Perhaps that returning home—to ourselves, to our sacred ground—is necessary. Perhaps that navigating vast emotional and spiritual oceans requires trust in something bigger than us. Perhaps that not everything that matters is visible on the surface.
The sea turtle teaches us endurance, presence, and the sacredness of coming home. And like the turtle, chaplains are invited to travel far, witness much, and yet always return—to the heart, to the soul, to the sacred work of simply being present with what is.
