Reaching for the Stars

 Reaching for the Stars: What an Astronaut Can Teach Widowers About Perseverance

      The study of space has always fascinated me.  I vividly remember laying in my backyard as a child and looking up at the stars, trying to count them.  I would honestly say that the complexity of space was one of the evidences that settled my heart on the existence of God.  Another reason why my interest in space came from my grandfather.  My grandfather worked for companies that built planes.  One of those companies was contracted with building the external fuel tanks for the space shuttle.  He left a lot of pictures, decals, and notes on the construction of the fuel tanks.  It made me proud to know that one of my relatives had a part in sending man into space.

      As you can imagine the Artemis mission has peaked my interest in outer space.  On April 1, 2026, NASA’s historic Artemis II mission launched the first crewed spacecraft toward the Moon in more than 50 years.  I stared at the rocket tearing into the sky, the huge flames that burst from the rocket, the cloud of exhausted fuel that was left behind.  I was so excited to watch history unfold before my very eyes. At the helm was Reid Wiseman, commander of the mission and one of just four humans on this awe‑inspiring journey around our nearest celestial neighbor.

      But Reid’s journey isn’t simply about rockets and lunar flybys.  It’s also a deeply human story of loss, resilience, and hope.  Reid Wiseman isn't just your average astronaut.  His story resonates with me because Reid is a widower and the devoted single father of two daughters. His wife Carroll passed away in 2020 after a long battle with cancer, leaving him to raise their girls on his own.  Needless to say I admired Reid more as a solo parent, a widower who devotedly loved his wife, and a man who still pursued his dreams.  In interviews leading up to the Artemis II flight, Reid has spoken honestly about the challenge of balancing his calling as an astronaut with his responsibilities as a parent. The toughest part, he said, isn’t leaving on space missions,  it’s the stress and emotional toll that separation puts on his daughters.  That honesty is powerful. It reminds all of us that even those who seem to be living extraordinary lives face deeply ordinary struggles loss, grief, tough decisions, fears about the future.  It might sound odd, but as Reid and the team flew higher into space and further away from humanity, I felt closer to him because we both have walked the same path.  A widower often feels isolated, alone, like an island in the middle of an ocean.  But Reid's journey has reminded me that I'm not alone, that I'm not the only man who has walked this path.  And I'm not the only man pressing forward to keep living a good life.

      Rather than stepping back from life’s big opportunities, Reid chose to lean in. After discussions with his daughters, who eventually supported his decision, he accepted the mission to command the Artemis lunar flight. “Of all the people on planet Earth right now four are in a position to go fly around the moon,” he said, and he felt he couldn’t say no to that chance.  That doesn’t mean he wasn’t afraid or conflicted. It means he lived with that tension between pursuing extraordinary dreams and loving his children deeply and chose a path that honored both. That’s a lesson for all of us.  Oftentimes our grief causes life to come to a screeching halt, and rightfully so.  I know there are moments in my life where I have to take a deep breath, moments when I need to hit the pause button, moment when I need the earth to stop spinning on its axis.  BUT, I also cannot stop living my life.  Many widowers stop existing.  Yes, they still work, they show up, they are alive in every sense of the word alive, but they have given up.  They have cast aside hope, dreams, aspirations, and goals.  They have thrown up the white flag that there can still be good things for them in the future.  Reid's story reminds us of the tension that will always exist between past, present, and future.  Those three cords form one inseparable strand.  

      So, what are some lessons that Reid's story can teach us as widowers?  Or for that matter, teach all of us?

      One primary lesson is that our grief doesn’t define our future.

Losing a spouse reshapes your life, but it doesn’t close the door on growth, purpose, or adventure. Reid’s journey shows that even after profound loss, people can still chase meaningful dreams.  Grief and death aren't meant to incarcerate you to the past.  Those that grieve can, at times, become shackled to the past instead of treasure the past.  Grief will indeed shape our future.  We won't be the same person we were prior to losing that person, BUT grief isn't meant to destroy our future or our hope.  Grief cannot be the only thing that defines you.  

      A second lesson is that love and ambition aren’t mutually exclusive.  Reid didn’t have to choose “family” or “career.” He chose to embrace both. In talking honestly with his daughters and involving them in his process, he showed them his values  and earned their support.  I wrestled with this as I created Sons of the Shepherd.  My widower first ministry would take time, it would take work, and I knew it would be stressful.  But I also knew this is what God wanted me to do.  I refused to allow Tiffanie's death to be my death.  I couldn't afford to allow losing her be the thing that killed my ambition and goals.  I could have easily allowed Tiff's passing to be the death knell to my development and growth of faith, but instead I refused. 

      Finally, courage isn’t absence of fear, it’s action in spite of it.  The definition of courage changes after losing a spouse.  Courage looks like cooking dinner, clean laundry, game nights, hugs, adapting, adjusting, learning to live again, laughing again, crying together, reading books, and learning what quiet strength looks like.  Whether it’s a lunar mission or everyday parenthood, courage looks like showing up, staying vulnerable, and loving deeply even while life feels uncertain or scary.  I personally will never fly into space.  I am terrified of flying in general.  But to my five kids and new wife, courage looks like taking care of myself physically, taking days off, paying bills, and loving them even when the sands of life have shifted.

      This story isn’t just about a space mission. It’s about the everyday resilience of people who keep going, even when life takes unexpected turns. It’s about widowers who lift their children, hold space for their grief, and still find purpose and joy wherever they can.  Your name might never be on the news or make the front page of the paper, but that doesn't matter.  The world doesn't need you to be their hero, just your world, just those who orbit about you.  And it’s about the reminder that you don’t have to be perfect to pursue something meaningful just brave enough to keep stepping forward.  It's about grieving while having goals, and it's about a constant, unending pursuit to reach for the stars.....to still be a dreamer after watching dreams go up in flames.  It's about pressing forward with a resilient spirit.