The One That's Not About Politics

Yesterday, I sent out the first edition of this month's Tiny Letter. Why the wait? This one came together like a slow slog. Uphill. In a blizzard. Through a vat of tar. At 3:00 in the morning. On a Monday. Brutal, eh?

It's a piece that touches on the darkness of Advent, the Eucharist, and the best medicine in a world with out-of-control healthcare costs. I hope you'll read along (excerpt below) by following this link and signing up.


*Authors Note: Welcome to the TinyLetter it’s taken me a near-eternity to write. You may be tempted to believe this is political commentary, and as George Orwell said, “`In our age there is no such thing as 'keeping out of politics.' All issues are political issues….” Please keep reading. This is not so much about politics as it is about this season, Advent.


Advent crept up on me like a black cloud, an omen, a ghost, a specter. Some dark crack opened in the sidewalk, a seam in the everyday, and I was pulled headlong into it. It’s a dramatic sounding thing, but how else do you describe being chased by a feeling or falling into one? I don’t know.

It started when I began shopping for health insurance for my family. I’m a self-employed writer, and my Cobra coverage from the old nine-to-five is on the wane. I’d heard the Government flicked the neon Open sign on at, so, I joined millions of other Americans in the great holiday tradition--pricing health care plans over a mug of egg nog.

(“There’ll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and health care to buy don’t y’know.”)

I hoped to find an appropriate plan, one that afforded the same level of coverage as my existing Cobra plan. I filled out the forms, followed the prompts, and waited for the estimates to appear on the screen, and when they did, I nearly choked, then refreshed the screen. There had to be a mistake. My already too-expensive medical insurance was going up over thirty percent.

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