It has been just over fifteen months since my husband, Michael, left this world. Yet, in the quiet spaces of my day, I feel him here—not as a ghost, but as a persistent reminder to stop, breathe, and pay attention to all that is unfolding around me.
Michael’s world was one of scientific glass and the mastery of the invisible. In the specialized field of materials science, success is defined by how one manages the volatile forces of gravity and heat. Michael was one of the few humans on this planet who possessed the rare alchemy of an artisan’s hand and a scientist’s mind. While he was firmly rooted in the earth, his work was destined for the stars. It is through the artifacts of his brilliance that he continues to speak to me from the beyond.
His primary gift to the scientific community was the creation of hair-thin, hollow glass rods. These were not mere glasswork; they were the vessels for the MEPHISTO project, carried into space as payloads on NASA’s Space Shuttle Columbia missions STS-77 and STS-87.
In the silence of microgravity, these rods allowed scientists to observe the unadulterated birth of semiconductor crystals. It is a striking thought that the crystals now residing in every smartphone and computer on the planet began their journey within the glass Michael shaped. The Artemis mission, which is still in space as I write this, wouldn’t be possible without his work.
As an anthropologist, I have spent my career looking at "communication" through the lens of cultural artifacts and the stories we tell each other. We often search for whispers in the ether, but for a man whose work reached the stars, communication is found in the physical conductivity of his craft. Yet, as a scientist, I am reminded of Allison Parshall’s observation that “there’s a chasm between our everyday experiences and what science can explain.” Michael’s work could measure the precise solidification of a crystal, but science remains silent on the weight of his absence or the sudden smile that spreads across my face as Elton John’s “Rocket Man” blasts over the airwaves.
I see a parallel between those experiments in space and the architecture of grief. The MEPHISTO project studied how materials transition from a fluid, molten state into a permanent, crystalline structure. After Michael’s departure, I have watched his presence undergo a similar solidification. He is no longer here in a fluid, physical form, but he has transitioned into something enduring—a spiritual geometry - or the Fibonacci sequence. His legacy communicates through the digital age he helped build, a silent, crystalline signal that persists across that chasm where data ends and the heart begins.
To nerd- out about this history is, for me, a form of worship—a respect for the meticulous beauty of what a human being can achieve. Michael didn’t just make glass; he made the tools that allowed us to reach for a higher state of knowledge. Whether we are discussing the physics of a space shuttle payload or the metaphysical bond between us, the message remains the same: the most significant work we do is that which creates a clear path for those who follow.
Of late, I find myself wondering what he is trying to tell me with these messages from beyond. I suspect the answer is simple: slow down and be here now. He is reminding me that every moment is a gift and that wonder is tucked into the corners of our everyday lives—in the chorus of frogs in the pond by Waggoner Hall, in the shared laughter of friends over an abundant meal, or a star-filled unadulterated night sky.
To believe that all life is sacred is to change the way we move through the world. It is a call to pay attention, to see the brilliance in the glass, and to cherish the light it carries across the divide.
Heather McIlvaine-Newsad is a Professor of Anthropology at Western Illinois University. Her research focuses on collaborative action for sustainability.
The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the university or TSPR.
Diverse viewpoints are welcomed and encouraged.