Don't Forget About Wonder

Early Monday evening, Mom and I turned on the news to watch the Artemis II mission crew make history. The crew was orbiting the far side of the moon, surpassing the Apollo 13 record for the farthest humans have traveled from Earth.

We listened to the voice of Apollo 13 astronaut Jim Lovell, who recorded a heartwarming message for the crew before his death. We sat in awe of the four astronauts who bravely ventured into deep space, knowing all the risks that came with it. And we soaked in the gravity of this moment, imagining just how surreal it was for the crew.

What a wonder it is for humans to be so far from Earth. This distance allows them to behold the beauty of our planet in a way we never could from the ground.

After a few minutes, I switched off the TV and walked out the door to continue with my evening. I heard commotion from the backyard and peered around the bushes. My goddaughter Tori saw me and ran toward me with excitement.

“Godmama!” she declared. “We found a baby bird. Come see!” She took my hand and pulled me toward the other side of the patio, where her dad stood gazing down at an area covered in tanbark and leaves.

“Where is it?” I asked, struggling to see the baby bird. They pointed to a small area of greenery beside a redwood tree. And there it was—perched on a small piece of wood among the leaves.

I watched in awe as the baby bird opened and closed its sharp, yellow beak, revealing a red mouth that emitted a soft, rhythmic squeak. The feathers on its head and back were a dark brownish grey, with a lighter patch blending in to its belly. It rested on its small pink—almost translucent—feet.

What a wonder it is to watch this baby bird sing. Our closeness allows us to marvel at its intricate beauty.

Tori ran back and forth, bringing items to the bird she thought it might need: a paper towel to keep it warm, a fake palm leaf for it to rest on. (We made sure she kept a safe distance from the bird so as not to scare it).

Suddenly, it hopped toward us, unable to fly yet. We heard other chirps nearby and realized its parents were calling. It took a sharp turn down a path, slowly hopping toward the beckoning song.

Tori followed a short distance behind the bird, hopping and flapping her arms as her curly blonde hair bounced up and down. We all laughed, watching the baby bird and the young girl hop in unison. What a sight to behold.

As I walked back to the house, I knew there was something the Artemis II mission and our interaction with the baby bird had in common. In a way, they couldn’t be more different. One was occurring thousands of miles away; the other was happening a few feet in front of me. One could be measured on a cosmic scale; the other was the size of a small shoe.

And yet, I marveled at them both.

As the astronauts helped us see the moon from a new point of view, we gained a new appreciation for something we see every day. Similarly, as we watched this fragile baby bird sing and hop along, we took the time to notice it in a way we often don’t when other birds pass by.

I’m reminded that wonder can come from countless sources—witnessing history, witnessing the early stages of a new life. Watching the rare courage of astronauts, watching the everyday courage of animals. Sitting in reverence for this crew as they sat in reverence for our planet. Laughing with delight as I watched Tori delight in the life before her.

When life moves fast, it’s easy to lose our sense of wonder. The moon becomes something we briefly glance at as we carry the heavy load of groceries in from the car, dreading the cooking and dishes that await. Birds become background noise—the ceaseless chirping we hardly notice as we rush through our to-do list.

But if we slow down—if we zoom out of our lives for just a moment—we just might remember to partake in wonder. To gaze upon something beautiful simply for the sake of experiencing beauty. To remember our place in this vast universe. To remember the gift of life itself.

I’ll end with an excerpt from Artemis II pilot Victor Glover’s beautiful Easter Sunday message:

“Maybe the distance we are from you makes you think what we’re doing is special. But we’re the same distance from you, and I’m trying to tell you—just trust me—you are special. In all of this emptiness, this is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe. You have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist together.”

Let us not forget this.

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