Shirley

Down the street from my parents lives a feisty, lively, lovely old gal named Shirley. Last fall, the entire neighborhood threw her a "Deadwood or Bust" party for her 80th birthday. Gifts fell mainly into two categories: supplies to support Shirley's avid baking habit and funds to support her avid gambling habit and her upcoming trip to Deadwood, South Dakota. From what I hear, she is quite the cutthroat gambler. At the party, Shirley drank and joked and generally held her own with all the young whipper snappers who had gathered to celebrate the neighborhood's most beloved resident.

Until recently, Shirley has walked nearly a mile a day on the streets of her neighborhood. My mom often joins her, and the two have forged quite the friendship. My mom says she is one of the liveliest gals she knows. And it's true. Shirley always speaks with gusto and never tolerates crap about anything from anyone. Her eyes gleam with years of living hard and full in Wyoming's desolate grip.

About a month ago, Shirley ended up in the Intensive Care Unit for seven days. When my mom visited her, she hugged her for what she thought was surely the last time. Doctors said Shirley was this close to passing through those proverbial Pearly Gates.

But Shirley wasn't ready to pass on, move over, or give up. Be it the feist in her soul or the life in her liveliness, she somehow knew she had to put her fists up and give death the old one-two jab.

Shirley now walks only a couple houses down the block before her legs give way and she must turn back home. But she's still walking, still fighting, still holding her own with all those young whipper snappers in the neighborhood.

Today, I had the privilege of sharing a few steps with her.

"What's new?" Shirley asked, her eyes reflecting her genuine interest in knowing how a person is really doing.

I started to talk about how work was going well and how I liked my new apartment. She nodded politely, but I could tell she wanted deeper conversation. Small talk must seem awfully, terribly small to a person who has teetered on the brink of death and just happened to land back in life for a while longer.

I asked her how she was doing. She said she'd been given a second chance at life and was going to do all she could to make it better this time. No matter that much of her life was behind her; she was going to make what life was ahead better.

She asked again how I was doing. And I think I got it right with my second answer. I told her that I am being courted by a truly great man. I told her about how he makes me laugh and about how he respects me as a daughter of God. I told her that I've been alone a long time now, that I worry about the jaded edges in me, but that I feel secure with him.

I told her I was full of hope. She told me my face was full of joy. She said it was the best news she'd heard all week. I presumed someone who is "living life better" would know good news, so I agreed with her.

After a few minutes, Shirley's strength began to fade, so she turned to walk slow and steady, yet still feisty and lively, back home. But before she left, she taught me one more thing about "living life better." She hugged me tight, looked in my eyes, and said, "Love you."

I said, "Love you, too." And, as I watched her gray head bob away one cane-step at a time, I knew I meant it. And I knew that I was standing on the brink of the rest of my life and that I should never, ever neglect to say those two important words to those in my life who deserve to hear them.

Here's to you, Shirley. And here's to second life. And love.