Venus Transit 6.5.12 photo by Mark Mathosian The three transit viewing glasses I had purchased at COSI science museum nestled in my purse all evening. Despite a cloudy forecast, I remained hopeful: Weather conditions can change here every hour. But they didn’t. Gray skies and sprinklings of rain moved in during the morning and camped out all day.
I took the glasses to Sabbath House meeting…a group that has met monthly for years to share food, conversation, and prayer. I knew my friends would be happy to take a look at the Venus Transit after dinner, or whenever the sun broke through. Which it didn’t.
Mid-evening, I took a few moments to walk around the yard and driveway, hoping to see a patch of clear sky, but settled for knowing that something wonderful was happening beyond the clouds despite circumstances that made a first hand experience impossible. I closed my eyes and imagined gazing past Venus to the sun. Because we cannot see something with our own eyes does not mean it does not exist.
That is one bit of perspective. Like Job, I am humbled, an infinitesimal part of the expanding universe. Unfolding every moment. Full of planets and stars. And lots and lots of dark space. Of possibilities. And then there is the universe of family and friends, the universe of my street, my workplace, the grocery store where I shop. I cannot imagine what is going on in the many places and hearts that fill this tiny corner of the world.
Back from the driveway into the warm embrace of Sabbath House. And friends. Companions on the way. Dinner, as always was nourishingly delicious from wine and bread to homemade cardamon coffee cake for dessert. At least as vital was the conversation: Movies to see, the Vatican and LCRW, a letter of support from the president of a prominent Catholic foundation sent to sisters worldwide, including the ones at whose table we gathered.
Laughter. Holding a heart struggling with pain and anger and tears. I love this little part of the universe and thank God for it.
I pulled back sheer curtains all evening, hoping to find a crack in the cloud canopy. No. This is Ohio, after all. But Venus was crossing the face of the sun, as it does so many times a year. But this time, this century, we were invited to watch. Seeing a planet silhouetted against the sun is eerily like viewing a classroom model of the solar system without wires, without dust, that suddenly exploded into the real thing and I am floating in space gazing from in the midst of it.
Or not. It was happening, though. Sometimes you don’t have to see to believe.
In our little space, we sat around the living room, graced with a flame dancing on the oil lamp’s clay ball. Like earth. Like a planet resting. All aflame with Presence. The oil lamp sat on a square Sardinian place mat. A gift from a daughter. I wondered if she would see the transit in Denmark where she was at the moment.
We prayed, reflecting on imagination and the encouragement we give and receive when our lives hit a “blank wall.” Then we asked for a blessing. Max gave us each a copy of her new book, “Silver Linings: Blessings for Shadow Times”. We chose a blessing that spoke to our need. It was read by the person to our right.
“May God be present to you whenever you are angry, energizing you to discover divine truths wherever they may be found…May the God who holds you in your anger, the God of Patience, bless you.” Amen. Amen.
“…May you recognize in God’s unconditional love for you that there is already a place for you, assigned at your creation which only you can fill and only your gifts can bring to fullness…May the God of Stillness bless you.” Amen. Amen.
“May the God of Courage bless you.” “May you be found by God when your path is obscured by the ashes of your life. When the contentment of the present is disturbed by the failures of the past…May the God of New Fire bless you.” “May your embrace of God’s dream once again fire the passion that is in you. May the God of Encouragement bless you.”
Amen. Amen.
We left by the front door, entranced by four young robins packed into the small nest cemented to the grapevine wreath hanging above the mailbox, claiming the address written in black on the yellow siding. Their mother watched nervously from a nearby tree.
“It’s the second family.” Max shared photos of the first gathered in a small album.
“We thought about putting that yellow tape around the porch, posting a sign: Maternity Ward.”
Covered with Blessing, I waved goodbye, the last to leave, and flicked the car’s interior lights to the one standing in the doorway seeing me off.
I checked my phone. A text from a daughter ” I just saw the transit, hanging out with my NASA friend…”
Driving home I kept glancing at the sky. Clouds were beginning to separate. A bit of sunset peeking through.
Perspective. Question. Who is this great God who keeps us all, planets and birds, daughters and friends, and all I cannot imagine, in her hands? Who is this God who dances like flame on the clay ball and in my heart? Who is this God who blesses? Who is With, cloudy or not?
Like the Venus transit, I don’t have to see to know…
And the viewing glasses? They wait in a drawer for the next celestial event that requires looking at the sun!
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