Thoughts On Forgiveness

     Someone important and dear to my family has betrayed us. The weight of their betrayal is deep and reaches far into a community of people. But this is not the focus of my story. It no longer matters what propagated the pain. It is done and it cannot be changed. What I focus on now is my role in this; the act that requires me to step onto the stage. The act of forgiveness.
     Offensive acts are categorized into two parts; those that break a law and those that break hearts. Sometimes an offense will do both and other times it will fit just one or the other category. We have written codes of law that address those offenders who break it. Their crimes, and the immorality that accompanies them, are punished and their debt to society is said to have been paid. But what about the other face of the offense? The face that has lied or betrayed us? The face that may or may not have broken a law, but has certainly broken our hearts? For this, we must look within ourselves and our own moral code to determine how we are to respond.
     As a Christian, I refer to the teachings of my faith to provide guidance through this moral quagmire. But even with this guidance, and even with a generally forgiving heart, it can still be a very hard thing to do. Forgive.
    Exactly what is forgiveness? I believe the foundation of the Christian faith is based on forgiveness. God sacrificed His Son as atonement for our sins. That even while we were still in our sin, Christ died for what was surely our own transgression. To a perfect and just God, our debt was paid and our sins were forgiven. The final result is the restoration of our broken relationship with God and our acceptance into Heaven as pure and guiltless. It is finished, it is complete, there is not one thing more we can or need to do. This is a representation of perfect forgiveness.
     Are we instructed to forgive others the same way that God forgave us? When we pray the Lord's prayer, the fifth petition says, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." or "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." We are petitioning God to help us forgive others in the same way that He has forgiven us. In the Book of Ephesians 4:32, the ultimate example is given, "And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another even as God in Christ forgave you." I respond with more questions: But God was perfect, I say! And we are not. How can imperfect humans behave in a perfect, God-like way? Is it okay to use our imperfection as an excuse to agonize and struggle, never reconciling with someone because it makes us uncomfortable? Or, shunning those who have hurt us even though with our mouths we say we have forgiven them? Again, if the final picture of forgiveness is restoration of the relationship, then how should we forgive?
     Dr. Timothy Keller, American Christian apologist, pastor and author, says the following;
  "What is forgiveness, specifically? When someone has wronged you, it means they owe you, they have a debt with you. Forgiveness is to absorb the cost of the debt yourself. You pay the price yourself, and you refuse to exact the price out of the person in any way. Forgiveness is to a) free the person from penalty for a sin by b) paying the price yourself. How did God forgive? We are told that he does not ‘remember’ them. That cannot mean that God literally forgets what has happened–it means he ‘sends away’ the penalty for them. He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect the way he deals with us."
     The last sentence seems to reassure in my heart what I know I must do in my actions, "He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect the way he deals with us." My problem is, what I should do and what I am able to do are very different. A friend likened this struggle to the swelling of a wound that cannot heal until the swelling goes down. Sometimes we need to let the hurt subside before we are able to forgive. I suspect 'grace' plays an important role here. God extends grace to us because he knows we are incapable of perfection. He also uses our inner struggle to teach us other important lessons about ourselves and perhaps see His divine nature more clearly.
      One thing I know for sure; this struggle makes me see how imperfect I am. It also makes me realize, again, what God has done for us. He forgave a people mired in sin, who did not not deserve nor earn His forgiveness. He forgave us instantly and forevermore and he continues to do so. He embraces us, smothers our faces with kisses and welcomes us home. I want to learn how to forgive like that.
     I imagine myself sitting on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to make this leap off the edge. My reasoning is telling me to do it, jump, forgive! But my human frailty and imperfections hold me back and make me fearful. I am afraid to forgive like that. I would rather forgive with strings attached (OK, hooks and harnesses!). The funny thing is, I know there will be a huge rush of adrenalin if I jump. It will be so worth it! In the meantime, I sit on the edge and agonize. I'm working on it and God is with me as I wait, whispering encouragement in my ear.

The Little Porch

     
    My mom, who is ninety, still lives in the house she and my dad built in 1952. Constructed as a tiny two-bedroom, post-war ranch, it hasn't been altered much in all these years. My parents both grew up in the city and a home in the country was my dad's dream. They bought a small lot in a corn field just across the Hudson River from Albany, NY. and their dream became a reality via a G.I. loan. Within a few years, two of my mother's sisters and their families also left the city and built three more houses in that field. Thus began our little neighborhood.
     One of the first additions my dad made to their tiny home was a porch off the back door of the kitchen. He built it himself and it came to be my favorite room of the house. To this day, I can see, smell and feel it as clearly as though I am there.
     My dad modeled the porch after the boxed in little porches seen on the backs of most city houses. It had chest high windows all around with one hinged window that could swing open to access a clothesline. Hanging next to this window was a heavy canvas bag filled with clothespins. The bag was tube- shaped with a handle and meant to be a feed bag for horses. Who knows where my father obtained such a thing, but he was thrifty and this made a sturdy clothespin bag. The door exiting the porch had a wooden milk box built into the corner next to it. The box was insulated with a lining of lead or zinc. It had a removable lid where we could lift out the milk bottles that the milkman delivered through a trap door on the outside wall. My sister and I liked to play with the milk box, stowing secret things in there to be retrieved later via the trap door.
     Dad also built a big wooden step from the kitchen door down onto the porch. The step could be tipped away from the doorsill and the empty space beneath it made a good storage place for tools. He kept a hammer or two there, screwdrivers, an awl and other odds and ends. Any time we neighborhood kids got to building something like forts or houses for stray dogs, we knew where to find a hammer. Dad would have sworn a fit if his tools went missing, so we were always careful to bring them back. This step was also the place where we tied on our sneakers in the summer or pulled on our boots in the winter. Dad studded the walls with nails so we could hang all our shoes within easy reach from the step. We made tying laces fly when we were in a hurry to get out to play, propelling ourselves off the step and out the door. Sometimes, the step was my destination and I went no farther. It was a good place to sit and mope when no one could come out to play or if life inside the house was too close for comfort. By stopping at the step, I wasn't committed to being either in or out. Either direction was a possibility and I didn't feel hemmed in to make a decision. It also served as an excellent spot for planning my next adventure. Since it was secluded from view, I could think in solitude. Mom might be right there, busying herself in the kitchen, but if I was down on the step, she wouldn't even know I was there.
     The kitchen was my mother. The screen door on the porch separated the outside world from our world, via the holy of holies, our kitchen. It was difficult to pass through the door without being noticed by my mother. Like all screen doors, creaking hinges gave us away. I often stood at this door to beg snacks from my mother for me and everyone else I happened to be playing with. Standing on the step, hanging onto the screen door, I would call inside, "Mom! Can I have a cookie?!" She would yell back, "How many?" and I might answer, "Eight!" She complained about us eating her out of house and home, but she always handed them out to us. The screen had a permanent bulge at the bottom where I would press my nose against it while I yelled in to my mom. I can still smell the metallic screening. We were forbidden to enter the house with shoes on, and Lord knew I wasn't going to take them off just to ask for a cookie, so I would push my nose onto that screen, feeling it give a little bump as the screen snapped into its bumped position. In the winter, the screen frame was exchanged with a glass, paned frame which created an entirely different door altogether.
     One summer we got our hands on a tape recorder. Our eight-year-old imaginations didn't seem to stray far when it came to recording ourselves. Burps, goofy noises and singing the pop AM radio songs along with our transistor radios made up our repertoire. One time, we sneaked up to the screen door, huddled together on the wooden step, and tried to record my mother singing. She had a beautiful voice and she would sing while she did her housework. We also begged her to laugh like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz. I bragged to the other kids that my mother could imitate the witch's laugh and all the kids wanted to hear it. To our delight, she screamed the witch's cackling laugh, imitating it perfectly and maybe even going a little overboard. After being a good sport and hamming it up, she turned serious again and told us to shoo. We got it on tape.
     We always used the back porch for coming and going to play. The front door was reserved for company, salesmen, and heading off to church and school . For everything else, we used the back door. The porch was a decompression chamber of sorts, dividing outside from in. When we came home from play, we stopped on the porch, kicked off our shoes, brushed off dirt or snow, perhaps leaned our skates against the wall and briefly hovered between two worlds.
     The most dramatic porch event occurred one one February day when I was eleven. School was out for Winter Recess and all us kids were out sledding about half a mile from my house. The boys started throwing rocks for fun as the girls slid downhill. We were moving targets and they were...well, boys. Suddenly, I was struck in the eye with one of their rocks. I fell to my knees and sensed immediately that it was bad. Temporarily blinded, numb with pain, and panicked by the warm blood running down onto my new scarf, the kids all hustled me home. On that long walk, while I marveled at the colorful stars I was seeing, we fabricated a story so that no one would get the blame for blinding me. It's crazy how kids stick together no matter the consequences. It was my own cousin who injured me, but I would never be a tattletale. The unspoken rules of kidhood demanded as much. We entered the porch en masse where I stood on the step at the back door with all the other kids behind me. They were eager to witness this drama unfold. I knocked on my own door and yelled in to my mother, "Mom!" She and my aunt from up the street were visiting at the kitchen table that afternoon and I heard her get up and open the door for me. I stood there before her in pitiful condition, cheek split open, heaps of blood, blinded in one eye. I dared not cry for fear of what further injury my tears might cause. Who knew, maybe my eyeball might fall out. My aunt ran up behind my mother, tip of her nose red from her glass of wine. "Oh my gawd! Lee Lee, what did you do?!", she yelled. (Why was it always my fault?)  I kept thinking, don't cry, don't cry, your eyeball might fall out. I can still see their frantic movements, hear their exclamations, see the other kids sent away and my aunt quickly exiting for her home up the street. I came very close to losing the sight in my eye that year. I was brought to our dear Dr. Worth who referred us to an eye specialist the very next morning. I suffered days of severe headaches, light sensitivity, and I had quite the shiner. I missed the rest of winter break although I tried to ice skate with an eye patch, but I really didn't feel well and it was no fun. I was also scared into telling the truth about what happened that day. I later apologized to my cousin and told him they made me tell. And, I forever have a scar sewed into this tapestry of life called my face.
      The porch ushered us in and out through all the seasons, treating us to wonderful aromas depending on the time of year. In the summer, it smelled of chlorine and damp beach towels from the swimming pool. In late summer it held bushels of tomatoes and zucchini passing from garden to kitchen. I would grab a tomato as I ran out to play on a late summer's evening, eating it as I rushed back out to the kickball game or freeze tag. In the fall, leaf rakes lined the wall and the porch smelled of sweet apples and pears. The sun warmed the little room as the afternoons wore on, stealing away the autumn chill by the time we ran out after school. Come winter, the porch was littered with boots and sleds. Ice skates replaced the flip flops' place on the nails. The little porch became an ice box in the frigid winter of upstate New York. Winter's clean, sharp smell stung the inside of my nose and cleared my head when I went out to play. Through all the seasons, it smelled of my mother's good cooking coming from just the other side of the door. It greeted us as we ran up those steps, appetites huge from a day of vigorous outdoor play.
     Around 1967, my dad built a larger porch onto the back of the house. The two porches were connected with a door and the old, original porch became known as "the little porch." The new, bigger porch served as our summer living room, complete with dining area, sofa, chairs and TV while the little porch reminded utilitarian. So much time has passed and my dad is now gone. The door to the big porch is always closed as it sits in a state of encapsulated time, gathering dust. My little porch still appears the same, but no one runs in and out of it any more. It's easier for my mom to keep her garbage can there so she won't have to walk down the back steps. The rope on the clothesline has rotted, the milk box is nailed shut and I must drive six hundred miles to sit on the back step. But you can bet that every time I'm there, I spend a few minutes sitting on that step and remembering what a fantastic childhood we had together. And when the day comes that the house must be sold, I'm taking the screen door.
    
    
 

Singing in the Rain. A Mockingbird's Song

     It rained and poured all day. As I went about my chores, listening to the heavy downpour, I heard something  unusual. It was the sound of this happy fellow, singing his heart out. I went out to the porch and listened with amazement. When I realized he wasn't going anywhere, I came back inside to put on a sweater and get the camera. He stayed on one branch in the center of the tree and took turns facing each direction. Once in a while he ruffled his feathers as though he was annoyed with the rain on his head. Another time, he took an angry stab at a nearby crab apple. For the most part, I got the impression that he was on a mission and a major rain event was merely a glitch or an annoyance to him.
     Several thoughts ran through my mind while I listened. Who was he singing to? No other bird was answering in reply. Not that he took a breath to wait and listen for a reply. He rarely paused. And can a bird sing for this long without straining its tiny throat?  A few times he turned up the volume and sang very loudly. I also wondered if he was the adult who attacked me in the spring or is he one of their offspring? Perhaps he's  not related at all, but I do know he's been around our yard for several weeks.
     He continued to sing after I came back inside and he was still singing every time I checked the clock. I'm not sure how long he had started before I took notice, but my best estimate is that he sang for over two hours. To put it into context, this video is a little over 1 minute. He sang for 120 of them. The length of his song was enough to impress me. But the real contest is that he sang in the heaviest downpour of the day. (You can hear it on the video.) He was defying the rain and singing despite it. My intuition tells me he was simply singing a song of joy. 
     He stands out from the rest of the world today and I admire his tenacity. I vow to myself that even if he dive bombs me next spring, I will continue to adore him.

*It is 6:39 am. as I type this. I hear some tentative notes outside my window. Funny how he is now on this side of the house, where I am.

Legos and Peekaboo Land'O Lakes Lady

     Mignon over at Sweet Whisper Dreams posted about Legos today. It reminded me that they were one of our girls' favorite toys. They played with Legos for days at a time, leaving them out overnight to continue building day after day. I recall stepping on them barefoot if I wasn't careful as I went about the house, especially in the dark. They enjoyed photographing their scenes and acting out little stories with them. We don't have the "girl" sets. My girls preferred pirates, cowboys and Star Wars.
     One lazy Sunday afternoon this past winter, the girls were sorting through all the sets, putting them together and taking stock of what we have. Audrey ended up building one of her sets that day, proving that Legos are a toy kids will play with right into adulthood. We still have tubs of them, sorted by color and taking up a lot of room in the basement. One of these days we'll find a new home for the plain colored blocks, but the girls seem to want to keep their themed sets. I enjoy the large Duplo blocks that are geared for the chubby little hands of toddlers. These are the perfect toy for younger children who come to visit because they're suited for both boys and girls. We have a train and circus animals with assorted blocks. I'm not patient with the tiny Legos, but I'm happy to build towers and buildings with these larger Duplo blocks for the little kids to use... or knock down.
     Several years ago, Chelsea used Legos to make this little stop animation film for one of her art classes at VCU. It's titled "Moral Disasterology" and it plays out the consequences of the mystic monkeys, "See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil". The first Lego man sees evil when he peeks at the Land'O Lakes peekaboo Indian* and gets his head speared by the wild man. His Lego wife begins swearing (it's beeped out) and she floats down the river meeting her disaster. A little monkey calls her "potty mouth". And finally, the last Lego couple hears evil when they can't understand what the hillbilly is saying and they are done for. As you can see, we still love our Legos.



* Steve taught us about the Land 'O Lakes peekaboo Indian a long time ago. I don't know how he learned it, but I imagine it was back in his neighborhood in the 60's. (The image that pops into my head is that Steve and his friends were like the boys in the Sandlot.) I never knew about the peekaboo Indian before Steve shared it. If the boys in my neighborhood knew about it, they kept it a secret. Be warned- it's a little bit naughty.
You take an empty Land'O Lakes butter box and using an exacto knife, cut the little box of butter the Indian lady is holding so that it opens as a flap, hinged on the top. Find the image of the Indian lady on the other side of the box and cut her knees off, a little larger than the butter flap you previously cut. You tape the knees behind the butter flap and voila- peekaboo. The knees look just like you-know-whats.
It cracked me up that Chelsea would use this in her video. The story is that her college roommate's grandmother was the model for the Land 'O Lakes Indian. Perhaps Chelsea was showing her how much we revered the lady?

In Which Miss Post Compares Children to Dogs and Calls Them "It"

"Etiquette" by Emily Post copyright 1937 p.764

Chief Virtue: Obedience

     No young human being, any more than a young dog, has the least claim to attractiveness unless it is trained to manners and obedience. The child that whines, interrupts, fusses, fidgets, and does nothing that it is told to do, has not the least power of attraction for anyone, even though it may have the features of an angel and be dressed like a picture. Another that may have no claim to beauty whatever, but that is sweet and nicely behaved, exerts charm over everyone.

     When possible, a child should be taken away the instant it becomes disobedient. It soon learns that it cannot "stay with mother" unless it is well-behaved. This means that it learns self control in babyhood. Not only must children obey, but they must never be allowed to "show off" or become pert, or to contradict or to answer back; and after having been told "no," they must never be allowed by persistent nagging to win "yes."

     A child that loses its temper, that teases, that is petulant and disobedient, and a nuisance to everybody, is merely a victim, poor little thing, of incompetent or negligent parents. Moreover, that same child when grown will be the first to resent and blame the mother's mistaken "spoiling" and lack of good sense.

In the Blink of an Eye

Photo courtesy Adam Ward/WDBJ7

      My daughter Tess probably doesn't know this, but I sit in the window each morning watching and waiting for her to safely get on the school bus. She's not a little kid, she's in high school. Some may call this obsessive parenting, but I call it a mother's heart. It makes no difference how old they are. Even when I travel, I ask my husband to delay his start for work in the morning so that he can wait for her to be safely on her way. He does this for me and he's never questioned my request.
      I often pray for her as I sit there watching her wait for the bus. I pray for her day, I pray for her tender spirit, I pray for her future, I pray for all kinds of things for her. As the minutes tick by, I often add our other daughters to my prayers. Mostly, I pray for them to be safe and secure in a sometimes violent world. And I always add my thanks to God for the rich blessings he has given me in my family.
     Today started off in this typical fashion. Although today, Tess was carrying extra gift bags to school for her two best friends' birthdays. The bags contained homemade cookies, friendship bracelets she wove and little boxes she artfully covered with postage stamps, with everything all ribboned and tissue-papered up. After the bus pulled away, I went next door to pick some cherries in the cool of the morning. As I was picking, I began to hear sirens in the distance, or was it a dog howling? I couldn't be sure with the riotous noise of cicadas in my ears. I strained to listen and determined it was definitely sirens and they were heading in this direction. They stopped somewhere up the road. It's not uncommon to hear sirens out  this way so I didn't think too much about it. Farm accidents occur more often than we like to think, elderly neighbors need immediate medical attention, even Audrey's broken arm two years ago had an ambulance up here. I continued picking cherries. My mind wandered to things like:  Why do I always wear a white shirt when I pick cherries? I wonder how many ticks are on me. Could a rattlesnake be in this tall grass? Would I hear it? This breeze is glorious, and so on.
     Within fifteen minutes I had enough picking and came back to the house. The phone was ringing and it was Audrey calling from her job. She never phones from work and her voice sounded anxious. "Mom, did Tess go to school on the bus today?" she asked. "Yes, she's been gone half an hour already", I said. "Well, a bus flipped over up on Zion Hill Road and students are injured. Is that Tess' bus?" My mind began to race. I recalled hearing the sirens. I couldn't remember which route Tess' bus travels. "How do you know this?" I asked Audrey. "Our neighbor, so-and-so told me." Ah yes, so many young people around here are firefighters or on the rescue squad and we live in a small community where news travels like wildfire. "Well, I don't know if that would be Tess' bus. I think her bus goes back on the road behind us, a different way. Let me see if I can find out" I tell her. I realize my voice is getting louder as we talk, betraying the fear that begins to swell up inside me.
     We hang up and I stand frozen, trying to think. What should I do? What is Tess' bus number? Shuffling through my pocket calendar, I can't for the life of me find that paper from the beginning of the school year with her bus number on it. Shouldn't mothers know this stuff? I'm sure her bus goes a different way. But does it loop back around to Zion Hill? I could drive up there. No, I decide, that would make me a nuisance. I try to phone the school but the line is busy. I'm pretty sure Tess' bus goes a different way, but I feel like I should make sure. I run downstairs to see if I can find the paper with her bus number on it. As I rummage through the filing cabinet, I picture Tess wearing her new shorts and top that we bought at Penny's last night. She was so happy to have something new to wear to school today. I think of how late we were up last night, baking those cookies. I picture the gifts she's carrying and how upset she would be if they got ruined. I catch myself and don't allow my mind to go in this direction. Look for the bus number, look for the bus number.
     The house phone is ringing again. Concerned friends have heard about the bus accident and are calling to check on us. Within 45 minutes, the entire community has the news. Everyone knows we live up here and that Tess could be on that bus. I have no answers for them. I feel like I should know, I should have an answer about my own daughter, but I don't. I try the school number a few more times and finally reach the school secretary, who I am acquainted with. She hears the controlled concern in my voice. I explain the reason for my call and ask if she could please tell me if Tess is in her class?  I must rack my brain again- which class does Tess have first period? For crying out loud! I berate myself. Don't I know anything about my daughter's day? "It's Mrs. Caldwell's class", the secretary tells me. Can you hold on a minute?" "Yes, of course, thank you!" I reply. A moment later she's back on the line. She speaks to me using a tone a bit like I'm a child needing reassurance. Gosh, my voice must have sounded more panicked than I thought. "Tess in in class. She is here in class" she enunciates for me. "Oh, thank you. Thank you, so much." I reply. She understands. She's a mother too.
     As I hang up, I realize my hands are shaking and I begin to cry. Any composure I maintained in this last half hour has let go. Tess is safe. The phone rings a few more times. My mom calls from New York wondering why I haven't made my morning call to her. Our neighbors call from their vacation on Ocracoke Island. They've read our local news on the internet within an hour of its happening and call from their cell phone. The day and age we live in- amazing.
     All the while, I'm aware that even though my child wasn't on that bus, someone's child was. Thirty-nine to be exact, plus a bus driver. I will added thirty-nine more kids to my own four when I pray throughout the day today. Some of them might be wearing a new outfit or carrying special bags.

*News reports claim that thirteen children were taken to local hospitals as a precaution and that no injuries appear to be serious. The bus driver has been charged with reckless driving. She was apparently distracted by a student in her rear view mirror.

Medical Insurance: I'm Mad as Hell and I Don't Want to Take it Anymore!

These figures are based on our actual salary and insurance premium figures.Each bar shows the rate of increase compared to 2004.

     Every year about this time we have "Open Enrollment" for health and medical benefits at my husband's employer. And every year about this time I become outraged over the state of our health system and I shake my fist at the whole insurance industry. My outcry begins at line item one where it shows the premium for our plan. It will cost us $84.00 more each month for the same insurance we had last year, bringing our total cost to $462 per month for family coverage. The company adds something to this and I don't know that amount but, I would guess it's double. The company used to offer three plans to choose from; a low, middle and high cost plan. Each year they eliminated one of the plan options. Now we are offered an all-or-nothing deal. In addition to this, we contribute to a Medical Spending Account which provides us with pre-tax dollars deducted from husband's salary to use on all the expenses the insurance doesn't cover like deductibles, co-pays, etc. I am all for MSA's and this really isn't part of the problem.
     I'm appalled at this huge increase in medical insurance premiums when we are in an economy where salaries have certainly not gone up. Most employees are not receiving cost of living increases let alone annual raises of any type and many have had to take pay cuts just to stay employed. Last year the premium increase was just as large and I vented on facebook. It was met with apathy. And there's the rub. No one really takes up the torch for this cause and rallies against the insanity of it all. Yes, some will say Obama's health care initiative is addressing this problem, but it actually doesn't. His plan is to provide coverage for all citizens, but I don't believe it addresses the rising cost of medical care and health insurance. As a matter of fact, since he took office our premiums have  increased the most. I realize his plan hasn't gone into effect, and perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction from the industry when he started talking health care, I don't know. But I want to stand out in the middle of the field and scream for someone to listen! This is how helpless I feel.
     My gut reaction (which is total nonsense) is that we all need to cancel our insurance and everyone needs to take a stand against being screwed. If the entire country bought no insurance... can you imagine? The question is, am I willing to take the gamble. Because that's what insurance is, a gamble. We are protecting ourselves against the "what-if". What if I get hit by a car and land in the hospital? What if my child needs an operation? The fear of it all has me running to hedge my bets and buy the insurance. It's called fear-mongering. If I wasn't so afraid of a massive hospital bill which would in turn cause financial ruin to my family, I wouldn't buy the insurance.
     All insurance operates this way, but most have smaller increases in premiums each year. We can shop around for the levels of coverage we want and who might offer the best plan. Some of the control lies within our own hands. Homeowners, auto, and life insurance all charge minimal premiums compared to the cost of medical.
     I don't see this type of free-market enterprise working well in the system as it stands now. Has anyone tried calling around for a price on a medical procedure? Or a radiology procedure? I have. It's next to impossible to get a straight answer from a provider on what the cost will be. The system does not enable us to shop around for the best provider at the best cost. The insurance companies take charge of this. It's what a Preferred Provider Organization (PPO) is all about. A network of providers agrees to sign on with the insurance company, providing their services to all plan members for a locked in rate. Basically, they make a deal. We are left out of the wheeling and dealing. Yes we are given free reign to choose our provider from the network of providers the insurance company says we can use. But if you want some other professional, the insurance is going to cover less of the bill or perhaps none at all.
      On the two opposing ends of the spectrum, millionaires can afford not to carry medical insurance. Low-income families are forced to use Medicaid with even less providers available for them to choose from. The elderly have Medicare. But, both Medicaid and Medicare strain our government in ways that can bankrupt  the tax system. I suppose this is a whole 'nother fish to fry.
     So where does that leave us? I would like to see the system open to free enterprise. I would like doctors and hospitals to compete to provide excellent service at reasonable costs. I would like the free choice to choose any doctor I want, to call ahead and know what he/she charges, and to be able to pay my bill. As it stands now, I have no idea what our family physician charges for an office visit. I never see a bill. I pay my $25 co-pay and that's the end of it. All nice and tidy and cheap it seems. But that's the problem! I'm left out of the equation. Who knows what she charges and how that amount drives up the cost of medical insurance. (By the way, I like our doctor a lot.) We had a "specialist" "run some tests" last year. I would never have known what tests he ran or how much the bill was had I not phoned the hospital and asked for an itemized bill. It was $3000. That's exactly why my insurance premiums are what they are.
     I realize this problem is far too big and far too long in the making for any simple solution. I just wish a dialogue would open up among the experts to address the rising cost of health care, the rising cost of insurance and the very real inability for any American citizen to be able to afford it. I do not think the government should assign themselves this task. It should be left to the medical and financial experts to rack their brains and formulate a solution which would benefit all.
     My personal solution is to kick around the idea of purchasing a catastrophic health plan. We would cancel our medical insurance and pay as we go for any and all medical expenses. The insurance would be there only in the case of a real medical emergency or very high hospital bill. I need to look into this type of plan and the cost of premiums. I would genuinely like to know of anyone who insures their family this way and how it has worked out for you. I simply want to get off this crazy ride and take some control for ourselves.

Disclaimer : ) I'm no expert. I'm your average American citizen who is frustrated beyond measure.

Tottensea Landing by Dale C. Willard

    
     The Linnet's Tale sits on my bookshelf as one of my favorite jewels. Tottensea Landing is the newly released sequel which continues the adventures of the field mice of Tottensea Burrows. I was charmed by these books the moment I began to read them. Written about an intellectual little bunch of English mice living in a cottage garden, they are full of wit and playfulness. The highly literate cast of characters includes the mayor, a widow and her son, an adventurous merchant, and an inventor with three lovely daughters, who seem to have come straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Many more dear little mice make up the town and are interwoven into the story.
     When introducing us to the characters in The Linnet's Tale, the author adds bits of "linguistic inventiveness" that tickle the senses. For example, in describing the naming of certain mice such as Warburton Nines Who Once Lifted a Cat, Willard explains the meritorious epigraphs in a name added to show respect. An epigraph that has nothing to do with any earned merit is called a distinguishing epigraph, as in a name like Opportune Baggs the Inventor. Such playfulness is taken in all seriousness as the story unfolds into tales of love and daring rescues.
     Tottensea Landing picks up where The Linnet's Tale left off and continues enchanting the reader with a new adventure. The cast of kind and generous field mice remains the same with the introduction of several new characters including some unsavory pirates. A bit of friction develops between the newcomers and one or two of the townsfolk, adding the age-old dichotomy of an upper and lower class system.
     The Tale opens with the arrival by boat of the Thatchett family to Tottensea Landing. They decide to stay a while, bringing their upper class status to the village. Things begin to go awry when, much to their chagrin, their son is smitten by the kitchen maid and invites her to a dinner party. About this same time, a mysterious and vicious shrew washes up on shore and is nursed back to health at the inn by the very same maid. What happens when these well-mannered little mice are faced with treachery? The result is an entertaining story!
     Although called, "A mouse story for grownups" I found myself wishing my children were still young and at home so I could read this aloud to them. Most definitely suited for grownups, I would also highly recommend both titles for any children who enjoy witty adventure. The story remains bright and positive even though there are sinister elements. These never come across as eerie or dark as many modern novels tend to do. One curious thing I noticed was my keen awareness that I was reading about mice. I'm not quite sure how the author does this, but it adds to the uniqueness of the story while remaining completely believable.
    As in The Linnet's Tale, Mr. Willard has given us a good, solid story interspersed with poetry and witty dialogue. Although it is not necessary to first read The Linnet's Tale, I would recommend setting yourself up properly and reading it first as an introduction to the cast of characters and the wonderful world of Tottensea. I am pleased to have this addition to my shelf of classic literature.