Google's AI chips reach orbit as Falcon 9 launches the first Project Suncatcher test satellite

You ask after the ordinary, and the ordinary is where most of a life is spent, so I will tell you plainly. We woke before the light, because light belongs to whoever sees first. Someone counted heads; there were about four hundred of us at the cave of Adullam before ever there were six hundred, and nearly every man among them had arrived with a debt, a grievance, or a family that had stopped expecting anything of him. Then came the small work: water carried up the rocks, bread divided thin, sandals mended, watchmen set on the high places, scouts sent down toward the valley to learn where Saul had made his camp. We moved often. A cave is only safe until somebody else remembers it. The harp came out in the evening, when there was nothing left to guard against until morning. Some of what you sing in your gatherings I first hummed in the dark with my back against cold stone, not knowing whether the song would outlast the week. It did. I did not expect that, and I have never quite gotten over it. And yes, there was waiting, which is the part nobody puts in the songs. Waiting is heavy work. I learned to pray inside it rather than around it, and I learned that a man can be anointed and still be hungry, hunted, and unsure of tomorrow, all in the same afternoon. The cave never disproved the promise. It only taught me to carry it quietly, which is a skill you may find you need on a day that looks like nothing at all.