Don’t Know Much About A Science Book
I’m currently taking a course for my English and Creative Writing degree called Applied Natural Sciences. Sounds fitting, doesn’t it? It’s not. I have exactly one non-English-related course on my list of remaining requirements to graduate and this class is it. I don’t love it. At all. I could have been sold on a course studying natural disasters, however. Those are my jam. I’ve soaked up books on the Krakatoa explosion of 1883. I’ve watched countless shows on tsunamis, earthquakes, and volcanoes (the legitimate ones that interview real scientists and geologists who offer explanations as to how they occur). I am fascinated by the inevitable shifting of the San Andreas fault. I watched footage of the Indonesian tsunami for DAYS. I couldn’t get enough. I could walk you through exactly how a tsunami happens or the horrific repercussions we’d face if the supervolcano underneath Yellowstone ever erupted. Pour a glass of wine and pull up a chair. I’d love nothing more than to geek out with you about all of it.
Unfortunately, other than the one Earth Science course I took in my twenties, I have never enjoyed a science class. (I still remember Earth Science fondly. I wrote a hefty final paper on tsunamis and gave a twenty-minute presentation complete with traumatic videos and graphics leaving at least five classmates fearfully asking me “Where’s the safest place to be if a tsunami hits?” I was totally in my element.) Natural disasters fascinate me because they remind me how out of control we are as humans. We are no match for nature. Anyone who has witnessed the devastation caused by a force of nature will tell you that. Such events are often called “acts of God.” I believe that to be true, no matter how much can be explained by science.
My first memory of science education is in the fourth grade. We were studying the parts and functions of the eye. If you ask me a thorough diagram would have sufficed, but apparently, a more “hands-on” approach was needed and every last one of us had to examine and dissect the eyeball of a cow. It was as ghastly as it sounds. I gagged through the entire “procedure” and did my best to complete the worksheet on my desk. I had a similar experience in tenth-grade Biology class dissecting a fetal pig. It was a group project and for once I was content to be the weak link and simply take notes while my partners did all the leg work. The smell of formaldehyde, should I ever encounter it again, would most certainly give me PTSD. Eleventh-grade Chemistry, while absent of any dissections, was no better. Unlike my teacher Mrs. Wentz, I found absolutely nothing riveting about the periodic table of elements. Last year I helped my daughter with a project in which she was assigned an element from the periodic table to do a report. She got lead. LEAD. Ya know what’s interesting about lead? Not a thing. Try making a poster board look engaging when the only pictures to put on it are of pipes, scuba weights, and the effects of lead poisoning. There was not enough glitter paint in the world.
If you’ve ever conducted a science experiment for a class or, uh, for fun (shaking my head), you know the importance of taking it one step at a time. Slowly and methodically read through each step before you begin, then create a plan as to how you’re going to answer the question you came to investigate. The closest I come to modern-day science experiments is when I’m in the kitchen, and I can tell you I still get halfway through a recipe before realizing I don’t have an ingredient or worse, I was supposed to start marinating this LAST NIGHT. Mistakes happen when I don’t read ahead. It happens often enough that whenever my husband hears me mutter, “Oh shoot!” from the kitchen, he reflexively grabs his car keys and says, “Text me with what you need from the store.”
In sixth grade science, I was tasked with making a simple machine and bringing it to class to present. Naturally, I enlisted good ol’ Dad for help knowing he’d get right to work making it perfect as possible. He must have known I had no potential for succeeding in the project on my own (no offense taken), so he gave me the ever-important job of reading through the directions and supervising the construction of what he decided would be a nutcracker made from a simple pulley system. My Dad built a device that slowly pulled a brick up a wooden ramp and then released it to drop on top of a whole walnut down below. It had a crank, it had a pulley, and most importantly it worked. I hauled it to school the next week, ready to present. The only problem was it was a little cumbersome. I brought it to my science class to drop it off before the first bell rang. My teacher opened the door and stared, wide-eyed. “What is that?” she asked, taking in my project. I got nervous. Did I get the day wrong? “Um, it’s my simple machine,” I said, hopeful. I looked past her to see a row of other simple machines my classmates had brought in. Mine was three times the size of even the biggest one. “The directions said it needed to be no larger than two feet,” she said, sympathetically. I looked down at my machine. It was close to four feet wide. No wonder I could barely get it out of my mom’s van that morning. I knew I couldn’t blame my dad. I had one job; to read the instructions. This was all on me.
Why does science come so easily to others and not at all for people like me? Why is it so hard for me to think simply, clearly, concisely in that realm? I love lists, organization, puzzles, and assembling furniture so you’d think I could tap into that part of my brain when it comes to science. Maybe it’s because I struggle to see the relevance of it. It’s not that I don’t appreciate all that science has done and all the wonders it holds, but can’t I just enjoy it without going through the drudgery of understanding it? The thing is, my brain isn’t wired to think scientifically. Science is based on facts, not emotion or faith, and I like faith. I like trusting in something that I can’t see and don’t even fully understand. It’s what makes miracles so, well, miraculous. On a recent vacation in the Bahamas, my family and I encountered all kinds of glorious ocean life. I looked over the edge of our boat in wonder, content to take it all in at face value. Unlike my daughter, the ever-inquisitive self-proclaimed science nerd, I didn’t need to know what made the water so blue and clear, what used to live in that shell we found, or what dolphins are saying when they make those high pitched squeaks. I trusted it was all just part of God’s beautiful design. But for her (and all you other science nerds), knowing the how and why is what makes it that much more miraculous. Understanding how uniquely God designed each animal to survive in their natural habitat, or how things we find in nature have such critical roles for our planet besides giving human enjoyment, increases Providence’s faith all the more. How can she not believe there is a Creator who names, who knows, and especially who designs all living things to work together for His glory? I love her questions. I love her passion for finding out what makes things work. I love that she embraces science classes and experiments with gusto, even though she gets stuck with things like lead. Maybe someday some of her nerdiness will rub off on me. But today is not the day.
When I tried to justify my choice of topic for the research paper assigned in my Applied Natural Science class, my professor’s feedback went something like, “You’re making it too personal. Your chosen audience is irrelevant. Just stick to the facts. Pick a basic question that’s answerable.” Right, as if an English student and aspiring writer has any clue how to do that. If don’t make it personal or relevant I will lose what little interest I had to begin with in this class. I stared at his words on my screen and yelled, “I’m an ENGLISH major! Why does any of this even matter?!?!” My goal is to pass the class with a C. After all, that’s the only grade I’ve ever made in a science class so why reset the bar now? My faith will surely come in handy. Lord Jesus just help me pass.
“By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.” -Hebrews 11:3