THE AMERICAN POSEIDON ADVENTURE

Today I drove an 82-year-old man with terminal cancer to his infusion treatment. The trip was about 40 minutes. We had never met but quickly struck up a conversation that eventually veered into today’s politics. He was of German descent and deeply ashamed of Trump. His father and grandfather had dealings with Fred Trump and Donald, and he had nothing good to say about either of them.

Yet as he spoke, it wasn’t the politics that stayed with me. It was the intensity of his emotion in that moment while he was on his way to a treatment that would not save his life, only extend it for a while.

Initially, his concern about current politics seemed almost trivial when juxtaposed against his struggle. He was vibrant, intelligent, and well-spoken; remarkably engaged with what is happening in the world. A craftsman by trade, he was clearly proud of his work and saddened by the cancer that was consuming him. Yet he didn’t dwell on what was to happen in the not-too-distant future. He was in the moment; talking, laughing, thinking, living.

The experience felt familiar.

After I dropped him off at the medical center, a memory of my Uncle Charles surfaced, bringing with it the warmth that accompanies a fond memory.

Charlie, my mother’s brother, was a priest living in Washington, D.C., with a terminal diagnosis. My mother had gone to stay with him for a while. One evening she called and said, “He wants you to come down as soon as you can.”

Assuming he was in bad shape, I jumped on the shuttle the next morning.

When I arrived, he was sleeping. My mother told me he was excited to see me. Charlie eventually got up, gave me a big hug, and said, “Come on, let’s go. Your mother stays here.”

We climbed into his car, emerged from the underground garage into bright sunshine and bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“We’re going to meet the undertaker,” he said.

He wanted my help planning his funeral and wanted me to serve as master of ceremonies. Charlie was a stickler for detail and protocol. I was surprised and, frankly, a little uncomfortable.

As we approached the end of the driveway, he was cursing the traffic and forcing his way into the flow.

I sat there watching him and thinking here he is, headed to plan the end of his life, a serious and frightening task, yet at this moment he is completely focused on the traffic and “those bastards who never learned to drive.”

All around us were people carrying their own burdens, worries, joys, and disappointments, yet for that instant everyone seemed united by their moment: the traffic.

When we arrived at the funeral home, I jumped out and hurried inside, thinking I would smooth the way because surely Charlie would be stressed. The funeral director approached me and said, “Good afternoon. You must be Father Charles.”

“Nope,” I replied.

As I turned to point him out, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Charlie was standing outside, staring at his reflection in the passenger-side window, combing what little hair he had left.

My first thought was, who the hell cares if your hair is mussed? You’re here to plan your funeral.

But Charlie was simply being Charlie. In that moment, who he was is who he was.

The rest of the day contained sadness, seriousness, and plenty of laughter, especially when he insisted on seeing the “rental caskets,” only to reject them because they had too many scratches.

The next morning, flying home, I found myself getting teary as I looked out the airplane window, thinking about all the good times we had shared and what was coming.

Then I laughed.

I laughed about Charlie combing his hair before meeting the undertaker. I laughed about his battle with the traffic. I laughed about the scratched caskets.

Just as my passenger this morning was living in the moment, so did Charlie.

Our lives exist only in moments. Preparation, work, learning, listening, laughing, loving, all of it happens one moment at a time. The past can teach us, and the future deserves our attention, but neither is where life is lived.

Life is lived in the conversation during the ride to treatment.

It is lived while arguing with traffic on the way to a funeral home.

It is lived while combing your hair before meeting the undertaker.

To savor life, we need to leave the water under the bridge where it belongs and not spend too much energy fearing the hills ahead. No matter how long we live, all we will ever truly have is this moment.