As I travel around Idaho and visit with seniors, I hear almost

Mike Simpson once proclaimed with gravity and compassion: “As I travel around Idaho and visit with seniors, I hear almost universal concern about the rising cost of health care, particularly the cost of prescription drugs.” These words, though born in a modern land and time, carry the weight of an ancient lament. For they speak not only of numbers and policy, but of the struggle of the aged, who after long years of toil find their strength fading and their bodies in need of care, yet who face barriers not of nature alone, but of human making. The rising price of medicine becomes for them not a figure on a ledger, but a daily burden of fear, choice, and sacrifice.

The ancients revered their elders. In Greece, the Gerousia—the council of the old—guided the polis, for wisdom was believed to ripen with age. In Rome, the Senatus, from which we take the very word “senate,” meant “council of the elders.” Yet imagine if these revered ones, whose counsel shaped empires, had been denied the healing balms of their time, left to suffer because herbs or treatments were priced beyond their reach. Would not the society itself have crumbled in shame? So Simpson’s words remind us that the treatment of elders is not a private matter—it is a mirror held up to the soul of a civilization.

His journeys through Idaho echo the journeys of prophets and philosophers of old, who walked among the people not to bask in glory but to listen. And what did he hear? Not isolated whispers, but a near-universal chorus of anxiety, as elders wondered whether they could afford the pills that ward off pain, that sustain life, that bring another season with grandchildren. Their concerns are not trivial—they are the very heartbeat of justice, for a society that cannot tend to its weakest has lost its compass.

Consider the tale of Solon of Athens, who, when asked what made a city great, replied: “It is great when the old men are honored, and the young are taught to be noble.” This honor was not only reverence in word, but provision in deed. The Athenians established laws to protect widows and the elderly from exploitation. For they knew that without such safeguards, the city’s claim to virtue was hollow. In Simpson’s quote, we hear the same call: that elders must not be abandoned to the merciless tides of economy, but shielded by the community they once served.

There is also in his words a recognition of universality. This concern is not the lament of a few, but of almost all who have lived long enough to need healing. That it is “almost universal” reveals that this is not accident or personal failing—it is a structural weight pressing upon the shoulders of many. Here lies the truth: when a burden is shared by the many, it must be answered not by individual sacrifice alone, but by collective resolve.

The lesson is clear and urgent: to care for the elders is to care for ourselves. Each of us, if fortune grants, will one day walk the same road. The choices we make now about justice, health, and provision will echo into our own twilight years. Thus, we must act with foresight and compassion: demand fairness in the cost of medicine, build systems that prioritize human life over profit, and remember that no treasure is more sacred than the well-being of those who once labored to raise us.

Practically, this means standing not in silence but in solidarity. It means supporting leaders who take seriously the cry of the aged. It means, too, in our own homes, offering presence and help to parents and grandparents who may struggle with these burdens. For justice is not only forged in parliaments but lived in families and communities.

Thus, Mike Simpson’s words ring not only as political observation but as a timeless call to conscience: the treatment of our seniors defines the honor of our society. Let us not permit them to suffer for want of medicine, but rise together to lighten their load. For to care for the aged is to weave dignity into the fabric of our nation, and to ensure that when our own days grow long, we too may walk with peace, not fear.