Houston, we have Ignition

"Houston, we have ignition"--It's a phrase we're all familiar with. When every system light is green, when the countdown has burned itself down to zero, the command to ignite is relayed. It signals the time has arrived to transition: from poised potential to kinetic flight. Ignition is the hinge between what is known and what is not yet perfectly mapped but the direction is up. The moment the known world loosens its grip and the craft slips through the bonds of earth.

In Ancient Latin, the word "ignition" is derived from the Medieval Latin ignitionem, meaning "a setting on fire". This, in turn, comes from the Latin word ignis, which means "fire". The moment a spark leaps from flint to tinder, the instant when latent heat becomes visible light.

I once thought Mormonism had failed me. Its answers stopped at the edge of my questions; its horizon too close for the hunger inside. I mistook the pad for the destination. The Church was never meant to be the orbit; it was the gantry, the movable framework for supporting and servicing a rocket prior to launch. It was the scaffolding, the precise sequence of valves and prayers that pressurizes the soul until the only honest response is thrust. It did not fail. It prepared for ignition.

Every doctrine, every ordinance, every late-night wrestle with scripture was a checklist item: oxidizer loaded, guidance aligned, spirit willing. When the final hold lifted, the command was not audible but undeniable: *Ignite.* My flight plan was and is incomplete and blurry to me at best. It is updated only according to my faith. God knows my scope is finite but I need only enough fuel and guidance to get to the next pad and once again await the signal to ‘ignite’--the divine go-ahead to once again slip through the known to explore the deep.  My job?  A willingness to leave the atmosphere behind.

Ignition is never the whole mission. It is the dramatic yes that follows years of no. It is the acknowledgment that curiosity is a form of worship, that the unknown is not a threat but an invitation. We do not launch because we are certain of the stars; we launch because staying grounded guarantees we will never touch them.

Light the fire. Let the known last only long enough to bear the weight of departure. When you do, the pad falls away, the sky widens, and the voice from the deep—whether Houston or Heaven—confirms what the heart already suspected:

We have ignition.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved