Strange cold day

If you're reading here, you probably already know about the Columbia. And everything that needs to be said, well, already has been.

But I heard about the shuttle's loss several hours before I heard about something else that happened at almost exactly the same time.

My sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

And I think of that, and I think of the seven who died within minutes of his birth. And being atavistic that way, I think of the one Israeli among them, who wasn't religious and nonetheless took kosher food and a prayerbook into space with him, and asked a rabbi about how to handle the observance of Sabbath while he was there. And I think about how the news of the shuttle, on every radio this morning, came to me so much faster than the news of my newborn nephew because while the laws of Sabbath are put aside where health and life are in danger, they are not put aside for the passing of news. (The car to get to the hospital was permissible; the phone call to tell us the results waited until after nightfall.)

And I think about how the seven astronauts were not the only people to die today, nor was my nephew the only one born. And I think about how I don't even know their names, and about how my nephew does not yet have a name.

It's too soon to draw emotional conclusions from any of this.

But the Columbia is gone, and so are the seven who rode her.
And the baby is beautiful, and my sister is happy, and when we came home from seeing them the stars were out, cold and brilliant and more distant than ever.
And my heart hurts for the joy and grief and strangeness of the world.