Two momentous things have happened in my life this year. The first everyone knows about, as all of us in Dallas-Fort Worth experienced it together when a once-in-a-lifetime event, Total Solar Eclipse, passed over North Texas. You may know this, but it won’t happen in this area again until 2317. I must admit that I didn’t know that before it happened. I also must admit that I didn’t care much leading into it. I didn’t get glasses or make plans to watch with others, and my wife, Becca, still laughs at the fact that I went to Target about an hour before it happened. But I did go outside as it got dark and waited to look up, even briefly, just to say I saw it. When totality began, I looked up and immediately regretted my lack of preparation. I was instantly struck, as many of us were, by the vastness of the moment. I became uncomfortably aware of how small I am in this unending universe of existence and comfortably more aware of just how big the God who loves us is. I am not often struck by actual awe, but when I am, it usually involves nature and a renewed understanding of God’s creation.

The other momentous thing that happened in my life was not covered quite as much as the eclipse, at least not outside my family – Becca and I are expecting our first child this fall! My standard response when people congratulate us has become, “Thank you so much! We’re very excited!” This is a true statement but doesn’t fully capture what is happening. The best example of what is truly happening in my mind is, every so often, I look at Becca and say, “I just can’t believe there is a human being growing inside of you.” According to the fun app we use, as of this week, he’s the size of a pomelo (I’ll admit I had to look up exactly what a pomelo was) and is stretching – Becca says he is stretching “a lot.”

Science has always been a fascinating subject to me, biology most of all, so it has been a fun few months experiencing the vast miracle of a total solar eclipse while also experiencing the tiny miracle of new life. The eclipse made me feel so comparatively small as darkness overtook our community. Still, I’m also struck by how something as small as a pomelo (for now at least) creates an equally awe-inspiring event that will affect me even more than the eclipse for the rest of my life.

Now, I can’t tell you everything I learned in my middle school and high school biology classes, but one thing I can tell you that I will always remember is that mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell. In their infinitesimal size, mitochondria are the primary energy producers for cells. These tiny organelles in our bodies number in the trillions and are essential for many of our organs to operate.

I, along with many others, spent much time in April talking about the humbling nature of the eclipse. And it’s all good and well to be reminded of how small we are as specks in the universe. But as I remember that mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell, and I sit in awe of my son growing in my wife’s body, it’s nice to spend some time dwelling on how even specks and pomelos make an impact. Even specks and pomelos can alter the lives of those around them. Even specks and pomelos can make people feel loved or unloved, welcome or unwelcomed, heard or ignored. And even though specks and pomelos can’t block out the sun in a glorious display of God’s creation, they are still God’s beautiful, beloved creation. Each of us is a speck in the universe, and each of us was once the size of a pomelo. And, most importantly of all, each of us is certainly God’s beautiful, awe-inspiring, beloved creation. And for that, I say thanks be to God.