Thursday Th(ink)s - May 28, 2026

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 age. Her Thursday years

slipped by and she, oh so quickly, crossed into Saturday midnight. She woke this morning in

Sunday. Forever Sunday.

My friend, Julie.

I’m still here, plodding along, asking the old redundant questions: “Why not me?” “Why her?”

and “Why does death sting so much?”

Life is full of conundrums and rhetorical questions.

I cried my way through church this week as it was announced that a (new) friend had given birth

to her full-term baby, said “hello,” and “goodbye” in the same sentence.

Lord, have mercy.

It has been almost forty years since our Levi was born “still,” and I still cry.

Christ, have mercy.

Tiny graves. Memorial plaques. Plots of land. Jars of ash. These places hold a sanctified silence,

gifted to them by the ties that bind. By those who remain. By those who are trying to still breath.

The only thing I understand about death is that it was never meant to be understood. It was never meant to be… what? There are no words large enough for what death means. I can’t even finish that sentence. Nor should I be able to. I wasn’t created to die. Death doesn’t live in my soul. No wonder it’s unknowable.

Last Saturday, my friend asked me to pray for her death.

The mother who gave birth to a still child did not ask for that prayer.

My friend asked me to remember her.

The mother of the dead baby had no memories to remember.

A family, given 69 years.

A mother, given nine months.

A family laying a mother in a tomb today.

A mother birthing a son from a womb that had become his tomb.

art by Wynn Lane in 2016.

It is too much to fathom.

I’m not here to beautify death. It’s ugly. It’s devastating. It’s senseless. I hate it.

I’m not here to give you a pithy devotional about “that better place,” “no more suffering,” or “we

must buck up.”

Nope.

Instead, I’ll be like Jesus and weep. I’ll weep for as long as I need to. And if my life is a template

for “time needed,” then it will be a lifetime. Lament lives with me, right beside its counterpart,

joy. I need them both.

Jesus knows that death sucks.

He grieves that death is even a thing. He never intended this when he gave us breath. Yet he

didn’t stop it. Why? I have no idea. The questions these thoughts raise are best answered by

someone who is not me. I’m just a storyteller with unshakable confidence in the character of

God. I understand that his “knowability” is beyond my scope My finiteness stumbles over

mysteries this large.

But I do know that Jesus said, “I’m going to come and die and, rest assured, my death will

conquer all death.”

And I say, “Thanks. But I’m still going to weep because we all have to die before we reap the

benefits of your death, Jesus.”

My friend has to die.

The baby has to die.

And I’m sick to death of death.

Jesus says, “Come unto me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take

my yoke upon you and learn of me...”

Where have I learned of you most?

In death.

I find you there.

And I will go on finding you again, and again, and again. Because people I love will never stop

dying.

Big Brains: “I understood then, the immense honor it is to hurt like she does. To have loved someone so much that the taste of maple syrup can make you cry and laugh at the same time.”

― Emily Henry, Happy Place

Old Souls: “Grief is just love with no place to go.”

― Jamie Anderson

The Ancient of Days: “Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me,

though he die, yet shall he live.”

-John 11:25

Norma Jean:
"People I love will never stop dying, but neither will Jesus stop meeting me there."

THURSDAY CHAT: It’s hard to be clever when writing about death. I’m letting my tea grow cold; grief deserves space.