The rain fell heavy Monday morning in Des Moines, Iowa.
Bleary-eyed travelers plotted alternative routes over eggs and
potatoes at the Embassy Suites.
A white-haired man wearing a Saturn shirt had heard it would be
clearer in Columbia, Mo., than Kansas City, Mo., and decided to attempt the
added hour of travel for a better view of the Great American Eclipse.
“If we can’t make it there in time,” he said, “our ship is sunk.”
Preparations had begun with such precision: a map to consult,
checklists and charts. Did you want two minutes and 34 seconds of totality in
Grand Island, Neb., or two minutes and 38 seconds in St. Joseph, Mo.?
It felt like a menu, like an Amazon-Prime level of control: order
and arrive.
Armchair research continued in that satisfying blend of novel and
familiar: cities to consider and amenities to compare with the same
pick-and-click power. Make your reservation, guarantee your fun.
Then came the packing: coolers filled to the brim, pristine
eclipse goggles tucked into glove compartments, tripods and telescopes
collapsed in trunks.
But after months of careful planning, the one factor we could not
control — the weather — forced many Midwesterners into last-minute
recalculations. Amid our anxious Googling, more than one of us uttered a prayer
for a break in the clouds.
My husband and I chose Lathrop, a tiny town in northwest
Missouri, as our destination, and after two hours of construction delays
inching down I-35 and two panicked stops for a selfie stick, we arrived with 20
minutes to spare and parked beside a cornfield that fell squarely in the path
of totality.
The clouds obscured part of the view, revealing more of a
crescent than a ring, but we still rejoiced in the sight. The sudden and
complete darkening was a thrill in itself. The air cooled, and the crickets
began chirping their lullaby.
Before long we were back on the road, participating in another
national act of solidarity: the Great American Traffic Jam. What would have
normally taken six hours nearly doubled in length, an endless row of Minnesota
license plates in gridlock. A group of college-aged men in one car rolled down
their windows and tossed grapes to a car of young women, hungrier for the
entertainment than the fruit.
Waiting in line to use the restrooms at Casey’s General Store,
travelers swapped weary smiles. Somehow, we were meeting the traffic, like the
clouds, with optimism; it was all part of the experience.
It called to mind a G.K. Chesterton quote: “An adventure is only
an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure
wrongly considered.”
The miracle was not just the eclipse but its impact — that
millions stopped to look up. These days we tend to run low on wonder. This
filled us up again.
The older I get, the more clearly I see that life can echo the
mysteries of the rosary: joyful, sorrowful, glorious and luminous. Every now
and then, we pack them all into a single day or even an hour. Like Mary, we are
called to respond with gratitude and trust, to offer our own fiat.
In classical tradition, truth, beauty and goodness are upheld as
transcendentals. The Catholic Church recognizes how closely they are
intertwined, one pointing to another.
As we aim to evangelize, we do well to lead with beauty,
remembering the seekers who journeyed so far Aug. 21. Our church has a beauty
like no other: cathedrals, sacred art, the liturgical year and a way of
sacramental living available to all.
They will travel hundreds of miles for seconds of awe.
Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights,
Minn.