Here it is. Thursday. It’s the late afternoon of the week and I am in the late afternoon of my life. And because I’ve lived one or two hot minutes, I have much to consider. Thanks for joining me to think alongside my ink… Because we’re in the last third of our lives, and presumedly, no longer in such a hurry, Hubs and I permit ourselves a little rabbit-tracking over our 6 a.m. espresso. After the usual gazette—where we review each other’s calendars—we let the silence hang. Th

Sometimes being in the Thursday of your life sucks. It just does. My friend group is aging right along with me and suddenly one of them steps out of the pattern, jumps the line, and crosses the Jordan ahead of the rest of us. This is what happens when you get old—if you get old. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow. Life does not continue forever. There is a period at the end of every story. A full stop. Death. My dear friend reached the full stop this morning. We are the same

Estate Planning for People Who Don't Feel Dead Yet Most of my friends and family are aging. Well, all of them are. Me too. Do you know how I can tell we’re living in our Thursday years? Our final third? Our golden days? We talk about things like: Naps Medications Knees Naps Funerals Sagging boobs Naps Grandchildren Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll Naps And... stuff Recently, Hubs and I found ourselves discussing an important Thursday-years issue: "Should we clean out the shed, or

It’s Thursday and here I come again with all my Thursday Years wisdom—an old lady with a slightly shrunken, apple-shaped face here to tell you how glorious it is to say NO in your old age. Especially to five apples that cost $24. We are too old for that nonsense. It’s not because we can’t. It’s because we won’t. Maybe I was born eighty-seven because this Prairie farm girl has never been emotionally prepared to spend five dollars on a single apple. Do you remember when apples

It’s Thursday. The best day for a conversation. Thursday sits there in the week like a woman who no longer needs to audition for belonging. She’s learned the rhythm of her days and the long cadence of her nights. She weeps, she laughs, often in the same hour, unsteady, but still in step. And she knows she doesn’t dance alone; when she reaches out her hand, her people are there. Which brings me to friendship—real friendship—the kind that doesn’t merely attend the party but sta

It’s Thursday. The best day for a conversation. Thursday sits there in the week like a woman who has stopped checking the mirror before she answers the door. Not because she’s given up, but because she’s learned what matters… and what does not. Which brings me to this rather “Thursday Woman” observation: “Being stupid is such a waste of time.” Now, before we all rise to defend our (former) selves, let me clarify. I don’t mean a lack of intelligence. I mean the peculiar habit

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