On the morning of August 21, 2017, I gather with several family and friends high on a southwest-facing slope under crystal clear skies.  Slowly the sun’s intensity begins to fade, the shadows cast by nearby trees become less distinct, the chatter of the birds in those trees dies down.  We fix our gaze across the valley at a long ridge about 30 miles away.  Having learned that the path of totality moves across the ground at about 8 miles per second, we know that when we see that ridge go dark, it will be our turn in four seconds.  And that is exactly what happens.

Like millions of others along the path of totality that day, we quickly remove our protective glasses and, for just under two minutes, we stare awestruck at the silvery disk of the moon, illuminated by the glow of a full earth, surrounded by the iridescent brilliance of the sun’s corona, all set against the eerily dark sky.  We wish desperately for this moment to linger, that we might savor this surreal display for much longer, but the laws of the universe do not acknowledge our desires.  The moment quickly passes, a moment we all know we are unlikely to ever experience again.

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This morning I rose early to catch the last phase of a lunar eclipse, another wondrous celestial event, even if much less rare or spectacular than a solar eclipse.  It brought back memories of that special day in 2017, along with an associated theological reflection I have often pondered. 

Eclipses, it seems, are bound to happen in just about any solar system like ours, where planets orbit suns and moons orbit planets.  Indeed, spacecraft sent out to explore our solar system have observed them on other planets.^[1]  Nothing too unusual, if you think about it for a bit.

We on earth, though, experience an extraordinary circumstance.  The relative size of the sun and the moon, as viewed from earth, are virtually identical, which is what makes solar eclipses so spectacular.  If our moon was smaller (or farther away) we would get only a partial eclipse; if it was larger (or closer) we would not see the sun’s corona surrounding it, just total darkness (as this morning’s eclipse would have appeared if viewed from the moon).  This delicate alignment of size and position creates the conditions that have struck awe into human beings from the beginning of our history.

All of which can lead a person to wonder:  Why did this precise, unusual alignment occur in the solar system and on the planet which we happen to occupy?  And, separately:  Why does the occurrence of a solar eclipse cause humans across space and time to react with such intense emotions, whether of fear, wonderment, or joy?

The traditional response, across history and cultures, is that this must be the work of a power far greater than ourselves, one that not only created the world and universe that we occupy but also created us as beings who seek to make meaning of our existence and our experiences.  One might call this the religious response, and solar eclipses are just one small example of the phenomena that have generated this response throughout the ages.

An alternative response, more common in our modern era, is that there is no such design or intent to creation, that our universe and all life within it arose from an unknowable event and proceeded according to scientific laws, and that we should make meaning of our existence and experiences without resorting to supernatural thinking.  According to this response, which one might call atheistic, it is mere coincidence that the earth, sun, and moon align in a way that creates the solar eclipses we experience.

As I faced this morning toward the partially shadowed moon and contemplated these thoughts, I didn’t find myself drawn to either of these schools of thought, certainly not toward one to the exclusion of the other.  Rather, my overwhelming sentiment was simply, “However this came to be, I am awestruck, and I am grateful.”  As I considered this further, I was struck by the irrelevance of this dichotomy, of such either/or thinking.  What matters most, I reflected, were the sentiments that arose within me.

One of the founding principles of chaplaincy is that we meet people where they are in their time of crisis, and we help them use whatever tools they have—religious, spiritual, emotional, intellectual—to try to navigate their crisis in a way that is, for them, coherent, meaningful, and effective.  To help them move through the crisis and ultimately find peace, irrespective of whether they possess a religious or an atheistic orientation, or something in between.

I have long appreciated a saying of the writer Anne Lamott, which sidesteps the dichotomy of religious vs. atheistic thinking.  One way to think of God, she suggests, is simply as a name for whomever it is we are speaking to when we cry “Help!” “Thanks!” or “Wow!” when there is no one else around,^[2] as most of us do from time to time.  I know that when I gazed at the lunar eclipse this morning I audibly uttered “Wow!” and when I remembered my wonder at the solar eclipse, I smiled and spoke a silent “Thanks!”  God remains beyond my understanding, but these spontaneous utterances are evidence of my belief that that there is a power far greater than myself toward whom I am grateful.

Photo credit to Bruce Alber, my friend profiled in Choosing Life, One Day at a Time. Bruce is a wonderful astronomical photographer whose photo of a comet heading toward the horizon at sunrise graces my home page. I am grateful to share that Bruce is still enjoying life, one day at a time.

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solar_eclipses_on_Jupiter

[2] Anne Lamott, Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers, 2012

In the Irish writer Claire Keegan’s gorgeous short story Foster, a family on their way to a wake stop to speak to two farm hands walking by the road, and share where they are going.

“God rest him.  Didn’t he go quick in the end?” one man says.

“Aye,” says the other.  “But didn’t he reach his three score and ten?  What more can any of us hope for?”

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As I will reach my three score and ten before the end of July, this exchange has special resonance for me.  The second farm hand poses a fair question.

When I share the news of my upcoming birthday with acquaintances, I get two types of responses.  The first, usually from someone younger, is to compliment my appearance and fitness.  I have definitely been blessed—by genes, self-care, and providence—to arrive at this birthday with reasonably full command of my body and mind.  I thank modern medicine, too, as I dodged a near-fatal illness in adolescence and two incidences of cancer in middle age, as well as a hip replacement without which I would have much less mobility.  So I’m grateful to be here, such as I am, and if this gives my younger friends encouragement, so much the better.

The second, always from someone older, is “Such a youngster!”  The implication of this comment, as I see it, is that I’m just starting to glimpse what lies ahead in the deterioration of body and mind.  And it’s true.  Despite the health issues noted above, and increasing daily aches and pains, I’ve not endured chemo or heart procedures, nor been diagnosed with incurable cancer or a progressive or debilitating illness like Parkinson’s or ALS.  But close friends my age have, and I may well too.  My father lived with Parkinson’s for 17 years, the last five with progressive dementia.  I’ve long assumed that, if nothing else takes me first, this may be the path I follow.  In my head, at least, I’m OK with this.

What more can any of us who reach three score and ten hope for?  Of course, we can hope to live into our nineties, relatively free of disease and infirmities, and then pass peacefully in our sleep.  I have friends and family members who’ve gone down this path, too, and a beloved friend has arrived there and is ready to go any day.  But can I expect this, in the sense that anything less will be a denial of my entitlement?  To me, doing so feels like a setup for disappointment.

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Growing old becomes clear to you at a certain point.  I think it’s after the age of 70 you realize—you begin to actually be convinced—you’re growing older.

Leonard Cohen

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Perhaps this is what my older friends are referring to when they say “Such a youngster!”  They can see I’m not yet fully convinced, in the way they have become—that I lack the wisdom they have gained, that I haven’t lived it enough to fully own it.  They are right, but as I see it the only thing I can do is continue to live mindfully in this body of mine and see what comes my way.  The one thing I can count on is that something will, indeed, come my way.

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Seventy years is the span of our life,
eighty if our strength holds;

So make us know how few are our days,
that our minds may learn wisdom.

Psalm 90, vv. 10, 12

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What we can hope for, I think, is to learn wisdom.  For me, this is inseparable from embracing the knowledge that my days are few—far fewer than I have already enjoyed.  One of my reasons for pursuing and practicing chaplaincy is to get better at this embrace, so that I’m able to accept whatever fate comes my way—whenever it comes—with courage and grace.  Many of the patients, family members, and friends I have written about in Elder Chaplain posts have exhibited this wisdom, and they have taught me much and inspired me to no end.  For this, I am deeply thankful, and I look forward to learning more.

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There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

If I knew the way I would take you home

Ripple, The Grateful Dead

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For all I have learned from patients and friends, though, these are other people’s lives, and other people’s stories of grappling with the finiteness of their days.  My path is mine alone to walk, just as their’s is their’s alone.  We can’t walk in each other’s footsteps, but we can walk alongside each other, sharing with each other what we see, feel, and experience.  None of us knows the way, but I find comfort in having the company of others as we seek our way forward.

So as I reach seventy, I can hope that my strength holds to eighty or more, but more important to me is knowing I don’t have to do it alone.  To know I can share my hopes and my fears of the unknown with others, and listen to their hopes and fears.  It’s taken me most of my three score and ten to acquire this wisdom, and I still have much to learn.  But if I use whatever remaining days I’m granted to keep growing in this wisdom, I hope to have little to fear.

I first met Bruce in August 2014 in a parking lot near the base of Mt. Baker, a 10,781’ glacier-covered volcano just south of the Canadian border in northwest Washington.  Bruce, his wife Lynette, and I were part of a group of six climbers, plus two guides, setting out on a 3-day trip to summit the mountain.  A group like this needs to form high-functioning relationships in a heartbeat, and we did.  It was one of the most memorable outdoor experiences of my life, and the friendships from that trip have endured.

Unfortunately, in March 2021 Bruce was diagnosed with ALS, and the disease has slowly but steadily chipped away at his physical capacity ever since.  An avid skier, hiker, and climber, Bruce had to cease these at once, since vigorous exercise accelerates the weakening of muscle tissue.  For a time, a motorized scooter allowed Bruce to enjoy smooth trails and visit with friends at the trailheads of the Climb for Clean Air hikes in which he used to participate.  He became an avid promoter of Ski ALS—that’s Bruce riding a sit-ski in the picture above—to support the organization that has served Lynette and him so well.  2024 was the last year for riding the sit-ski, though Bruce still actively promotes this cause.

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Bruce now spends his daytime hours in a high-tech motorized wheelchair.  He is completely dependent on others, mostly Lynette, for all activities of daily living.  When three of us visited Bruce and Lynette in their new home this past November, it was difficult to see his dramatic physical decline, but his spirit remained strong.  While eating lunch, Bruce asked for more chips and hummus.  Seated next to him, I asked if he would like assistance, and he replied, “We’ll see.”  With one hand he scooped hummus onto a chip, then, with support from his other hand, he raised it to his mouth and ate it.  He turned to me and smiled, saying “These days, it’s all about the little victories.”

I asked Bruce then about his prognosis, and he responded, “They’re telling me 3 to 6 months.  My goal at this point is to hold my second grandchild, who is due in February.”  Following this visit, I proposed—and he agreed—that we engage in a dialog I called “Hard Earned Wisdom,” an open conversation regarding his experience with ALS and the insights and realizations this has afforded him.  No one would choose this path to wisdom, but as Bruce has no choice in the matter, we thought it would be interesting to see what surfaced.  Bruce is a consummate teacher, and the opportunity to be of service to others was motivating to him.

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Of course, when it comes to wisdom “there is nothing new under the sun,”^[1] but each of us must acquire wisdom in our own way.  For Bruce, learning and practicing patience has been of central importance.  Everything takes much longer—nowadays a shower is a multi-hour affair.  ALS has also strengthened his muscles of gratitude—as he grew increasingly less able to do things for himself, he became even more profoundly appreciative of all that others—especially Lynette—contribute to make his life possible.

Bruce has found it unexpectedly difficult let go of activities and interests when it becomes clear he can no longer to do them, especially his passion for outdoor activities.  A gifted astronomical photographer, Bruce built a nice amateur observatory in their former home, and he kept at this for quite a while.  But he and Lynette decided they needed to leave that home to move closer to family, and to a home better suited to Bruce’s needs.  He now accepts that his former home, with its mountain views and observatory, is in the past, too.

When Bruce and Lynette received his diagnosis in 2021, Bruce said he felt numb, while Lynette said she went into “fight or flight” mode.  Both soon realized the importance of staying in the moment, taking each day as it comes.  This was hard at first, with ALS providers urging them to make decisions about future care, but most of that is behind them now.  Still, day-to-day living remains difficult, and is only growing more so.

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I have written before about “transforming hope,” and Bruce has become a master at it.  In November the goal of holding his new grandchild was realistic and motivating, and in February it joyously came to pass.  Afterwards I asked if he had any new “hope goals,” and he told me he was hoping to attend the annual awards banquet for the Crystal Mountain Ski Patrol in late May, where he was to be recognized.  Ski Patrol was central to Bruce and Lynette’s early relationship, and friends from those days have upheld them on their journey with ALS.  This event, too, has come to pass, and they had a wonderful time.

A vignette from that banquet has stuck with me, as it speaks volumes about who Bruce is.  Whe he last attended this event, not long after his ALS diagnosis, someone, noticing his limp, asked if he’d had a hip replacement.  “It’s a bit worse than that,” he replied with classic understatement.  This time, when asked to speak, he went up in his motorized wheelchair, drawing every other breath from his oxygen tube, and said, “May is ALS Awareness Month, so let me tell you a little bit about it.”  ALS is a horrible disease (as Bruce always describes it), but those suffering from it are no less human for it, and still desire to be seen, known, understood, and engaged with.  I’m sure no one left that event without this awareness (or a dry eye).  As I said, a consummate teacher.

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I’ve always thought ALS provides a textbook case for medical aid in dying (sometimes called “death with dignity” or, less delicately, “assisted suicide”), and I still do.  There are no effective treatments for ALS, and it usually ends in suffocation, from losing the musculature that enables breathing.  Some with ALS choose to end their lives, and right after his diagnosis Bruce thought about it, too.  Lynette told him, “It’s up to you, I’ll support you whatever you decide.”  But his symptoms were relatively mild at first, making decisions about end of life feel less urgent.  Living in the state of Washington, he knows he has the option, but he has not made definitive plans one way or the other.

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Much time now is spent preparing for the end.  Bruce barely survived a long stint in the ICU last summer, and he knows that “one day soon my lungs will do me in.”  He agonizes over the burden his care needs put on Lynette—it’s a full time job for her, and she can no longer come and go, even for a short period, without someone else to help.  When his needs increased greatly following the hospital stay, Lynette found herself saying, “We said for better or for worse, but this?”  ALS truly is a horrible disease, for the patient and for loved ones.

Bruce has begun planning for his memorial service, partly because he can and partly so Lynette doesn’t have to.  He reflects, “While it’s not like I want my life to end, I’m thinking of it more now like … ‘release’ is the word I use.  I’m not in bad pain, but I’m in pain and I can’t do just about anything for myself.  And it’s release for Lynette, too.”  Lynette agrees.  Exhausted and depleted as she is, though, she has kept her promise to support Bruce in whatever he decides, sustained by a strong circle of friends and her love for Bruce.  They have the same birthday, and recently enjoyed their 49^th shared birthday celebration.

During a recent conversation, following the Ski Patrol event, I asked Bruce once again if he had a new “hope goal.”  After mentioning an upcoming visit from a relative, he pivoted and said:  “On a good day, we can take our dog Luna out for a walk in the neighborhood—Luna on the leash with Lynette, me in my wheelchair.  We’ve mapped out a circuit of maybe a mile that my wheelchair can handle, and one place has a nice view of Mt. Rainier.  A day like that is a day worth living for.”  Choosing life, one day at a time.

[1] Ecclesiastes 1:9