Loris Buccola reclines in front of the room, in his $45,000 wheelchair, and talks openly about the disease that has ravaged his body.

He even jokes about amyotrophic lateral sclerosis being deadly, but not serious.

The audience hesitates to laugh and does so only after a smile emerges from under Loris' bushy mustache.

The 61-year-old Silverton man may have lost the use of his limbs but not his sense of humor or his will to lead an active, productive life as a counselor, teacher and religious leader.

"You should have done a story on him five years ago," friend and part-time caregiver Marilyn Hall said. "It would be the same story, without all the fancy equipment and the limitations."

This will be the fourth Christmas since Loris was diagnosed with ALS, a progressive neuromuscular disease also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Although life has changed for him and his family, their holiday traditions have remained constant: tamales, rice and beans for dinner Christmas Eve, pasta and Italian sausage for dinner Christmas Day, true to his Sicilian heritage.

But because he tires so easily, Loris no longer can stay up late enough to attend midnight Mass at St. Paul's Catholic Church.

As his wife, Jane, their three adult children, their 2-year-old granddaughter and the rest of the family gather this week to celebrate the holidays, they will focus on what is really important: their time together.

"Isn't that all any of us really has?" Loris said. "My story - my family story - with ALS, is the story of rediscovery of a Christmas truth.

"Life is good. God is good."

Those are profound words coming from a man who no longer can dress or feed himself and requires care virtually around the clock. He relies on family members and friends to provide for his every need.

"If you can ever think of ALS as a gift," Loris tells a group of fellow patients, "how fortunate we are to have people who love us and take care of us through this process."

The gift Loris has given each person in turn has been inspiration and enlightenment.

His words of wisdom apply not just to those suffering from a terminal illness but to anyone striving to live life to the fullest.

"If anybody has a right to be crabby, it's an ALS patient."

When he was diagnosed with the disease in January 1999, Loris was angry.

He was angry that he would be deprived of the future he had planned.

An avid cyclist and runner, he would have to part with his prized Serotta titanium racing bike and forget all about doing a 100-mile ride when he turned 80.

He would have to give up the keys to his car and settle for a ride in a motorized wheelchair.

He would have to surrender his independence because of a disease that is incurable and largely untreatable. The nerve cells in his brain and spinal cord that control voluntary muscle movement would deteriorate and the muscles atrophy.

Everyday tasks like combing his hair and brushing his teeth would become impossible.

Friends would offer sympathy, including one who thought a big-screen television would be an appropriate gift.

"It kind of implied my productive days were over," Loris said.

His anger would turn to bargaining. Again and again he would ask, "Why me?"

Loris was in the best shape of his life and proud of it when doctors pinpointed the reason for the cramping in his thighs after a workout and the funny little muscle twitches in his upper body.

He would come to grips with the disease, long before his wife, family and friends did.

"There is no 'why,'" Loris said. "We have no choice what wreaks havoc on us."

"I don't think God is trying to punish me."

Loris is a religious man. He once studied to become a priest and today teaches developmental psychology at Mount Angel Abbey. He is a deacon at St. Paul's.

He does not blame God for allowing him to be stricken with a disease. He figures he was an unlucky winner in "the cosmic lottery."

His faith has helped him cope with ALS but not in ways most people would imagine.

"It's not like I think about how this life will be over someday and I'll be in a wonderful place called heaven," he said. "I think Christ intended us to understand that we begin to build our heaven in this life.

"I have just kind of an innate or intuitive confidence that the Holy Spirit is alive and well in my body as much as anybody else's, and it's a companion in whatever difficulties I might encounter. Heaven is right here."

Loris prays regularly, but not for a cure for ALS. He prefers to let God decide what is to be.

"It's the healing from inside that's important," he said, "not necessarily the healing of the body."

"The miracle, to me, is what's happened around me."

ALS, in a way, has been a blessing for Loris, his family and his friends.

Their relationships have changed, for the better.

He has grown closer to two of his younger brothers, who are among an army of more than 30 volunteers providing regular care.

Twice a week, Steve Buccola drives from Corvallis to Silverton to get Loris bathed and dressed in the morning.

"It's not a sacrifice for me," said Steve, who teaches at Oregon State University. "The nice thing is that it gives us a lot of time together.

Loris' positive outlook, despite the disease's inevitable progression, is inspirational.

"It's a cliche, but that's what it is," Steve Buccola said. "It's an example for me about how to handle other things in life."

Loris realizes that not everyone who has ALS is fortunate to have such a support system.

"It makes an enormous difference on how you cope with the disease," he said.

Coping has been most difficult on Jane, his wife of 33 years.

"He has been so much more accepting than I have," she said.

She, too, is grateful for all the support they have received and gets emotional when trying to find the words to thank everyone.

"I don't know how long the struggle is going to go on," Jane said, "but with all the help that we have and the people around us, it makes it bearable."

"I'm one of the lucky ones."

Loris Buccola has what is called limb-onset ALS, as opposed to bulbar-onset.

The disease attacked his spinal cord first, affecting his ability to use his muscles and limbs.

With bulbar ALS, the brain is affected first, leading to difficulty speaking and swallowing.

Limb-onset patients tend to live longer, according to the national ALS association.

Regardless of the onset, all patients eventually experience the same degeneration. And all face the decision when to go on a ventilator and get a feeding tube.

Loris figures he won't need a ventilator to help him breathe for probably six months, but he already has seen a pulmonologist. He strives to stay one step ahead of the disease at all times.

Pain is not specifically a symptom of ALS, although many patients suffer from muscle cramps.

Loris has been spared the cramps, for the most part, but does experience joint pain. Caregivers help him with range-of-motion exercises each night to try to keep his joints limber.

He describes a bad day as one in which he gets fatigued easily and has to take a nap. On a good day, he has lots of energy and pretty much feels like he did before the disease. Except that he can't move.

"Living in the present is the thing to do."

The most important piece of advice Loris can offer those attending an ALS support group meeting is not to dwell on the past or the future. Often, that can be as debilitating as the disease itself.

"If I start thinking about what I can't do anymore, I start to get depressed," he said. "If I start to think about what's to become of me, I start to get depressed.

Depression is common among ALS patients because the disease leaves the mind unaffected. Loris has known people who have become so depressed they are suicidal.

To combat depression, Loris suggests they give themselves the luxury of feeling sorry for themselves, but only on a limited basis.

Perhaps once a week, for an hour or two, he does just that.

He also finds time each day to do things that give him pleasure, whether that means having a morning latte, visiting with his granddaughter, playing Freecell on the computer or watching a DVD.

One of his greatest pleasures, before he goes to bed, is having Jane scratch his head.

"If we had to get this disease, it's probably the best time on Earth."

When ALS patients gather in the same room, they are quick to compare notes on medications, treatments, wheelchairs, mattresses and other adaptive equipment.

Loris, unlike many others, has refused to dabble in experimental treatments.

He takes a regimen of vitamins and two medications: Co-Q10, an antioxidant that may inhibit the death of nerve cells; and Celebrex, which relieves joint pain.

He no longer takes Rilutek, the only drug approved by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration to slow the progression of ALS.

"It's expensive, it's hard on the liver, and evidence shows it has a very minor impact on the progress of the disease," he said.

Advances in technology have made living with ALS more comfortable.

Loris sits in a state-of-the-art wheelchair that allows him to lift and lower his legs. He lies on a $4,000 mattress that alternates pressure and makes sleeping easier.

His office at home has an elaborate computer system with two 17-inch monitors, a multi-line phone, fax machine and voice recognition headset and microphone.

The computer mouse is operated by a sensor on the right lens of his wire-framed glasses. The small dot is about the size of a pencil eraser.

He recently purchased software that will enable him to digitize his voice for that day when he no longer will be able to speak. It's essentially a voice bank that can store up to 1,600 phrases.

Even today, lecturing in the classroom can be difficult. One nagging symptom of ALS is a dry mouth and excess mucus.

His students are accustomed to hearing him clear his throat and ask for a drink of water.

Someone sitting in front of the class comes to his aid, lifting the glass with a straw to his lips.

"In some ways, I feel like I prepared all my life for this."

Long before he was diagnosed, Loris often fantasized about being paralyzed.

How would he handle it, he wondered, if he ever got in a serious cycling accident and was confined to a wheelchair?

"You'd cope," he would say to himself.

Loris not only has managed to cope with a disease that has left him paralyzed, he has reached out to help others.

He has urged fellow ALS patients to develop a sense of humor about the symptoms, like he has.

He jokes about living in a small town - for example, knowing everybody and not being able to return a wave.

"I have to do a goofy smile to acknowledge them," he said.

And he jokes about developing a list of advantages to having ALS, one of which is having unbitten fingernails for the first time in his adult life.

That sense of humor has helped him avoid depression and continue to appreciate life, despite its challenges.

He has survived four years with the disease and shows no signs of giving up the fight.

He has his family and friends, his faith and his work.

Loris recently finished his memoirs, and, as a Christmas gift, he's giving copies to his children and other family members.

If he could deliver a message to everyone, not just those suffering from ALS, it would be this:

"There's satisfying life after a catastrophic experience, disease or loss. A lot of it depends on how we define our life ahead of time."