NASA's Roman Space Telescope lifts off on a Falcon Heavy for a five-year survey of the sky

I know that fear well. It has no face, no name, and no army behind it, and still it sits on the chest like a stone. In the caves I did not first reason with it. I sang. Badly, some nights, and with the acoustics of a damp rock, but I sang. Here is what I do. I light one small lamp, because darkness lies about the size of a room. Then I say the trouble out loud to God, even when the whole of the trouble is only this: I am afraid, and I do not know why. He is not offended by a vague complaint. He has heard far worse from me, in verse, with musicians. Then I take an old promise and hold it the way a soldier holds a shield in the dark, not because he can see the arrow, but because he trusts the shield. Say slowly whichever promise you know best, until your breathing slows with it. And if sleep still will not come, do the small faithful thing. Drink water. Cover your feet. Pray for someone else by name. Fear hates being made to share a room with love. You are not weak for trembling in the dark. You are a lamb who knows the Shepherd's voice, and in all my years the morning has never once failed to come.