06/05/2026
New to my twenties, I remember telling my mom about a friend’s mother who had spent most of her adult life battling illness. Doctors had given her only weeks to live. No matter your age, news like that stops you in your tracks. We were saddened by it, but we also understood that for someone who has suffered greatly, death can be the ultimate healing. Two days later, on a Thursday, life taught me a lesson I would never forget.
I grew up in a small town, so it didn’t take long for word to find me. There were no cell phones back then, just a concerned acquaintance who told me my family was looking for me and that I needed to get to the hospital.
By the time I arrived, my family was gone. No one seemed eager to tell me what had happened. When I asked where they were, a blunt nurse told me to check Holt and Dixon, our local funeral home.
That is how I learned my mother had died.
Abruptly. Unexpectedly. Without warning.
Meanwhile, my friend’s mother, the one who had been given only weeks to live, went on to live another ten years.
Ever since then, I’ve understood something we all know but often forget: none of us knows the day or the hour. We don’t know how many Thursdays we’ve been given. We don’t know when we’ll reach our final destination, the place I like to think of simply as home.
This week has been another one of those heavy weeks.
A few weeks ago, Mrs. Molly came into the shop to buy an air serger. She was energetic, quick-witted, and eager to learn. After just one lesson, she was off and running. Watching her, I remember thinking she was enjoying the rewards of a life well lived, good health, a loving family, and people who cared deeply about her.
What neither of us knew was how quickly life could change.
Within two weeks, her family would face serious health concerns. Her daughter would pass unexpectedly. Then, in the middle of the night, Mrs. Molly herself would suffer a massive stroke and leave this world.
I don’t pretend to understand why these things happen. I only know that when I saw her, she seemed full of life. Perhaps some burdens are simply too heavy for a heart to carry alone.
Tonight, Carol and her family gathers to honor a life that blessed others. And somehow, fittingly, it is Thursday.
Then there is Imagene—our beloved shop Grandma.
Last Thursday, Tonya shared that Imagene was growing weaker and hospice was being considered. The news settled heavily over the shop because somewhere along the way, Grandma stopped being just a customer. She became family.
Then life did what it so often does.
It surprised us.
Yesterday, Imagene won the Fat Quarter Lottery. Now there are whispers that she may just make an appearance to collect her 100 fat quarters. I certainly hope she does. One fat quarter for every year I hope she gets to see.
And then there is our own Kathy Martin.
While carrying the weight of knowing her baby sister, Lee Ann, was nearing the end of her earthly journey, Kathy still showed up. She taught classes. She encouraged others. She laughed when she could and carried on when it would have been understandable not to.
Technically, Lee Ann was her sister. But because of the years between them, Kathy helped raise her. She changed her diapers. She cared for her. In many ways, she loved her like a daughter. I asked Kathy a simple question. “Did Lee Ann have a good life?” Without hesitation, she answered, “Yes.”
When you strip away all the noise, that may be one of the most important questions we can ask. Not how long was the life. Not how much money was made. Not how many accomplishments filled a résumé.
Did they have a good life?
Did they love and feel loved?
Did they leave the world a little better than they found it?
Kathy believed there would be a miracle. I encouraged her to cancel classes and spend every possible moment with her sister, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And perhaps she was right. Maybe the miracle wasn’t the one she had hoped for.
Maybe the miracle was that Lee Ann arrived home healed, whole, and free.
Around the same time Kathy received word that her sister had arrived safely home, Shane returned from the veterinarian with news about our beloved bulldog, Stitch.
She, too, has cancer.
Life has a way of reminding us that none of us are exempt. We can exercise, drink water, avoid sugar, get enough sleep, and try our best to live without regrets. Those things matter. They help. But they do not give us an immunity.
The truth is, life has never been about avoiding death. It has always been about learning how to live.
When the world feels especially heavy, I find comfort in a story about twins in the womb.
One twin is fearful. Convinced that birth is the end, he believes the umbilical cord is the only source of life and cannot imagine anything beyond it.
The other twin believes there is something more. She believes they are being prepared for a world they cannot yet understand—a place filled with light, movement, sewing machines and possibilities beyond their imagination.
When the fearful twin asks how they could possibly survive without the cord, she simply smiles and says perhaps they won’t need it anymore.
Then the day finally comes.
Birth arrives.
The twins open their eyes and discover that everything they imagined was far too small. Their new life exceeds their greatest expectations. And for the very first time, they see their mother.
Perhaps that’s what awaits all of us.
Perhaps what we call an ending is really a beginning.
Perhaps what we fear most is simply the doorway home.
Until then, we keep sewing. We keep teaching. We keep laughing, grieving, celebrating, and showing up for one another.
Because none of us knows how many Thursdays we have left.
But we do get to decide what we do with the one we’re given today.
