It’s Thursday. Let’s have supper together and talk a few things over. After all, Thursday and these years of a certain age seem to sit at the same end of the table. Not the loud end. Not the beginning. The thoughtful end. The one where the conversation gets truer. Let’s ignore the rest of the chatter. There’s a glass in front of us—something aged, something that didn’t get that way overnight—and I suspect our thoughts might pair well with it. I’ll start with a question. Then

Thursday sits in the week like a woman who knows exactly what’s for supper. She’s prepared. Capable. Busy. Too busy, in fact, to stop and think about Thursday…or supper. Here I am, living my Thursday years, saying something rather ridiculous: “I don’t have time to age.” Which is curious, because aging didn’t ask for my opinion, and it’s moving at a speed I’m not entirely comfortable with. I’m busy. That’s my defense. Weak, I know. This week Hubs and I are at our NorCal cabin,

Living in my Thursday years feels a lot like Holy Week—caught between the shouts of “Hosanna” and the silence of “It is finished.” It’s the place where joy and sorrow begin the slow circle of recognition. Some Holy Week Thoughts: Listening to kids talk theology is…enlightening, hilarious, and occasionally troubling. Their minds tumble through the big ideas like acrobats, flipping, spinning, and landing somewhere in the big tent of epiphany. We diligently taught our daughter

Palm Sunday is a wink from heaven—a reminder that joy and heartbreak often ride tandem on the same donkey. Picture the scene: crowds cheering, cloaks laid down, palm branches waving like confetti at a royal parade. “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!” they shout, voices bouncing off the stones of Jerusalem like jazz riffs in a cathedral. And Jesus? Calm. Steady. Knowing. He rode in, aware that the soundtrack would soon shift from celebration to chaos, from cheers to jeers. “Hos

Thursday sits at the beginning of the end—and I feel a kinship. I’m not Tuesday anymore, and “let’s call it a wrap” sounds increasingly reasonable. I’m tempted to look back more than ahead. But these Thursday years can be the sweet spot—the sunset of a very full week. Feet up. Cake on the plate. Read on… Sometimes great theology comes with crooked bangs and purple-sparkle shoelaces. My daughter and her family are preparing to move to a new home. Boxes, lists, mild chaos, and

Thursday—the best day for confessions, reflections, and truth-telling. If you are in the Thursday of your life, it means you are living out the four score and one years that are the American woman’s allotted time. A Canadian woman can expect four score and four. Apparently the daughters of both lands are long-lived among the nations. Since I’m a dual citizen, I’m hoping to go with the Canadian version. Only God knows—and He’s not telling. All this to say: yesterday I had a st

The Stories We Land Later Here it is; it’s Thursday again. Thursday is the fifth drawer down in the week of our lives. Not the bright beginning, not the final closing—but the thoughtful drawer. The one that holds things we meant to get to someday. This week, Thursday handed me an 86-year-old former aviator. He sits at our pub table with a pint and a spiral notebook. Which, as writing offices go, is superior to most university settings—mainly because it serves fries. The noteb

Guarding Chair # 5 Thursday is the fifth drawer down in the week of our lives. Not the bright beginning, not quite the final closing — but the one that contains sensible shoes and unsent opinions (I’ve learned to use the blessed delete button often and vigorously. Maybe wisdom is also a benefit of aging). Thursday is the thoughtful middle of the end, when the noise quiets and the truths grow plainspoken. We are no longer proving ourselves; we are learning to open what remains

From Prairie Fridays to Thursday Grace “SWEEP!” It’s Winter Olympics season, which means somewhere a nation is sweeping ice with moral exactitude. For those of us raised where winter was not a suggestion but a six-month sentence, the Games are less spectacle and more reunion. “Oh yeah? I tobogganed down Collier Hill just as fast as that guy!” “She calls that skiing? You should’ve seen me on the black diamond at Sunshine!” “That hockey rink’s got nothing on the one Dad made in

When the Math Changes Let’s talk about the age 73. It’s a Thursday age if there ever was one—not young, not ancient. Not too young to die, not too old to live. But we are not the ones doing the deciding. God is. Last week, the math of my family changed. We are no longer who we were. I am one of seven siblings. Ten years ago, I became one of six living siblings. Last week, I became one of five. We have been rearranged. Yes, a 73-year-old brother has died. Suddenly—very suddenl

The Devil Talks Too Much Welcome to Thursday! Let’s talk and I’ll spread a little ink… When my youngest daughter was five, she announced, out of nowhere, that she “would not invite the devil to Bible study.” I let the eggs fry without supervision and asked, “Why?” “Because,” she informed me, “he would talk too much.” I went back to the eggs, murmuring that I was sure she was right and that this was a solid decision I’d fully support. No devil at Bible study. House rules estab

Here it is—Thursday again. Thursday reminds me of a set of drawers waiting to be opened, with Sunday being the top drawer. Thursday is the fifth drawer down. Not the bottom, not the top tier either. It’s the thoughtful drawer—the one that may hold something brand new… or something long remembered. You never quite know what Thursday will offer. This week, it offered me my past, beautifully wrapped—in a book. As a child, when the Scholastic Book Fair came to our small farm scho

Permission to BARE Arms It’s Thursday—the season of life where you finally realize that time can’t be negotiated. You stop trying to outsmart it and start living honestly inside it, and the body makes sure you get the memo. Arms. The whole story of aging is told through our arms. Bless ‘em. Most mornings, I’m in a water aerobics class made up almost entirely of senior women, plus one aged and very game man. There’s a quiet understanding among us: muscles matter now. None of u

So Many Ideas; So Little Lifetime I recently gave my five-year-old granddaughter, yes, the one that can’t quite yet read or write yet, a diary. You know, the little pink kind that has a lock with a key that has probably already been lost. The reason I gave it to her is because I see myself in her. I see her desire for the secret things. I see her want to hide her ideas away, even if I have to spell them out for her first, and she rewrites them. She’s that kid. The one that ma

I’m quietly enjoying the (still small) trend in Hollywood that allows older women to actually look their age. Not “ageless.” Not “remarkably youthful.” Just… aged. This is my face. This is my neck. This is my age. No apology required. Which raises the old question: Are you only as old as you feel? Of course not. You don’t get to wish your age away. The clock does not care how vibrant your inner twenty-seven-year-old feels. You will have another birthday, and—God willing—anoth

Waiting for Light Thursday is my favorite day. It reminds me I’ve been gifted days already lived, and it gives me hope for days yet to come. I have no idea if this Thursday night will be my last moment on earth—but if it is, I’ll close my eyes knowing I was more fortunate than some. And I don’t know why. That not-knowing is one of the great conundrums of being human. Yet it is also the Christian’s greatest relief: I don’t know; but God does. And I trust His providence—in ever

Down the Grief Labyrinth Our humanity is marked by the finiteness of our days; our souls are marked by the infinite depth of both love and grief. To be human is to suffer, and that suffering is not narcissism, it is simply part of the journey between the already of Christ’s first coming and the not yet of his return. Grief has its own labyrinth, winding and solitary. A maze is meant to trick you; a labyrinth is meant to form you. You can’t get lost in a labyrinth; you can onl

Today is American Thanksgiving—a fitting moment to write from the Thursday of my life, heart full of gratitude, looking back with tenderness and forward with curiosity. When our youngest was small, she lived in a bright, bustling imagination. One evening over supper, she looked up and announced, “I wish we were a pig family.” No explanation. No qualifiers. Just the sincere belief that we were not living up to our porcine potential. We still laugh about it, and some days, when

It’s Thursday again—that lovely hinge in the week when the hurry winds down and the hush begins. I’m in the Thursday of my life now, too. Things are slowing in that delicious way where “no” comes more easily to the outside world and “yes” lands more often on my own soul. Every Thursday I’m given, I thank God for another turn around the sun. And this Thursday comes with an especially fitting label: National Absurdity Day . I’m always baffled by how these days get on the calend

Remembering While I Still Can I’m in the Thursday of my life—the long afternoon between what was and what will be. The end of the week is coming, the pace has slowed, the light is softer, and remembering has become sacred. This week, remembering takes center stage, helped along by poppies, bagpipes, and the faint sound of both “O Canada” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” in my head. In Canada, November 11 is Remembrance Day. On the 11th month, the 11th day, at the 11th hour, we