Thursday Th(ink)s - Oct 16, 2025

The best day for a good conversation.

It’s Thursday. Again. They just keep showing up without my asking. There’s nothing meek about time. But on Thursdays I put my slippers on, make myself a foamy cappuccino, meditate on Wednesday and anticipate Friday. I love yesterday and I will love tomorrow, even though I don’t know if I’ll be given the gift of earthly futurity.

We were created anticipatory beings — in the image of God, finite in body but infinity was tucked into our soul. It’s that infinite spark that assures us there will be a tomorrow, whether it’s Friday or eternity. My soul will not die.

I’ve already written the liturgy for my funeral (not the eulogy). I’m a writer. Why give this task to someone else? I will insist on organizing my words, even from the grave. But that bit of writing is done and dusted and now I live forward, trusting that all has been accomplished for my future. Christ has died; Christ has risen. Amen. The liturgy is warehoused ready for access from my loved ones. Meanwhile I throw open the wardrobe door and step into my autumnal years. It’s gorgeous here. The leaves bespoke, the air al dente, and my heart keen.

My final third feels full, and because of that, I’m persnickety, discerning, and cautious about what I add. I’m the Thursday Dowager now — seated, observant, and deliberate. I move according to Thursday’s rhythm, not Tuesday’s frenzy. My gaze stretches toward Sunday’s shadows, where the week — and perhaps the self — comes to rest. It’s a journey stitched with both joy and sorrow. Hasn’t it always been? Yes. But the shades have deepened; Thursday’s light refracts through every season I’ve lived, gathering them into one radiant frame.

I sit with Thursday, my new best friend. We laugh over stories of Tuesday—the show-off—and Wednesday—the one who tries too hard. Then the laughter fades, and we share that mortifying silence that only honesty can bring. We both wish Thursday had come sooner.

Eventually, we take a deep breath and do the most sensible thing: order new slippers. Orange ones, to match the autumn leaves. No sense getting up; the chair has claimed me. The late afternoon sun leans in, my cappuccino (yes, I know—it’s afternoon, but I’m not Italian) sits one-third finished, and my thoughts feel about the same. Enough for now.

Big Brains: "Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” Mark Twain

Old Souls: “For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic Proverb

The Ancient of Days: Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you. (Isaiah 46:4)

Norma Jean: "I've stopped chasing Fridays; Thursday and I are quite content watching eternity unfold from here.

Thursday Chat: Don’t you just love the word: “autumnal?” Go ahead… say it: AUTUMNAL. It rolls off the tongue so softly, as if it anticipates beauty to follow. Ah. This autumnal season of my life – soft, wistful and sacred. Thanks be to God.