When I observe your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you set in place, what is a human being that you remember him, a son of man that you look after him? ~Psalm 8:3–4
Space exploration has always fascinated me. When I was in the eighth grade, America was in what was called “the space race.” In April 1961 Russia won the race, sending cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin into space, making him the first human to orbit the earth. But America wasn’t far behind. The next month we sent Alan Shepard into space for exactly fifteen minutes. Millions of peoples’ eyes were fixed onto their television screens. Watching. Anxious. Nervous. I was all of these.
So, after the kind of attention given to this (and all the other) space travel when I was a teenager, it’s been impossible to ignore as an adult. In high school, right in the middle of our school day, our principal would interrupt whatever was going on and play the live radio broadcast of “We have lift off,” “Houston, this is Colonel Glenn,” or “We can see the parachute over the Atlantic.” The words held my classmates and me spellbound.
In July 2011 I was hustling through the airport to my midmorning flight. Since the airlines and I have an agreement—if they’re ready to leave and I’m not there, they go ahead without me—and since I was running a little late, my pace down the con- course was quick. Over the loudspeaker, coming from one of the television monitors hanging from the ceiling, I heard the unmistakable conversation between a pilot and an air traffic controller. Glancing at the television, I saw that the mighty space shuttle Atlantis was landing at the Kennedy Space Center, the seventy-five-ton behemoth gliding toward the runway as though it were a yellow maple leaf softly landing on my lawn.
I couldn’t help myself. Late or not, I had to stop and watch. The touchdown was flawless. Puffs of white smoke burst from the tires as they greeted terra firma. A huge parachute was deployed, safely bringing the craft to a stop. The man in Houston, in the same kind of steady tone our local weatherman uses when he’s describing a low-pressure area over North Dakota, gave a quick rundown: “Atlantis has successfully completed her thirteen-day mission, encircling the earth 208 times and covering over six million miles. Welcome home, Atlantis.”
Goose bumps covered my forearms. What a miracle, I whispered. I had witnessed the last landing of NASA’s entire space shuttle initiative.
Glancing around the waiting area, I saw a number of people—a businessman snapping open a fresh USA Today, a young family trying to keep their youngster close by, a few college students texting on their smartphones. And these folks all had something in common. Not one of them . . . not even the child . . . was paying the least bit of attention to the television. This incredible harmonization of science, technology, and man’s ingenuity, the last flight of its kind, didn’t even earn a lifted head or raised eye.
A trace of anger welled up inside me. “Unbelievable,” I whispered.
Unfortunately, every time I read this psalm, it dawns on me that I’m as guilty as those people in the waiting area at gate B6. “Lord, our Lord, how magnificent is your name throughout the earth!” (v. 1). “Can you believe the Cubs lost again?” “When I observe your heavens . . .” (v. 3). “C’mon over here, honey. I don’t want you to get lost in this airport.” “The moon and the stars, which you set in place” (v. 3). “RU meeting me at the airport? Lots of luv. UR 2QT. LOL.”
Tragically, I have grown so accustomed to God’s miraculous handiwork that it no longer overwhelms me. In fact, sometimes I don’t even bother to look up. But read- ing this psalm is like hearing the familiar cadence of an astronaut checking in with Houston. I cannot help myself. I am almost forced to stop and look up, and when I see what’s going on, those same chills cover my arms.
Are you tired of the headlines, the daily chores of being a man, of fatherhood and the rigors of your work? Look up. Remember whom you worship. Be awed by His creation. Recall what He’s done. Rest in His love for you today and in His promises for tomorrow. How could you and I ever get accustomed to this?
Bring on those old goose bumps again.