This week my good friend said, “Oh sweetie…” when I said, “I am old.” She takes umbrage with that declarative statement coming from me. She didn’t actually use the word umbrage, but I couldn’t resist. It means, essentially, “Hey, I take exception to that.” My friend is ten years older than me, so she’s a day ahead. I’m in Thursday evening; she’s got her feet to the fire of Friday evening. Neither of us anxious for the weekend. Do we notice the differences? For sure. I have mo

1. I will not drink bad coffee. For my 60th birthday, I wanted only one thing. Well, besides a hike across England from the Irish Sea to the North Sea—everyone knows THAT is what one gets for a 60th birthday. Hiking across England nine years ago for my 60th birthday. I wanted an espresso machine. Not the Hudson’s Bay variety (we mourn you, store of our childhood), but one hand-tooled by a diminutive Italian man. I got one. The machine, not the tiny Italian. Bad coffee is simp

Much of my growing up years were spent at and on a lake. A big Canadian farm family is not going to load seven kids and two parents into the station wagon and go on summer holidays. Well, we did… once, and for reasons I do not understand, we left the baby and the dog at home with a caretaker. Sorry, baby bro. But really, there just wasn't room. The choice was: bring the tent or the baby brother. We brought the tent. Summer in Alberta was as short as my mini skirt after I roll

As I’ve aged, I’ve come to love the doctrine of Providence. It applies to all aspects of living--joy, sorrow, life, and death. Because of the sure conviction that God is connecting my story to His story, that He is creating a grand narrative in my life that brings glory to Himself, I can rest that my grief at the loss of Kathy, at the relatively young age of 70, was God’s story for her...God’s story for us...God’s story that our best friend-ness had run its earthly course and

I have a complicated relationship with the self-checkout. It begins with optimism. "This will be quick." It ends with a machine, or should I say, Babs, the president of the HOA (HELPFUL ONLY in APPEARANCE) announcing to the entire grocery store: "Unexpected item in the bagging area." Yes. That would be my dignity. Thank you, Babs. I stare at the screen trying to make eye contact. Nothing. I remove the bananas. I replace the bananas. Babs remains unconvinced. Then comes the in

This week had two big “the-whole-world-is-watching” sporting events: soccer and Wimbledon. While I never watched either one on television, I couldn’t help slowing the scroll on social media whenever highlights popped up. And oh, let’s not kid ourselves. We are all being managed by social media. I fell into their little trap and was reel-ed in. Confession over; here’s what caught my attention. Acts of kindness. Soccer star Erling Haaland stopping to smile for a selfie with a y

Getting old is like a birthday party that just keeps on giving. Not the kind where someone hands you another scented candle or a pair of fuzzy socks. More like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. You keep reaching in, convinced you’ve found the bottom, and out comes something else entirely. “Oh! I didn’t know that was in there.” This week’s surprise? I have absolutely no interest in fireworks. Our little town hosts a huge Fourth of July celebration. We had planned to take our grandkids,

As I age, I am stunned by how much living has been smashed into one lifetime. I’ve spent my life collecting identities. Some arrived because life handed them to me. One of them I chose. Yesterday, Canada celebrated her birthday. “OH CANADA!” On Saturday, America celebrates hers. “OH SAY CAN YOU SEE…?” Every year these two holidays show up holding hands on my calendar, and every year they ask me the same question. So... where is home? The answer, as it turns out, isn’t nearly

On my calendar for later today is: Watch my friend’s memorial service as it streams online. This activity, in itself, is not necessarily a sign that I am in my Thursday years. I have attended a goodly number of memorial services for dear ones who never got to their final third of life. Nevertheless, a memorial service is a reminder—and a stark one—that I will die. I’m surprised how frequently my thoughts go there, especially because I love living. Maybe it’s because of that t

The Hidden Cost of Loving Grandchildren Here we are at Thursday once again—the place where yesterday is longer than tomorrow and wisdom is often disguised as a story. Each week I sit down to reflect on these Thursday years, this final third of life, and the surprising things they continue to teach me. Thank you for coming along. Aging has turned out to be a richer subject than I ever imagined, and Thursday always gives us something worth thinking about. Let’s dive in… It’s be

Oh that Thursday! Here it is again, like an old comfortable sweater that doesn’t realize it’s summer. I know it means well. It’s familiar. Dependable. Comfortable. But there it is, showing up with all its extra layers, insisting we have another conversation about things we’d rather not discuss. Things like hearing. Or not hearing. Or hearing something entirely different than what was said. In our Thursday years, entire conversations can be built on the shaky foundation of, “T

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,