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

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

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. 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

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

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