Showers

My favorite night since quarantine began: the Lyrid meteor shower on April 22, 2020.

My second favorite night: my night in Paris, also known as the late night I baked a tidy half batch (two ramekins) of Sophie Chang’s mini molten lava cakes, dusted them with sugar on my French dessert plates, and watched Funny Face for the first time. Perfectly set centers oozing 60% dark comfort rivaled Avedon’s graphically perfect opening credits.

Back to the meteor shower. I’m not one of those “space people” that flaunt their prowess in physics by grasping the workings of axes, orbits, hemispheres, and rotations. I don’t have a star finder app on my phone, I don’t get alerts about upcoming cosmic events, and I don’t understand why every two months a new brand of super moon is being hyped. I’m just a girl in the world (no doubt) who thinks the sky is pretty and has the aurora borealis on her bucket list.

By complete accident, I saw a reminder on the news that one would be able to view the Lyrid meteor shower best from midnight to four a.m. that night. My first thought was, “Finally! Something happening in my time slot!” As a proud night owl, it’s so draining to hear all my perky hiker friends blab on and on about the sunrises, cool air, and dewy zen that mornings offer. One of my worst memories is the day I had to set my alarm to a number that started with five to hike with a friend. Enough of the morning! Let us celebrate the night! (Someday, when the temples are open around the clock, I’m volunteering for the midnight to six a.m. shift. We were all made for something; I was made for the wee hours.)  

I wrote "METEOR" on my planner and waited and waited until midnight (just kidding, midnight comes at me like a flash). At 12:01, RE victoriously slammed her laptop shut with semester finals behind her; I peered into her doorway and told her I had a surprise. We snuck out the basement doors to an air mattress and puffy quilts staged on the tipsy top terrace of our Machu Picchu yard. (The terraces all slant down for drainage. Isn’t it fun that my boys will learn to play catch while fighting falling off a cliff? It’s all about core strength…) With verbal jazz hands I announced the event and she was on board. I clarified how I’d read there should be about six meteors an hour, however, that was probably for the whole sky, and we were only looking at a small slice of heaven from our spot. While bundling up and getting situated we saw one. It was faint, like a short chalk line drawn on a blackboard, but thrilling. Then two more, just as faint but just as exciting. Six an hour my foot! We’d already seen three in couple of minutes. I had a feeling the space nerds were off on their estimates. This was going to be good.

Because all three meteors radiated in the same general vicinity, we assumed that was chunk of sky getting atmospheric bombardment, so we set our gazes toward Lone Peak and watchdogged without blinking. Forty-five minutes later—and slightly cross-eyed—we’d seen nothing other than the upside-down Big Dipper lose half of its scoop behind our roofline. I guess the science nerds deserved their scholarships.

Make no mistake: I loved snuggling next to a happy RE and whispering about things, but I was also slowly turning numb from the cold air and getting a headache from focusing on the sky so intently. I wondered if the meteors were in all the places we weren’t looking, so I craned my neck left and RE craned right. As we sought the periphery, a pale meteor flashed way over in a spot I hadn’t been patrolling.

This confirmed my suspicion: the meteors were every which nilly willy way in the super huge sky. Drat!

I confided to RE, “I wish I could just ask Heavenly Father to put a giant meteor right in front of us so we wouldn’t miss it, but I would never bother Him with such a trivial request. He is God, after all.” RE replied, “But Mom, if it’s important to you, it’s important to Him.” I said nothing but immediately thought of the scripture in Matthew where it talks about God being a good father, saying if I asked for bread, He wouldn’t put a stone in my hand, or if I asked for fish, He wouldn’t give me a serpent.* She was right.

Inside myself I uttered a silent and respectful prayer: Heavenly Father, first of all, I do not need this. I’ve seen meteors. I know Thou art real and that Thou loves me. However, I also know nothing is impossible for Thee and that Thy arm is outstretched over the heavens. So, if it’s convenient for Thou to scramble or reroute some cosmic debris so it can incinerate in my sight line, I would love that. But if not, I love Thee just the same.

Not a minute later, directly in our gaze, a bright orange head seared diagonally through the sky with a white-blue tail streaking behind it. It was the brightest, longest, most glorious meteor I’d ever seen. We punctuated the stillness with joint, audible gasps, RE unaware of my prayer. And then, because God is a god of cups running over when extra pouring is provident, a similarly stunning second meteor crossed the opposite way, the two meteors making a nearly neon “X” in the squid-ink sky.

I have been filled with peace as I have remembered those meteors every day for the past two months. 

Behold, he changed their hearts; yea, he awakened them out of a deep sleep, and they awoke unto God. Behold, they were in the midst of darkness; nevertheless, their souls were illuminated by the light of the everlasting word… (Alma 5:7)

And I will make them and the places round about my hill a blessing; and I will cause the shower to come down in his season; there shall be showers of blessing. (Ezekiel 34:36)

To steal words and sentiment from both verses: my soul was illuminated by a meteor shower of blessings.

Some may say this was mere coincidence—that I looked at the right place at the right time. I know otherwise. Do I really think that God can sort through the clamor of cries from bush fires, pandemics, killer hornets, genocide, displaced refugees, survivors left in the flotsam and jetsam of natural disasters, and cities being torn apart by brotherly hatred to hear a non-essential plea for a shooting star and care enough to send not one, but two? Yes. This is the father I know; the father who loves all of his children.

I won’t underestimate His love for me by underestimating two meteors.

Greg generally falls asleep on the sofa every night, wakes up around 2 or 3, and stumbles to bed. The night of the meteor shower was no exception except when he came to bed I was not there. He walked around the house looking for me only to discover RE was missing, too. He checked the garage, counted all the cars, and began to worry we’d been kidnapped from our own home. The whole time he was wandering around the house we were screaming at him from the yard. Once he found us, RE went to bed and Greg decided he was anxious to see some meteors. I stayed out another hour with him (read: frostbite) and while we saw seven more they all paled in comparison to my divine twofer.

Photo quote from the hymn "With Humble Heart", written by Zara Sabin.

Stone and bread and fish and serpent scripture: Matthew 7:7-11

SOPHIE'S MIDNIGHT MOLTEN LAVA CAKES – serves 2

2 oz butter (4 T.)

3 oz chocolate (I use 60-70%, but you can use whatever you like)

1 egg

1 yolk

2 T. sugar

½ t. vanilla

1 T. all-purpose flour

Pinch salt

Grease 2 7 oz. ramekins by rubbing a stick of butter around the bottom and edges. Melt chocolate and butter over low heat in a sauce pan. Cool slightly. Add other ingredients, mix, and split between ramekins (I am a psycho about this and weigh each ramekin on my digital scale so they are identical). Place on a cookie sheet and bake at 400 F for 10-11 minutes (if you have convection, use it). They will look jiggly, especially in the center, when you remove them from the oven. Let them rest a minute, tap on the counter, and invert onto a plate. Dust with powdered sugar and berries. If you didn’t cook it long enough, it will be all goo. That’s okay, just microwave it for half a minute and it’s ugly but edible. If you cooked it too long, you won’t have much lava. It will be a fudgey cake and still edible. If you timed it perfectly: gold star for you…and it’s still edible.