The Columbia's loss is a searing reminder of American heroism
One of the things that struck me early on as yesterday's events unfolded was how interconnected people can become through tragedy. As I watched a special report on NBC last night, Tom Brokaw interviewed the Rev. and Mrs. Douglas Haviland in Ames, IA. The Havilands are the aunt and uncle of Laurel Clark, one of the astronauts aboard Columbia. They are also the parents of my college friend Tim Haviland, who died in the attack on the World Trade Center on 9.11.01. I met Rev. and Mrs. Haviland at a memorial service for their son in St. Paul, MN last May. I thought then that the loss of their son was more than good people like that should have to bear. Now they have been visited by tragedy yet again.
Willie McCool's parents live in Las Vegas, and yesterday morning they watched their son's shuttle streak overhead on it's way to Cape Canaveral. Three minutes later, the shuttle, and their son, was strewn over 500 square miles of east Texas.
Dave Pinto also has a very personal connection to this tragedy through his sister's best friend. It's yet another story of someone who died while fulfilling a lifelong dream. It's a recurring theme for the astronauts who were Columbia's crew.
Of course, the astronauts knew, agreed to, and lived with the risks they were taking. Tim Haviland and the others who perished on 9.11.01 were simply going about their day to day lives. One incident was a horrific, unimaginable act of hatred perpetrated by religious zealots blinded by their own intolerance; the other simply a horrific, unimaginable accident. In the end, those of us left behind can do little but mourn.
Late yesterday afternoon, I drove over to the improptu memorial at the Johnson Space Center. I had only planned on going to the grocery store, but somehow my truck found it's way to JSC. I found Adam there; he'd already been there for quite some time. We talked for awhile, but neither of us could really find the words to put our feelings into any sort of perspective. No one else there could, either.
It felt comforting to be around other people from the community, all of whom seemed to be struggling with the same sense of grief and disbelief that I was. No one really knew what to say or what to do, but we all felt the need to be there. I suppose there is something oddly comforting about shared sadness; at least there is the knowledge that you're not suffering alone.
I drove home still sad but awed what I'd just experienced. I imagine that it will be some time before we will regain the strength and resolve to move on, but that is what those of us who remain behind must do. We did it after Challenger in 1986, and it will happen this time around as well. Life will go on, as it must- for what other option is there, really?
