I had the good fortune to be the guest of NASA for a space shuttle launch a few years ago.  It was a well-orchestrated affair; the tour by former Apollo mission control engineers, the night-visit to the site, the photo opportunity in the warm and moist dark.

The gantry, shuttle, and launch vehicle were limned in light, every detail sharp, so that even at a great distance it was perfectly visible, motionless, but poised.  It looked ready to go.  It looked eager to go.   Men were going to ride it into space.

It struck me that I was witnessing the culmination of not just days and weeks of work, but centuries of achievement, one rising from the other, and leading to this.  I thought I understood the significance of what I saw, but I didn’t.

The following day I watched the launch from the official viewing platform.  We were miles away, and after a brief presentation by NASA officials, and a short series of comments by one of the astronauts, we were subjected to some off-topic blathering by a government functionary unassociated with the space program.  It angered me.   I don’t even recall what the topic was, but it had nothing to do with the incredible, awesome event we were about to witness.

There was some question about the weather.  Would they be able to launch?  They started playing the countdown over the speakers.  The shuttle began to lift, it seemed painfully slow at first, I imagined what the thrust must feel like, and then the sound, a rumbling, the balcony shook, the building shook, the earth trembled, and I watched as the billowing cloud drew out into a dense vapor trail, an arrowing spire of cloud that rose, and continued to rise and glow in the afternoon sunlight, then separation, and still I watched, and watched, and when I thought there was nothing left to see, upturned faces lit by distant starlight.