Watching Humanity's Giant Leap

by Karen A. Bellenir

The Apollo 11 Saturn V lifts off with astronauts Neil A. Armstrong, Michael Collins and Edwin E. Aldrin Jr. at 9:32 a.m. EDT July 16, 1969, from Kennedy's Launch Complex 39A. Photo NASA.

In 1969, my family moved to a small beachside community less than an hour’s drive south of Cape Kennedy in Florida. On the morning of July 16, 1969, I wandered out to the beach and watched a point on the northern horizon. A rocket was about to lift into the pages of history.

My interest in our nation’s space program had begun several years earlier. The Russian Sputnik launch that initiated the space race happened before I was aware of such events. NASA’s Mercury program that sent Alan Shepard into space and John Glenn into orbit occurred only at the periphery of my young attention, but by the time of the Gemini program during the mid-1960s, astronauts were my heroes. They conducted missions designed to test the equipment and procedures that would ultimately be necessary for trips to the moon. Gemini flights extended the amount of time humans spent in orbit, introduced spacewalking, and conducted the rendezvous and docking of two vehicles. I kept a scrapbook of newspaper clippings documenting their accomplishments. The astronauts’ names were as familiar to me as the names of my friends.

The Gemini program was a steppingstone to Apollo. The Apollo capsule held three astronauts. It initially met with tragedy. During a simulator test conducted on January 27, 1967, a flash fire killed the crew. Two of the victims were Gemini alumni I felt I knew: Gus Grissom and Ed White. The third, Roger Chaffee, was preparing for his first space expedition. I remember the headlines. I remember my tears.

The disaster led to delays. Apollo 7, the next manned mission, didn’t launch until the following year. Then, Apollo 8 orbited the moon at Christmas time. Astronaut Bill Anders took a picture of earth rising over the limb of the lunar surface, a picture that has since become an icon. Apollo 9 carried the lunar module into orbit for the first time, and then Apollo 10 rehearsed the procedures necessary for a moon landing.

Those preliminary steps prepared the way for the launch I witnessed. The crew of Apollo 11 consisted of familiar Gemini names: Neil Armstrong (Gemini 8), Buzz Aldrin (Gemini 12), and Michael Collins (Gemini 10). A little after 9:30 that morning the rocket lifted. From my vantage point, it appeared to rise right out of the ocean. I watched it climb and arc into the sky. A couple minutes later, I saw the second stage fire. After that, it traveled beyond my vision, but I followed its progress through radio broadcasts and newscasts. On July 19, the Apollo 11 mission entered into lunar orbit.

On July 20, the lunar module touched down on the moon’s surface. Later that night, I watched Walter Cronkite narrate events that culminated with Armstrong’s steps down the ladder. Armstrong spoke humanity’s first words from the surface of an extraterrestrial body, “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Later that fall, Apollo 12 launched during the school day. My classmates and I were dismissed to go outside and watch. Clouds blocked our view. Nevertheless, the sound of the rocket reached our ears, and we felt the earth shake. When Pete Conrad took his first step onto the moon’s surface, he said: “That may have been a small one for Neil, but that’s a long one for me.”

I lived in Florida for two more missions. Apollo 13, which never made it to the moon’s surface, but succeeded in returning the astronauts safely to earth, and Apollo 14. NASA claims that mission’s primary objective involved deploying the Apollo Lunar Surface Scientific Experiments package, but I remember Apollo 14 as the one during which Alan Shepard became the first human to play golf on the moon.

The Apollo 11 astronauts left a plaque behind on the lunar surface. It declares, “We came in peace for all mankind.” All mankind. That’s everyone. Including me and including you. This year, on July 20, I hope you’ll take a minute to remember humanity’s accomplishments and ponder what else could be possible if people dedicate themselves to work together in pursuit of an inspiring goal.

[July 5, 2019; from the author’s newspaper column, which appears monthly in the Farmville Herald.]

Navigating Science and Faith

By David A. Vosburg, PhD

David A. Vosburg, PhD

My navigation of science and faith has changed a lot over the years. At first I kept the two separate out of fear. I gradually opened up to exploring science and faith personally once I found role models whose faith looked like mine and whose scientific integrity I trusted. My eyes were opened to new perspectives, I found joy in the journey, and I eventually became professionally engaged in helping others integrate a robust Christian faith and sound science. My goal is not to convince others to adopt my position, but to have respectful dialogue that honors Scripture and takes science seriously.

From Jesus, Beginnings, and Science

An Open Window

By Karen A. Bellenir

Photo by Chris Thornton

One of spring’s many joys is the renewed ability to open windows. All winter long, I’ve had my windows shut and the drapes drawn in an effort to keep warm air in and the cold out. It’s a prudent practice, but so many other things remained locked outside with the frost. The smell of fresh air. The brightness of the sun. The sounds of nature. I didn’t really notice how much I missed them until spring invited me to open my windows again.

Sunshine boldly came in first. When the open drapes were no longer necessary to help insulate windowpanes, I pushed them aside. Pools of warm light puddled on the floor, splashed against the walls, and danced on the ceiling. I was startled to discover I’d become accustomed to dimly lit rooms. When the sun came in, the chilly gloom of winter released its grip. Everything seemed brighter.

A breeze followed the sun, a warm breath of new life replacing the stale, dry indoor air that had been recirculating for months. It brought a scent of budding flowers, the aroma of fresh earth, and a hint of recent rain.

When I sat quietly and listened as the sounds of spring came through the screens, I realized how isolated I’d become over the course of the winter. Interior house noises feature only the self-absorbed processes of human habitation. The hum of a refrigerator, the click of a thermostat, the buzz of a dryer. Closed windows mute the larger world outside. In this artificial silence, I’d cut myself off from things beyond my walls.

Nature waited patiently. The soundscape of renewed energy greeted me when I finally opened the windows.

Of birdsong there was an abundance. Some voices, I recognized at once. A robin. A cardinal. The wild jungle-like call of a pileated woodpecker. But many others I couldn’t immediately identify. Every year, I have to repeat the process of learning them anew. Still, I enjoyed listening to see how many different types of calls I could distinguish, even if I didn’t yet know who was calling to whom.

And there were frogs. The spring peepers gathered into a choir, their individual whistles blending and overlapping. Not to be outdone, upland chorus frogs added their own note, a call that sounds something like running your thumbnail over the teeth of a comb. I didn’t see these diminutive heralds of spring, but the songs drifting in through my window told me they were there.

I did see and hear the squirrels. Their boisterous rustling through leftover fall leaves created an impression of something much larger. For a moment, I wondered if prehistoric monsters still lurked in the wild, foraging at the edge of my yard. When I got up to check, I discovered that the ruckus originated from two squirrels involved in a merry chase.

My human neighbors are also more easily heard and seen with the windows open. Sounds drift on the air. A lawnmower. A leaf blower. A laugh. They shout, “Hey!” when they pass by. I know the people have been there all along, but during the season of my winter isolation, I seem to have forgotten.

Still, sometimes I have to shut the windows even in spring. Several years ago, I learned the hard way that it can be foolish to leave them open all night. Once when I did, I awoke to find the contents of my house coated with pollen. Spring cleaning that year was a chore to remember. I’ve also learned how quickly storms can pop up around here. If I leave the house and forget to shut the windows, it will rain. Apparently, there’s a strong connection between my windows and the weather; the more I leave open, the harder it will rain.

The season of open windows is short-lived. Soon, summer days may pressure me to pull the drapes again in an effort to help keep Virginia’s afternoon sun out and a vestige of coolness within. But until then, you can find me beside an open window getting reconnected to the world on the other side.

[May 3, 2019; from the author’s newspaper column, which appears monthly in the Farmville Herald.]