In this day of 24x7 news coverage, why are we so ill-informed about the things that matter? In particular, why are we clueless about the consequences of governmental policies that affect the most vulnerable Americans?
 
Consider, for example, the ongoing chatter about “Medicare for all.” Sounds great, doesn’t it? So what if so-and-so said that Medicare is headed for bankruptcy just a few years down the road? The government can just print more money, right? Modern Monetary Theory says that'll work just fine.
 
After all, if our most revered politicians aren’t worried about it, why should we be?
 
Here’s the short answer: Because there are unintended consequences to every policy the government implements. And each one can have a devastating impact on certain groups of people.
 
We're seeing the tip of the iceberg here in Wisconsin over the last decade, as nursing home after nursing home has closed its doors. The primary reason? Annual losses of $5 to $7 million in Medicaid reimbursements, exacerbated by Obama-era reimbursement changes.  
 
“Though the shortfalls have been occurring for years,” Skilled Nursing News reported a few years back, “the stress accelerated in 2016 with the implementation of the Comprehensive Care for Joint Replacement Model (CJR), which shifted reimbursements for common hip and knee replacements to a bundled payment model that the hospital, doctors, and post-acute providers must share.”
 
Bottom line: In a drive to save money, the feds made some changes that will continue to shutter skilled-nursing facilities that have been home to scores of elderly Americans. 
 
How many residents have already been, or will soon be, rendered at least temporarily homeless by this scheme?
 
Beats me. But it does make you wonder what else our bureaucrats have up their sleeves. If "Medicare for all" ever becomes a reality, will even more elderly people pay the price?  
 
Wouldn't you think that some enterprising journalists would investigate the unintended consequences of such policies and help us become more informed voters? Granted, it’s complicated stuff, but I guarantee that there are still some supply-side economists around who could have predicted this particular outcome. And maybe they would care to comment on some of the other issues being so hotly debated today—issues that will impact how we care for our most defenseless populations in the years to come.
 
Is that expecting too much of modern journalists? Could be. And it’s further complicated by the fact that each state comes up with its own Medicaid reimbursements rules.
 
Still, if we’re concerned about who’s going to be taking care of Great Grandma in her twilight years—indeed, who’s going to be taking care of us down the road—we’d best start paying attention today. And we’d best vote for candidates who appear to have both a grasp of real-world economics and a concern for the elderly.    ​

“Every joy on earth—including the joy of reunion--
is an inkling, a whisper of greater joy.”

--Randy Alcorn, Heaven, page 241

Some years ago, we devoted a portion of our weekly nursing-home Bible study to reading and discussing the highlights of Randy Alcorn’s book Heaven.  
 
It took us over six months to finish this wonderful study, but it was worth every moment. Relying primarily on the Bible itself but also introducing the thoughts of dozens of theologians, Alcorn greatly expanded our thinking about our eternal destination. And I think it’s safe to say that it made almost all of us even more excited about heading Home once and for all.
 
Among this fine book’s many important points:

• We can know today that we’re going to spend eternity in heaven. “We need never fear that God will find a skeleton in our closet and say, ‘If I’d known you did that, I wouldn’t have let you into Heaven.’  Every sin is washed away by the blood of Christ. Moreover, God is all-knowing. He has seen us at our worst and still loves us. No sin is bigger than the Savior.” (page 35)

• Eternity will be just as physical as our world is today, minus the corruption. “Will the Eden we long for return? Will it be occupied by familiar, tangible, physical features and fully embodied people? The Bible clearly answers yes.” (page 81)

• We’re homesick now—but one glorious day, that will end. “We have never known a world without sin, suffering and death. Yet we yearn for such a life and such a world. When we see a roaring waterfall, beautiful flowers, a wild animal in its native habitat, or the joy in the eyes of our pets when they see us, we sense that this world is—or at least was meant to be—our home.” (page 81)

• We keep trying, and failing, to cure this homesickness with earthly remedies. “Nothing is more often misdiagnosed than our homesickness for Heaven. We think that what we want is sex, drugs, alcohol, a new job, a raise, a doctorate, a spouse, a large-screen television, a new car, a cabin in the woods, a condo in Hawaii. What we really want is the person we were made for, Jesus, and the place we were made for, Heaven. Nothing less can satisfy us.” (page 166)

• Our relationships will continue. “God doesn’t abandon His purposes; He extends and fulfills them. Friendships begun on Earth will continue in Heaven, getting richer than ever.” (page 357)

• Animals—quite possibly including our pets—will join us there. “Something better remains after death for these poor creatures,” said 18th century theologian and evangelist John Wesley. “[T]hese, likewise, shall one day be delivered from this bondage of corruption, and shall then receive ample amends for all their present sufferings.” (page 400)

• Heaven will never be boring. “There will always be more to see when we look at God, because His infinite character can never be exhausted. We could—and will—spend countless millennia exploring the depths of God’s being and be no closer to seeing it all than when we first started. This is the magnificence of God and the wonder of Heaven.” (page 179)

• It’s all made possible for us by receiving God's free gift of eternal life. “Make the conscious decision to accept Christ’s sacrificial death on your behalf. When you choose to accept Christ and surrender control of your life to him, you can be certain that your name is written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.” (page 36)

 
I think my favorite quote in this meaty, quote-laden book is this one, from 19th century missionary to Burma Adoniram Judson: “When Christ calls me Home,” Judson said, “I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from school."
 
Do you remember the bliss of being dismissed from a grade-school classroom on the last day of the school year, with a whole summer stretching out endlessly before you? I sure do. It was quite possibly the greatest joy I have ever experienced, being free of all the fears and anxieties and other problems that start to haunt us as we begin growing up.
 
And I think Judson was absolutely correct: This is precisely what it’s going to feel like when we get that final divine summons.
 
Only this time, summer will never end. 

For some reason, sleep eluded me last night. My thoughts were flooded non-stop with memories of all the dementia sufferers I've known over the decades at the nursing home I visit every week. Yet in some cases, "sufferers" is a misnomer; many of them have been happy enough, remembering only their distant pasts--for example, expecting Mama to pick them up at any moment, or Daddy to take them for a nice long walk after church.

So who are these people now? Are we the sum total of our pasts? And if so, are these people left without much of an identity, beyond their fleeting memories of early childhood? A troubling thought!

But then it occurred to me that this is not always the case. Because those who are Christian have an indestructible, eternal identity in Jesus Christ, no matter how deep their dementia may be.

I considered the theological implications of being a believer in such a childlike state -- having no list of past good works to offer, and no thoughts of being a decent person deserving of anything, least of all heaven. In short, having nothing to bring to the salvation table.

That thought stopped me in my tracks: they are like the most humble of little children. And what did Jesus say in Matthew 18, after calling a child to Himself? "Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

So! Perhaps Christian dementia patients are most blessed of all, doing nothing but trusting and looking forward to little things in this life, while being counted among Jesus' greatest in the next. 

And the best news of all: Even if individual dementia patients have not yet received Jesus as their Savior, it's not too late. Hearing is allegedly the last or our senses to go, and the Holy Spirit is capable of reaching any soul--even those who are beyond the reach of human appeals.

Is there a dementia patient in your life who would be delighted to hear about Jesus and the gospel? Don't wait another day to share the good news with him or her!

For most of my Christian life, I’ve hung my head in shame over many things I have thought, said and done in the past. And it seems that the older I get, the more time I have to dwell on them--not a good thing!

Most of these shameful things are from my years as a feminist atheist, but I have to admit to a cringe-worthy episode or two since then – including the day a decade ago when I totally lost my temper over something that would have been easy to justify before I knew Jesus, but was definitely unacceptable in one who professed to follow Him.
 
I know the Bible instructs us repeatedly not to dwell on the past. For instance, as the prophet Isaiah quoted the Lord in chapter 18 of his book, “"Do not remember the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it?”  And in the New Testament, Jesus is quoted as saying “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62)
 
Alas, I’ve been unable to leave some of these things behind, instead repenting repeatedly over them. After all, we can’t erase the impact of hurtful thoughts, words and deeds; our victims may forgive us, but they won’t forget. How could they?
 
But then, on a recent Saturday afternoon, I had an epiphany. It’s probably obvious to most of you, dear readers, but I’ll bet one or two of you spend more than a little time beating yourselves up for the transgressions of the past.  Maybe you’ve even popped a pill or two or downed a shot or three in an effort to silence your nagging conscience.
 
Here’s what happened. I was in my garden slaughtering Japanese beetles and singing snatches of favorite old hymns, when a favorite of my late friend Ruth H. came up on my mental juke box: “Whiter than snow, whiter than snow, now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”
 
I stopped dead in my tracks: Whiter than snow?
 
I knew that the phrase came from a psalm, but couldn’t remember which one. I raced inside to look it up in my NKJV.
 
And there it was, nestled in the first ten verses of Psalm 51, which was written by King David after the prophet Nathan confronted him for his disastrous sin with Bathsheba:
 
Have mercy upon me, O God,
According to Your lovingkindness;
According to the multitude of Your tender mercies,
Blot out my transgressions. 
 
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
And cleanse me from my sin. 
 
For I acknowledge my transgressions,
And my sin is always before me. 
 
Against You, You only, have I sinned,
And done this evil in Your sight –
That You may be found just when You speak,
And blameless when You judge.
 
Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,
And in sin my mother conceived me. 
 
Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts,
And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.
 
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. 
 
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice. 
 
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities. 
 
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me. 
 
And there it was: a poignant reminder that Christ died not to bury, nor cover, nor white wash, the sins of the world.  
 
He died to wash them away!
 
It’s a recurrent theme throughout the Bible – perhaps most notably in this oft-cited line from the apostle John’s first epistle: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)
 
And just think of the result. As David wrote in Psalm 103:
 
For as the heavens are high above the earth,
So great is His mercy toward those who fear Him;
As far as the east is from the west,
So far has He removed our transgressions from us.
 
As far as the east is from the west – why, wouldn’t that be infinity?  
 
I had read these passages time and time again – apparently, without taking them to heart. But now, thanks to a precious old hymn written in the 19th century by Irish immigrant and postal clerk James L. Nicholson, I was set free at last from these relentless regrets.
 
“Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” (John 8:36)
 
Hallelujah! 

Do our minds seem to wear down as we age only because we know too much?
 
That’s what at least some research seems to say: Our brains become increasingly sluggish not because they’re deteriorating, but because we’re packing ‘em so full of experience and information.
 
So said authors Wayne D. Gray and Thomas Hills almost a decade ago in an article entitled “Does Cognition Deteriorate With Age or Is It Enhanced by Experience?” -- a review, apparently, of a landmark book entitled The Myth of Cognitive Decline.
 
At least I think that’s what Gray and Hills are saying when they claim that “our poorer memory for names as we age, over the last several decades at least, is a result of the massive cultural proliferation of novel names alongside the increasing number of names experienced over a lifetime.”
 
Right. We forget Mary’s name because of the proliferation of Kukulas and Thiagos and Zelias. 
 
“Pretty much any cognitive theory with which we are familiar would have to predict that the more things you have in memory the longer will be your search time,” write Gray and Hills. They quote Myth: “’In information theoretic terms…. a measure of processing speed that ignores information load is meaningless.’”
 
Is that kind of like our Pastor Joe says, that all the information is still there in our brains – it’s just that the librarians in charge of retrieving it are slowing down? (To which I would add: These librarians store all this information in First In, First Out [FIFO] order, rather than Last In, First Out [LIFO] order, which is why we can remember what we were doing on July 4, 1959, but don’t have a clue what we had for lunch yesterday.)
 
This fuzzy old brain of mine may be too information-packed to adequately decode ultra-smart academic language like this:
 
“Many things covary as we grow up and grow older,” they write, “and, just as in the nature versus nurture debate over childhood development, a rush to judgment obscures and confuses the search for mechanisms and for the achievement of scientific, as well as personal, understanding of the changes that we all pass through.” 
 
I think that means something along the lines of this: “Old people are encyclopedic in their knowledge rather than deteriorating mentally – so let’s not judge or disrespect them or toss them aside because they don’t seem to be as smart as we younger folks. Really, they’re practically geniuses.”
 
But you know what? These thoroughly educated researchers are missing the point. We are not valuable because of what we know. We are valuable because we are the Creator’s handiwork, because He loved us enough to die for us, and because He has commanded us to love others as we love ourselves and to care for widows in their affliction. 

Of course, such commands will only be embraced by His children – that is, the born-again who have repented and trusted in Jesus. So perhaps it’s no surprise that, in an attempt to make us act godly without bringing God into the picture, we see the world’s experts building elaborate Rube Goldberg patches and workarounds  for issues that are only problematic for those on the wrong side of the narrow gate.

Here's the truth: As the 2nd law of thermodynamics predicts, our aging brains are wearing out. But that does not decrease our value one iota in the eyes of our Creator. And His are the only eyes that matter.

Over the years, I've heard many elderly women worry aloud that they'll never again have friends like those of their younger years. And indeed, sometimes that's the case. But oh, there are some wonderful exceptions--friendships that develop among those who share themselves with complete honesty because they are no longer constrained by pride, and because they have in common the only thing that really matters in this life: the Lord God Himself. This is the sort of friendship the protagonist of The Song of Sadie Sparrow enjoyed in her last days on this earth. Here's a sneak preview:
           
Five days later, Eva slipped quietly into eternity. She had died of “natural causes,” Nurse Char told Sadie, whispering this bit of knowledge as if she’d revealed some top-secret information that would certainly lead to a law suit by Eva’s family if they found out that Char had spilled the beans. As if Eva’s four daughters, now residing in upscale towns in Washington and Vermont and upstate New York, would give a second thought to anything connected with their mother.
           
Eva had, in fact, died just as she had lived since the year she turned fifty: alone. That’s when her girls had left home, she had told Sadie, all within one calendar year, heading off to the coasts to find husbands for themselves and raise children of their own. It was the same year that Eva’s husband, a venerated English professor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, had left her for a pretty young student whose passion for nineteenth century British literature matched his own.
           
Eva had been awarded their house in the subsequent divorce—a big old stucco bungalow just north of the university, she’d told Sadie. It had lots of crown molding and built-ins and plenty of charm. But apparently that charm was lost on her girls, because they’d rarely visited even before being tied down by their families. So Eva had given herself wholeheartedly to volunteering at and through her church, zeroing in on hospice work early on in a show of solidarity with others whose lives were also ending. It was, in fact, a fellow hospice volunteer who had helped her find and settle into The Hickories once not even a walker could see her safely about the house.
           
Sadie spent much of the day following Eva’s death recalling the conversations they had had about this life, with all its joys and sorrows and disappointments. Somehow sharing those things—especially the disappointments—made everything feel all right again. That was just life, they had agreed time and time again, and a good thing because they were citizens of a better country, an eternal home, and if things had been wonderful on earth they might have resisted going there.
           
“Friends will be there I have loved long ago,” Sadie warbled. “Joy like a river around me will flow!”
           
As long as she was able to focus on these things, she felt strangely peaceful about this loss. Oh, of course she’d miss Eva. Beulah and Eva would probably prove to be her last real friends on this earth. It was just too difficult to find true soulmates in a nursing home, where so many residents were slipping into either dementia or complete self-centeredness, with every personality flaw magnified many times over.  
           
“Just to be there and to look on His face,” she sang out with gusto, “will through the ages be glory for me!”
           
Knowing that Eva would never suffer again was such a comfort. And Sadie no longer had to worry about being the one to go off into paradise first, leaving poor Eva abandoned once again.
           
All in all, it should have been a satisfying resolution to her friend’s life story, with Sadie simply feeling honored to have spent its finale with her.

--From The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 293-294

Some years ago, a dear friend posted a link to a fascinating little article, potentially eye-opening for anyone who's trusting in diet and doctors for long life -- an article extolling the virtues of the foods our great-great-great-great grandparents ate. 

This lifespan issue has intrigued me for years. Every now and then, I spend some time looking up online mini-biographies of famous ancients, and have been interested to note that many of them lived well into their 80s. I've seen nary a mention of this being unusual -- not even a "ripe old age" comment.

The author of this article explains in very simple terms why the numbers seem to support the "miracle of modern medicine" myth; it's simply another example of lying with statistics.

Once again, we are reminded that it's the Lord who determines our individual lifespans. "And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them" (Psalm 139). 

Whether we die of cancer or heart disease, childbirth or infection, we're going to die at precisely the moment He has ordained for us; the only important question is where we will be spending eternity. Thanks be to God, that's one thing we can control, simply by repenting and trusting in Christ.  

If the statistics can be believed, they’re pretty shocking: 18% of U.S. adults reportedly suffer from anxiety disorders – including “general anxiety disorder,” characterized by persistent, excessive, and unrealistic worry about everyday things.
 
I suppose that’s understandable for secularists of all stripes, given the sad state of today’s world. But it really shouldn’t be an issue for those who profess to be followers of Jesus Christ. After all, He has commanded us not to fret 365 times in the pages of the Bible; shouldn’t we obey Him?
 
It's true that, now and then, I find myself back on my pre-salvation worry treadmill. But the Holy Spirit has given me a new line of thinking to pursue – one that almost invariably sends my fears packing.  Perhaps you’ll find it helpful.
 
Whenever I find myself worrying about a particular trial, I talk to God about the situation, casting my care upon Him because He cares for me (1 Peter 5:7). I then meditate on a few simple truths:  

1. God is sovereign over His entire creation – including every last cell in my body and every circumstance I face. He understands my situation perfectly. And He has everything under complete control, ready to serve His good and perfect purposes.
2. He has promised to make all things work together for good to all who love Him and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28) – and that would include me. I have seen this happen time and time again in my own life, and in the lives of Christian friends. It helps to review some of these remarkable events from His point of view, and to remember how disastrous they seemed initially from our limited human perspective.
3. I can’t know what blessing He has in store for me through this trial; I can be sure He does, however. So I ask Him not to remove the trial but for His will to be accomplished through it. And I try very hard to mean it every time.
4. He has already told me how to handle such fears, and I need only recall His instructions. Philippians 4:6-7 is often a great place to start: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
5. He has also shown me the big picture of His lifelong care for me, especially via Psalm 23. I love to think through every word and phrase of this beloved little chapter, drawing on the insights provided by the late Phillip Keller in his precious book, A Shepherd Looks at the 23rd Psalm.  

 
I have yet to emerge from this meditation without feeling great spiritual refreshment – and welcome freedom from whatever was worrying me in the first place.

From now on, I’m going to try to treat every parting as if it’s the last time I’ll see that person on this earth -- because it may well be.

I met R. when her husband was a resident at the nursing home where I hang out. He was a dear, and she was instantly one of my favorite people ever. She was funny, sharp, compassionate, well-informed, loving, grateful, nuts about dogs and cats, a small-business woman with a keen understanding of the challenges entrepreneurs face. All this in a tiny little 80-something frame. 

R. and I became friends, growing especially close after her husband died. We talked at great length over the phone, and saw each other every now and then – less often than I would’ve liked, but she rarely felt up to visits or outings. 

I last saw R. on a mid-July day, when I took her to see her eye doctor. As usual, we had a great time every step of the way. She was greeted with great delight by both the doctor and his staff; she always made them laugh, and that day was no exception. Afterwards, we had lunch at her favorite restaurant, the Peach Garden – a dark little place with the best (and cheapest) Chinese food I’ve ever had. She had egg foo young; I had cashew chicken; we each took half our meals home; and she insisted on picking up the tab.

When we got back to her house, she invited me in for a piece of cake that she’d bought especially for the occasion. She didn’t insist, because she knew I had work to do, but she was so hoping that I’d have time for dessert – how could I refuse? It was Pepperidge Farm lemon cake, light and delicious, and we chatted away about her beloved cat, about the feral cats outside and a tree that she wanted to have removed, and as always about the Lord Jesus Christ. I tried to put our dishes in the dishwasher but as always she insisted I leave them for her. And then I hugged her good-bye and headed back to whatever was awaiting me in my home office. 

She didn’t walk me to the door this time. I remember being glad that she was resting after what had been a pretty full day for her. 

We talked on the phone a number of times throughout the rest of that summer. We couldn’t go out; she wasn’t feeling up to it, but she’d let me know just as soon as she was back on her feet and then we’d go back to the Peach Garden. Maybe next week, or the week after. 

We last talked via voice mail in early September, playing a rousing game of phone tag. But the following week she didn’t call me back. I phoned another time or two, leaving messages, and started wishing that I had the name and phone number of the niece who was her loving caretaker.  

And then one Sunday, I picked up the local paper's death notices and instead of starting with “A” as usual, flipped to the last page – and was at once stunned and not at all surprised to see R.’s picture, and the obituary she’d had me edit for her some months earlier. 

Her niece called me the next morning. R. had suffered what sounded like a massive stroke. She’d been hospitalized for five days, unresponsive and beyond the help of medical science, and had died just three days ago.

I wish I’d known. They say people in comas can often hear, even if they can’t respond. And the hospital where she spent her final days is less than 10 minutes from here. I could have spent some time with her, talking with her about all the little things that always seemed to interest her so, and about the big things as well. I could have read her some wonderful passages from the Bible, including the one from 2 Corinthians 4 that we used to close her obituary:

“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal.”

Imagine, a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, and dear R. is now experiencing it! And I am left to regret that we never had a proper good-bye. Which is why I’m going to try, from now on, to treat every farewell as if it’s the last one for a time, until that joyful reunion in a land where “there’ll be no parting, beyond the sunset forevermore.” 

Where will you be living circa 2040 or 2050? 
 
Okay, so if you’re a born-again believer, you’re probably happily envisioning heaven or are at least adding “if the Lord tarries” to the question. And if you’re not, and you’re over 40, you may be counting on moving in with your children or enjoying a living arrangement like the Golden Girls’ of 1980s TV fame.  
 
But just say none of these alternatives pans out, and you find yourself unable to live on your own. Will a decent nursing home be an option for you? 
 
The truth is that only God knows for sure. If our economy crashes and modern-day Huns overrun our country, all bets are off. But let’s assume that America’s still the Beautiful and we still have some viable financial resources to work with. What’s likely to be available?

It turns out to be a disturbing scenario.

On the one hand, the demand for nursing-home care is expected to more than double by 2050, according to a study released in 2013 by JAMA and the Kaiser Foundation. (I'd love to offer more recent projections, but have been unable to find any. I'd love to be able to show you even this 2013 study, but it has vanished. Perhaps this dearth of solid projections is telling.)
 
On the other hand, the supply of nursing-home beds looks like it’s destined to dwindle. Skilled nursing facilities are becoming less and less profitable. The reasons include sagging occupancy and reimbursement rates, with occupancy declines perhaps related to a boom in building for, and government funding of, the assisted-living arm of the eldercare industry.  

What's more, some state governments are stepping in to make sure that no one's making too much money from providing long-term care. (For a glimpse of what that might mean to the availability of high-quality nursing homes, consider what rent control does to the quality and availability of decent apartments.)
 
What will happen to those of us who eventually need skilled nursing care, 24x7?
 
“It’s literally schools versus nursing homes,” columnist Robert J. Samuelson wrote nearly a decade ago. “We need a better balance between workers’ legitimate desire for a comfortable retirement and society’s larger interests. Instead, our system favors the past over the future. Things could be done to mitigate the bias. None would be easy or popular. But it’s first necessary to acknowledge the bias and discuss it openly. This we are far from doing.”

I would argue that society has already turned it back on the past--i.e., the elderly. Whether it now favors the young is questionable; perhaps it simply favors the elite.

But I digress. Back to Samuelson's commentary: If you don’t find it chilling, you might want to ponder exactly what he means by "things could be done." Let's hope it won't ultimately turn into yet another case of our wanting to be "just like Europe," birthplace of a brave new world that exalts eldercare "solutions" from assisted suicide to euthanasia.