Marie Osmond & Her Husband Are ‘Having A Ball’ As Empty Nesters

Watch the video at the end of this article.

Marie Osmond & Her Husband Are 'Having A Ball' As Empty Nesters

Marie Osmond: The Reinvention of a Lifetime

You can see the legendary Marie Osmond perform her greatest hits — and much more — in her latest special, An Evening with Marie.
And today, the beloved entertainer joins us in person.

When Marie walks into a room, the energy shifts. Crew members gather, faces light up, and everyone seems to smile just a little wider. It’s a reaction she’s used to — but never takes for granted.

“It blows my mind that I’m still working,” she laughs.
“And I’m having more fun than ever.”

A Dream 20 Years in the Making

Marie’s new project is perhaps the most ambitious of her career:
a 17-song symphonic album, recorded in Prague with a full orchestra.

She performs everything from the Great American Songbook to full classical opera — the result of more than 20 years of vocal training.

“I never thought I could sing opera,” she says.
A Broadway vocal coach once said she had the voice for it.
“And I told her, ‘Shut up!’ — and then I trained for two decades.”

Marie will take the album on a holiday symphonic tour, featuring 60 musicians onstage — no backing tracks, no digital tricks.

“With symphonic music, everything is live. You get one shot — like Broadway.”

She partnered with BYUtv for a global televised special.
With 50 million viewers worldwide — including U.S. military audiences — fans will be able to watch the show for free.

Family, Faith, and Full-Circle Love

Marie first attended BYU briefly before being pulled back on the road to perform with her family — a decision she remembers fondly, despite never having a “normal” college experience.

Years later, she finds herself entering a new season of life.
After remarrying her first husband, Stephen Craig, the couple recently became empty-nesters.

“People ask how to make a marriage last,” she jokes.
“My husband says — stay apart for 20 years.”

With their kids grown, the pair bought a motor home and took a long-awaited American road trip: Yellowstone, wide-open country, and even the Idaho cabin where her mother was born.

Roots, Courage, and Lifetime Lessons

Osmond credits her resilience to her upbringing.
Born on her father’s birthday, she was the only sister among eight brothers.

Her parents taught her to work hard, chase dreams, and — most importantly — not fear change.

“Close a door if you need to. Walk away. Open a new one.”

That philosophy led her to leave The Talk at the height of success, and to walk away from an 11-year Las Vegas residency.

“You don’t always have to top something. Just follow your passion.”

The Next Chapter

What’s after the symphonic album?
Marie reveals she is producing — and acting in — a new Lifetime Christmas film, A Fiancé for Christmas.

“I don’t always need to star,” she says proudly.
“I want stories where every character matters.”

She hopes to produce more projects centered on women, creativity, and meaningful storytelling.

Joy, Positivity, and Purpose

Marie believes deeply in joy — even when life gets painful.

“Faith is a positive attitude,” she says.
“Life can take us through hell, but it’s what we turn it into that matters.”

And after decades in entertainment, she insists her greatest mission is simple:

“We need hope. We need happiness.
We need music again.”

With her new album, new tour, and new adventures, Marie Osmond isn’t just returning to the stage —
she’s stepping into the most fearless chapter of her career.

You Missed

HE WAS 67 YEARS OLD WHEN HIS SUV HIT THE BRIDGE AT 70 MILES PER HOUR. HE DIED TWICE IN THE HELICOPTER ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL. WHEN HE WOKE UP, HE FINALLY UNDERSTOOD THE SONG HE’D BEEN SINGING FOR FORTY YEARS.He wasn’t supposed to live this long. He was George Glenn Jones from the Big Thicket of East Texas. The son of a violent drunk who beat him under threat of a beating if he wouldn’t sing. The boy who learned his voice was the only thing that could keep his father’s hand still.By his thirties, he was country music’s greatest voice. By his forties, his nickname was “No Show Jones” — a man with two hundred lawsuits for missing the concerts he was paid to play. By his fifties, his wives hid the keys so he couldn’t drive to the liquor store. He climbed onto a riding lawn mower and drove eight miles down a Texas highway anyway.By 1999, friends were placing bets on which year would be his last.Then came March 6. A vodka bottle on the passenger seat. A bridge abutment outside Nashville. A lacerated liver. A punctured lung. The Jaws of Life cutting him out of the wreckage. The doctors telling Nancy he wouldn’t survive the night.He survived.When he opened his eyes three days later, he made a vow to God in a hospital bed. “If you let me get over this, I’ll never drink again. I’ll never smoke again. I’ll be the man I should have been all along.”George looked the bottle dead in the eye and said: “No.”He never touched another drop. He sang sober for fourteen more years. He told audiences across America: “If I can do it, you can too.”Some men outrun their demons. The ones who matter look them in the face and tell them goodbye.What he asked Nancy to play in the hospital room the night he finally went home — the song he hadn’t been able to listen to since 1980 — tells you everything about who he really was.

BEFORE TOBY KEITH WROTE THE ANGRIEST SONG OF HIS LIFE, THERE WAS HIS FATHER’S MISSING EYE — AND A FLAG THAT NEVER CAME DOWN FROM THE YARD. H.K. Covel was not famous. He was not the man onstage. He was the kind of Oklahoma father who carried his patriotism quietly, in the way he stood, the way he worked, the way the flag outside his home was never treated like decoration. He had paid for that flag with part of his body. In the Korean War, Toby Keith’s father lost an eye while serving his country. He came home changed, but not emptied. He raised his family with that same stubborn belief that America was not perfect, but it was worth standing for. Then, in March 2001, H.K. Covel was killed in a car accident. Toby was already a star by then, but grief made him a son again. He kept thinking about his father. About the missing eye. About the flag in the yard. About all the things a hard man teaches without ever sitting down to explain them. Six months later, the towers fell. America heard the explosion. Toby heard something older. He heard his father. That is where “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue” came from — not just from rage, not just from television footage, not just from a country stunned by smoke and sirens. It came from a son who had already buried the man who taught him what that flag meant. People argued about the song. Some called it too angry. Some called it exactly what the moment needed. And maybe that is why Toby never sang it like a slogan. He sang it like a son who had watched the symbol become personal before the whole world did.