More Life to Live
More Life to Live
At the end of our exercise class this morning, Lillie shared a video of herself at the oncology center, ringing the bell to celebrate the last of her 20 chemo treatments.
We watched the short video twice. Afterwards, Lillie, who turned 100 a couple of months ago, thanked the class for the cards, prayers, and letters of support we had sent. She’s glad to be alive and that the tumor on the side of her neck is no longer swollen. Ever since Lillie first said she’d have chemo, I’ve wondered if I would choose that route—even at the age I am, let alone at 100. But I’m familiar with Lillie’s faith, and it’s always impressed me.
A few days ago, when Dane and I stepped outside later than usual to do chores, the sun was already shining, and our valley looked like a new bride, dressed in white. It was a striking contrast to the blue sky. The fresh snow covering seemed laced with diamonds, and long bright beams of sunshine ricocheted between the trees.
It was so enchanting that our chores took longer than usual. Grab a flake of hay, stop, and look up in awe. Take the full grain bowl to the flock, stop, and stare at the creek’s shimmering water. Feed Louisa apples and broccoli, and feed the goats some corn, but first stop and watch the brilliant red of the cardinals against the pure white snow covering the branches.
Later that morning, we drove to La Crosse, and I couldn’t stop exclaiming over the beauty and brilliance of the day—until Dane abruptly hit the brakes and said, “OK, little one, make up your mind.” There on his side of the road, against the wedding-white background, under the brilliant sky, was the most beautiful, healthy-looking red fox we’d ever seen! The fox debated whether to cross the road, decided not to, and leaped through the snow in the opposite direction, as we cheered it for making a safe and healthy call.
The image of that fox, with its thick red coat and bushy red white-tipped tail, stayed with me that day, and every day since then I’ve been carrying it like a talisman. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve needed the beauty of the fox and the magic of the snow-covered earth to wash away ugly news. Seeing the fox helped restore my faith in the good on earth; seeing Lillie ring that bell did, too.
Each night this week, when I’ve considered all that I’m grateful for, that fox has been on my list. It has carried me through a chaotic week that kids will be learning about in their history classes for years to come.
Tonight, as I get ready for a long, soothing soak in an Epsom salts bath laced with lavender oil, I think of Lillie. In the video, she’s standing in her blue-jean jacket with a pink T-shirt peeking out, maneuvering her walker to one side of the bell as the gentleman reads the plaque to her:
“Ring this bell
three times well,
its toll to clearly say,
my treatment’s done,
this course is run,
and I am on my way!”
When Lillie finishes ringing the bell, she doesn’t just smile, she beams. She looks radiant, thrilled to have rung the bell and to be done with her treatments. She looks ready for more life!
Lillie keeps me humble. I can’t imagine choosing chemo at 100 years old. Maybe that’s the very definition of faith. Maybe Lillie, like that fox, knows that she still has more life to live. And after this evening’s gratitude list, which includes the fox again and now Lillie ringing the bell, I vow to try harder to embrace life as fully as they have.