It was still dark when my father came to wake me up. The sun wouldn’t be up for hours, but we were determined to see Halley’s Comet. Those early morning hours gave us the best chance.
My father and I slipped out the door of our home in Rodgers Forge, climbed into the car with our telescope, and headed out to the country—somewhere in northern Baltimore County.
It was the spring of 1986, and I was 9 years old. I loved astronomy, likely because my physicist father loved it too. It was something we shared.
I had been following the path of Halley’s Comet for months, waiting for it to come close enough for us to see it. The comet is only visible every 76 years, so I knew this might truly be once in a lifetime for me. Maybe I’d manage to see it twice if I lived long, but when you’re 9, you almost can’t believe you’ll ever be 85.
I couldn’t wait to see Halley’s Comet with my own eyes.
I shivered in the car as my father drove, waiting for the heat to kick in, marveling that we seemed to be the only people awake at this hour. We traveled farther and farther from the lights of suburbia, heading out into more rural areas. Fathers always seem to know where to go—or at least mine always has. He followed twisting roads for a while and took a turn down one that wasn’t near anything. Then he parked.
We climbed out into the chilly darkness, and my father got the telescope set up. Usually when we scanned the skies together, we were standing in our front yard, pointing our scope up toward the sky between the tree branches. For Halley’s Comet, though, my father knew our best chance was to leave that all behind.
So, here we were, surrounded by farmland, just our telescope and us.
My father tracked down Halley’s Comet, and we looked at it for a while through the lenses. It was tiny and not as bright as I had imagined, especially after looking at so many flashy colorfully touched-up images in astronomy magazines. But just seeing it was a thrill—like a brush with celebrity and history and natural wonder. How do you soak in the sight of something you might never see again—or not for another 75 years?
Then, as we were standing there, a light streaked across the sky—a single shooting star. There is nothing like the thrill of a shooting star, and it was magical. We hadn’t planned a trip for weeks to spot it in the sky. It just happened to be there for us in that instant—a true gift, the icing on the cake of a wonder-filled adventure.
Before we climbed back into the car, I heard a rooster crow in the distance—another first for a child growing up in a rowhouse in suburban Baltimore.
As we drove home, the sun was coming up. The world was exciting and new. I was so happy to have seen Halley’s Comet, and I couldn’t get over the bonus of seeing a shooting star—that single streak of light zooming across the sky overhead. O God, how great thou art.
Today, as we wait for the solar eclipse, part of me is itching to throw my family in the car and head for totality. In fact, on Saturday morning my father decided to fly to New England to meet my brother and drive toward Vermont. Maybe they’ll see the eclipse. Maybe they won’t. But I know they’ll have an adventure and make a few memories.
I’m not traveling toward totality, and I’m not sure how much I will see of the eclipse. But I’ll be remembering that early-morning trip with my father to see a comet that only passes us every 76 years. It is a treasured memory of my childhood, not just because we had that brush with astronomy history, but also because I experienced it with my father. On a chilly dark morning, just the two of us encountered one of those events you might only see once in your life.
And, as thrilling as the comet was, the best part was the shooting star.
“If you become Christ’s you will stumble upon wonder upon wonder, and every one of them true,” St. Brendan said.
As we encounter every day, may we make space in our lives for wonder. And may we recognize that we are always surrounded by the totality of God’s love.
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