On a day like today, it's difficult not to spend some time reflecting on the past and wondering about the future.
For some people, it was a day to look back at one of the bloodiest periods in this nation's history -- The Civil War, which began 150 years ago. Definitely not a time we can be proud of as a nation, but hopefully we will be reminded over the next four years of commemorations of its lessons and avoid repeating them.
Actually, the anniversary I was thinking about today -- not surprisingly for those who know me -- was the 30th anniversary of the first space shuttle launch (pictured above). Although I wasn't hooked on following every development in the shuttle program when Columbia blasted off from Kennedy Space Center, Fla., on April 12, 1981, that single event would start an era that has been the focus of a lot of my energy through the years.
As a sixth-grader a year later, right after Columbia's STS-3 mission, I saw color photos of the launch in our local daily newspaper and something grabbed hold of me. Nearly 30 years later, it hasn't let go.
During this Lenten reflection time, I can't help but compare my passion through the years for the Space Shuttle Program with the Christian faith journey I have walked since 1994. I still get goosebumps when I watch live coverage of a shuttle launch, and that "warming of the heart" still occurs often in my walk with Christ.
I know I should be more like Jesus' disciples and simply drop everything and follow him in every aspect of my life. In some ways -- through my volunteer service to my church -- I have, though I certainly could do more. I should be focused on things that serve him and not spend time thinking about what's already happened. (After all, I'm the guy who used to tell a college friend who majored in history that she was wasting her time living in the past when the key was to focus on the future.)
But on days like today -- with just two more shuttle flights scheduled before the program ends -- part of me longs for the past. I remember the days spent clipping newspaper articles about each flight, rising at 5 a.m. to record launch coverage on our family's first VCR, and my first trip to Cape Canaveral with my wife on our honeymoon, pinching myself to make sure the places I had seen for years on TV were really right in front of me. I remember a solo drive across the peninsula the day before a training session paid for by the newspaper, wondering if it really was OK to spend some extra personal money on a bus trip right up to the base of the launch pads, even though there wasn't a shuttle on the pad at the time.
And I'll always remember taking my whole family to KSC a few years back on a day-long excursion, taking that same bus tour with my kids, showing them the pads from an oceanside viewing platform and ending the day at a seafood restaurant with the lights of the launch pads and Vehicle Assembly Building reflecting on the bay. I didn't want to leave that restaurant and head back to Orlando. I wanted to stay and continue imagining living there, taking in that great seafood and beautiful view as often as I wanted.
Now much of that is coming to an end, with no clear direction for NASA's manned spaceflight program spelled out. My dream of becoming an astronaut was crushed by the fact I didn't have a scientific mind, and I (wisely, it now seems) never applied for a public relations job with NASA that would have moved me and my family to Florida. Although I never got to see a shuttle in person when it was operational, now it appears I will get that opportunity the next time I visit KSC, since Atlantis will be on display there after its last mission. It will be fun, but it won't be the same, knowing the program has ended.
So although today should be a celebration of three decades of accomplishments -- along with two terrible tragedies -- in the shuttle program, it somehow feels like a funeral. I guess that's appropriate. After all, we take time to mourn the ones we love and celebrate their lives and their accomplishments before we move on with our lives. Maybe this is no different.
Yet another, less melancholy part of me feels a lot like this kid, thankful for the wonderful opportunity to watch and dream:
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