Special to the HT
MEEKER | For many years, my sister found my April 29 birthday excruciating. It was almost impossible for her to wish me a happy birthday. The dates sit too close. Her son, Casey Timothy Turner (born Sept. 17, 1963), died on April 30, 1976, at age 12, in a tractor accident. That was exactly 50 years and millions of tears ago today.
I have no real understanding, no full comprehension. I can’t imagine the pain. Losing a child isn’t something a parent should ever have to bear. How, oh how, could a parent ever be the same again? Losing a family member is devastating; but a son, a child? How do you recover?
To every parent who has lost a child: Are you ever the same?
Casey’s parents, Billy and Annie, somehow hung together through it all. Many couples don’t. The pain can feel too big. Grief styles clash hard—one needs to talk, the other needs silence. Some lash out at the person closest just to feel anything besides helplessness and pain. I don’t know the psychology behind it, and I pray I never have to learn whether Shannon and I could survive such a blow.
And maybe this is where God comes into the picture. If there is a loving God, then why? God, what did anyone do to deserve such an atrocity?
Yet the family keeps moving forward in a way the rest of us can barely grasp. The annual Casey Turner Memorial Youth Wrestling Tournament has been held for decades, often on or near the anniversary of Casey’s death.
Is the tournament a method of dealing with the pain? Yes. Does it make the pain better or worse? Probably both. It gives their grief a job. Instead of the ache just sitting there devouring them, it gets channeled into something that keeps them breathing. Helping other kids wrestle builds character and builds community. It turns devastation into legacy. Casey’s spirit shows up on the mat through every boy his age who steps out there.
At the same time, anniversaries rip the wound open again. The lead-up can feel like the worst day of their lives is fresh again. But families who walk this road say the purpose usually outweighs the downside. It’s active mourning instead of silent suffering.
To Billy, Annie, brothers Kai, Keenan, and Coley, and the twin sisters Molly and Hallie (born after Casey’s death), the tournament is probably something outsiders can’t fully comprehend. In their minds, Casey isn’t frozen in an old photo. He’s still the 12-year-old kid on the mat—laughing, sweating, competing. They see him as a participant, a coach, a brother, or maybe even a parent cheering for the child he never had. The siblings who never knew him in life get their closest glimpse of him here too. The rest of us on the outside don’t fully get it.
You’re never the same person after losing a child. The old “you” dies with them. What grows back carries a permanent limp—some days barely noticeable, other days it knocks you flat. Recovery isn’t “getting over it.” It’s learning to walk with it.
Billy and Annie’s endurance is rare and tough. Real numbers show most bereaved parents’ marriages actually survive at higher rates than many assume, but the shared grief either pulls couples closer or rips them apart. The ones who make it often say the marriage that emerges is deeper. I’m sure that kind of pain strips away the small stuff, the petty things in life.
For me, faith anchors the unanswerable questions. I came to Christ in my young adulthood. The cross, the flogging, mockery, the naked shame—that convinced me no sane man would endure that unless it was the real deal. He didn’t just die for us; He rose. Death lost. Life won. That victory doesn’t erase the “why” on this side of heaven, but it gives a place for the rage and the tears. It’s not that the pain disappears or gets minimized—grief is still grief—but it’s no longer meaningless or final. Death doesn’t have the last word.
To my sister and the whole Turner family: I see the weight you carry every April. I know my birthday lands like a landmine next to April 30. I’m sorry for the heartache. Thank you for showing what real love and endurance look like.
The tournament started back in 1999, when Stanley Crawford worked up the nerve to ask Billy and Annie if Casey’s classmates could sponsor a peewee wrestling tournament in their son’s honor. It probably wasn’t easy to say yes. But somehow they understood it wouldn’t erase the grief—it would carry Casey forward so his life still matters to this community.
There are still questions. None of us fully comprehend this kind of loss until it’s ours. But the whole town still shows up with quiet respect. I know this week is on the extreme side of bittersweet for the entire Turner family. But we’re here for you.
Family, Uncle, Brother, Your #1 fan,
—Buckshot
By PAUL SHERIDAN
