I had an 11:30 appointment in Springfield on April 8, 2024. I hoped to be home in time to view the 2 pm eclipse. In the bright sunshine, I whipped around the familiar curves along the hilly ridge where I am so blessed to live. The song “God of Wonders” played on the car stereo, which seemed fitting on such a beautiful day with a scheduled natural phenomenon thrown in.
Thoughts of the end of the world filled my head. In my house, blaring YouTube videos flood the airspace. Mostly of arguments—with cops, reporters, congress. Lectures on how to survive when “it” happens—whatever it is. Maybe it already happened since there are so many experts on the subject. I’m surprised I can write anything surrounded by so much negative energy. I block out most of the phrases, but some, like “red heifer sacrifice” and “line of totality,” are bound to stick. A feeling of impending doom grips me as I consider all the sights along the ridge.
As I pass the cemetery, I wonder if any of those graves will burst open in a few hours. Passing the “sold” realtor sign, I guess it won’t matter that the property sold. Herds of cattle graze carelessly. That’s cause for hope. I see the pot-bellied pig that’s a regular pen escapee. He’s a frequent sight on the ridge, but he hasn’t yet broken into the trash receptacle this morning.
I ask myself, what’s really important? None of this stuff. Death. Property. Hamburgers. Hogwash.
Eternity and eternal things. That’s all that matters.
The song plays: Precious Lord, reveal your heart to me. Father, holy, holy. The universe declares your majesty. You are holy, holy.
After my errands and meeting, I head back to the winding ridge. This time Francesca Battistelli’s “Find Rest” blasts through the car. I sing along with the line: I close my eyes and I can see the arms of Jesus holding me…
I imagine my spirit rising to meet my glorious savior and my driverless car careening off a ridge and crashing into a tree. Someone left behind—a survivor of “it” has the good fortune to stumble across the green jeep loaded with groceries. But, as much as I wish for it, my peaceful end to my life on earth, “it” doesn’t happen.
Sunlight makes the world and my skin appear unnatural. Totality is close as I view my surroundings through an invisible filter that creates an artificial hue. Earth and sky grow darker and cooler.
As I turn onto our road, a family of five watches the eclipse from the corner of their pasture. Two sit on the tailgate of a black truck, two sit in camping chairs, and the youngest stands wearing paper glasses with his head skyward.
The dimness slowly brightens as I navigate the curves. No sign of the pig or his human’s trash. Cattle graze contentedly and the cemetery’s quiet. I pull into our driveway where Ray and Matt watch the sky. Ray offers me the paper glasses, and I stare through the black lenses at a sliver of sunlight. Looking through them, the sun resembles the moon in a dark sky. Ray leads me to the shade of the trees and points out the strange crescent shadows formed by the eclipsed sun.
They’d been watching the eclipse for about an hour. “You just missed totality,” they said.
We unloaded the groceries from the car and regularly checked the moon’s movement for the next hour.
All is well. We survived “it.” The 2024 eclipse.