The {Breathing} Half: April 2024

Image source: Original photo, 2024.

I didn't know what to do.

Eclipse Day 2024 loomed over northwest PA long before the afternoon of April 8. My small town hosted a block party because "by the next total eclipse, we'll all be dead." We heard rumors of people booking hotel rooms months--maybe years--in advance and paying $1000???

My husband was also coming to town that day, but not for the eclipse. He was returning with 11 youth and chaperones from a two-week trip to Liberia. They would land in Pittsburgh at 5:00 p.m., an hour and 45 minutes after totality, an hour and 35 minutes from our house. What a day for a flight--what a dilemma for me.

Should I leave early enough to give myself a buffer, miss the eclipse, and risk total darkness alone on the highway? Or experience the eclipse with my people and risk leaving Greg stranded at arrivals with me stuck in traffic for hours? Or was this just going to be another Y2K, all smoke and no fire? I mean, how bad could it be?

I weighed my options, talked it over with Greg on the other side of the world, and debated with friends about what to do. But in my heart, I knew I would watch the eclipse in Meadville and leave for Pittsburgh as soon as I could, and let the chips fall where they may.

At 11:30 Monday morning, Greg texted from the Brussels airport: "What is the eclipse frenzy like? Have you noticed it in town?"

I replied: "I've actually been in the house all day so I have not seen a thing. Going to head to Mom's about 1:30. Will know more after that!"

Yes, I did.

Though the forecast was "cloudy," I left my house with sun shining from a bright blue sky, and headed for Mom's across town. At least I could bypass the crowds and be 10 minutes closer to the airport.

The first hint of hype came as I drove down our street. Just past the college, bumper-to-bumper cars parked along one side. Never saw that before.

I stopped at the bank in town to make a deposit. A sign on the door said, "Closing at 1:00 for the eclipse." Hmmm.

Next stop, Tim Horton's for Iced Capps. Instead of a long line as expected, I met an empty drive-through and a cryptic, "We're closed." Curiouser and curiouser. I swung into Starbucks for frozen drinks instead.

By the time I reached Mom's, clouds had rolled in. She was watching Erie News. Already, their roof-top camera was showing a crescent creeping across the sun.

I grabbed my eclipse glasses and headed to the backyard. Put the glasses on and saw total darkness. Peeked out to locate the sun, and got poked by a ray of light. But oh! when I saw through the glasses the same orange crescent they'd shone on TV, I felt satisfied. This was going to be worth it.

I hauled high bistro chairs to the middle of the lawn and we settled in with our treats and our glasses. For the next half hour, we talked, snacked, and watched clouds drift across the eclipse (always through our glasses, of course). It seemed to take forever; but as the sun's crescent shrank, I grew more anxious. What would totality be like? Black as night? Could I capture it with my phone?

At 3:00, I took a panoramic video. Birdsong in bright afternoon sun sounded strange. The temperature dropped. Fifteen minutes to go. I tingled with suspense

At 3:15 the mercury light suddenly glowed. Mackeral clouds, mingling white with gray, looked oddly like a storm.

At 3:16, pines stood in silhouette against a silver western sky. Radiance pooling just under the pole light emphasized darker grass beyond. A puff of wind, and then another, cold and clammy, brushed my face. "Did you feel that?" I gasped. Something was coming. I started to film, turning slowly in a circle.

The world changed eerily to dusk, the sky still day-like with darkness below. Lights shone out from houses; the plaza in the valley lit up like night. The west glowed with sunset. "Creepy" was the only word we could find. Booms like gunshot, fireworks, or tannerite echoed through the hills. Children's voices rang across the ravine as they reveled in this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

And then, the sun! We took our glasses off and glimpsed the "diamond ring effect" with one bright spot shining out. I ran to the center of the yard to snap a picture past the trees, and my voice burst out like the children's: "God, You are amazing!"

In a moment, the day came back. Just like that, immediate. By 3:20, birds chirped happily and all the grass grew green. What a time of worship.

I knew I had to go. I had a plane to meet. But I lingered, not caring what it might cost me, not wanting to stop staring now that we could look with naked eye at the moon passing on.

Finally, Mom and I went into the house, a little dazed at what we had seen. She thanked me for coming, for experiencing this with her.

"It's a great memory," I said.

"A new memory," she added, eyes sparkling. At 56 and 80, we have a lot of old memories. But thank God, we're still making new ones.

I backed out of the driveway, headed down the hill. At the corner gas station I met a small traffic jam. No matter. I paused and waved a few cars through. Still on a high, I felt gracious and polite. But on the main road we slowed to a crawl. At the exit to I-79, we stopped, waiting to merge. Never before had I done that. Finally on the highway, travelling well below the limit, I looked at the road climbing into the foothills. Two lanes of traffic, bumper to bumper, as far as I could see. An omen of what was to come.

My GPS said I would reach the airport at 5:00, But for the next hour, as we crept sometimes at 25 mph, my ETA extended minute by minute, finally stopping at 5:25. I tried to calm my heart, to fight the urge to scream and pound the steering wheel. I told myself that if the plane landed at 5:00, they would need time to disembark, to collect their luggage. I should still be ok.

At 4:30 a mom excitedly messaged our Liberia group, "Looks like they land in 7 minutes! . . . They are flying over 79 right now! We can see it."

A few minutes later, Greg texted, "Just landed." I was still 45 minutes away.

I felt trapped, stuck with my decision. My worst fears were coming true. Tensely I zipped through every opening in traffic, switching lanes, holding my breath and hitting the brakes (like everyone else) at each speed check. (There were many.) I looked longingly at the northbound lane where a few cars cruised serenely along. If only I were over there!

Greg called at 5:10. I had to confess I was still 15 minutes away. "Don't park," he said. "That's perfect." And it was. I pulled up to Door 1 just as the last of the crew was coming out with their luggage. Warm hugs of greeting, we loaded the van, and Greg took the wheel. I was happy to hand it over.

As we drove north on I-79, where I had recently longed to be, we looked at the south-bound lane. Still two lanes bumper-to-bumper as far we could see, and all the way home. I learned later from a neighbor that their friend took 4 hours to get to Pittsburgh that day. He left half an hour after I did. Another man who navigated back roads after the eclipse to attend a funeral further south told me he couldn't believe I had made it to the airport in only 2 hours.

I probably should have skipped the eclipse and left sooner like everyone else. But maybe "sometimes it is better to feel a prickle than to be wise."¹ I did not regret my decision (just the consequences). But I would not have traded Eclipse Day with Mom for any on-time arrival. By God's grace, I got to do both.

Questions flooded my mind that day. What was an eclipse like for ancient peoples? How soon did they start recording these phenomena and predicting the next? Was this how it felt the day Jesus died and darkness descended for 3 hours?² Was that an eclipse, too; or was the universe simply mourning because its Creator had died? Oh the glory when darkness passed and He rose again!

I realized later that when the moon was over the sun, we were not plunged into utter darkness as I had imagined. There was always a ring of light, and one bright ray. God gives us, in the physical world, a window into the spiritual.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. . . . The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. . . . to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God."³

Satan is trying to wipe out God's light. Our days sometimes feel dark, fighting without and fear within.⁴ But when we look up, we see always a ray of hope. He will not leave us comfortless. He will come to us.⁵ The Son will shine again.

3:15 p.m. Mercury light glows.