Meteors, Comets and Moons

Dearest Rachel –

It was dark last night when we arrived at church, and nearly impossible to find a parking spot anywhere near the place. The entire block around it had cars on the curb – apart from where prevented by driveways and fireplugs, of course – and even the school a block over that serves as a backup lot for certain services was full, although it was hard to tell whether this was due to whatever was going on at church, or if there was something going on at the school itself that evening. We finally found a spot on one of the street that emptied out in front of the entrance (you know the one), but we barely made it to our classes on time.

Or would have, if the classes were going on; mine went on more or less as scheduled (really, we had more difficulties with the computer hookup that evening), but the one Daniel (and Kerstin) were to attend was preempted by whatever it was that was causing the parking congestion. People, mostly dressed in formal black, and generally quite young, milled about in the main lobby and sanctuary. Were it not obvious from the timing and the location, one might guess that a school was holding a prom there.

But one does not hold a prom at a church – and even if they did, the young women would be wearing brighter and more varied clothing. No, this was for a more sudden and somber occasion; a funeral for a young man who either attended or whose family attended services here. Clearly, he was well-liked (or at least respected), as the crowd attending his obsequies effectively precluded this week’s class on counseling – which is ironic, as counseling could have been needed for such an event.

But beyond that, I’ve no idea as to the guest of honor or those attending his memorial service

As I made my way to the church in the growing twilight (it’s that time of the year, after all, when it starts getting dark now barely after six), I considered how, just as there are a seemingly infinite number of heavenly bodies (not that we can see them amid the light of the city), so too are we that populate the earth. Granted, we are not all stars; in fact, most of us are something quite other than that.

Some of us are meteors, flashing across the sky for but a moment (at least in the perception of most of the world). Throughout most of our existence, we’re barely visible to the world at large, but in those last few moments, we blaze brightly; sometimes, we even manage to leave an impact where we land. In that one impactful moment, some of us even have the potential to take down dinosaurs; and, if certain scientists are to be believed, replace them with an entirely new form of life. Which, now that I think of it, implies that we, as humans, are alien to this planet – then again, if we think of ourselves as creations of God (who is not of this world Himself, since He created it from outside of it), we might actually agree with that assertion, albeit from a very different perspective.

I suppose I saw the young man being honored last night as being one of those meteors, since I knew (and still know) next to nothing about him, save for the great crowd that showed up to pay their respects. I wonder if he would have known how many would show up for him, and what that would have meant to him.

But then there are those who are more like comets; they hang in the sky for a time – sometimes weeks or months – before fading away as they slingshot around the sun, and return to the distant ice clouds from whence they came. Once upon the time, they were seen as omens – it’s theorized that one might have hailed the Savior’s birth, although others hold that it was a planetary conjunction or a stellar nova – although whether for good or ill, who can say? The one that eventually bore Halley’s name appeared before the battle of Hastings, which proved to be both, depending on which side one was fighting on. But while meteors appear virtually unannounced, crashing through the atmosphere, the comet hangs in the sky, long enough for scientists to determine their orbits. The ones who do get to hang their names upon them; hence Halley, Kohoutek and Hale-Bopp (a joint effort, thus requiring them to share the privilege).

Speaking of that last, it’s ironic to note that the folks who hoped to ride its tail into eternity were more like meteors themselves than comets. By the time the rest of the world was aware of Marshall Applegate and his merry band, they had already taken off, leaving behind a ghostly message that I sort of wonder who’s still paying for.

And then, there are the moons; those who seem to have been there all the time. Those whose presence is so regular, one could set one’s clock (well, calendar) by them, even if it’s because they appear to disappear from time to time. They apply a certain amount of influence on the world, but they also get blamed for things they have no control over (ask any lunatic, if you dare). They are such a constant presence that we assume they will be there forever – and I suppose from a human standpoint, it does feel like that.

On a cosmic scale, however, nothing lasts forever, not even the moon. Ours is backing away from us at a rate of an inch and a half every year; a miniscule amount, to be sure, but over the millions of years that could be a part of a single day in deific terms, that could amount to quite the distance (and the recission would accelerate as it gets further away from our gravitational pull). Every satellite that circles us will eventually either pull away or be pulled back to us (thereby becoming a meteor); it is the effect of time and entropy, as nothing moves in a perfect circle.

I won’t try to decide where you or I fall in this collection of analogies. You might guess what I would think, based on these descriptions, but just as it’s perhaps unfair to assign meteoric status to those who only flash past my own notice when they’ve lived a whole lifetime (however short) in others’, so too would it be a mistake to claim one mantle or another for my own or yours. Besides, every analogy breaks down eventually, like a meteor in the atmosphere, so it’s pointless to dwell on it at all. But I had to mention it to you as it crossed my mind, and wonder what you might have thought of it had it been brought up in conversation.