The house is quiet tonight.  It wasn’t so at this time twenty-four hours ago.

The giggles of little girls crept around the corners of doorways and grew into raucous laughter that sailed into the other rooms of the house as the four young ladies enjoyed a game of cards.  They sat at the dining room table, their bowls of ice cream before them and broke into song, the lovely young voices disturbing the ghosts in this old house of almost-old people.

But, sleepovers end with the arrival of morning light, and visits from relatives come to a screeching halt with the last tearful goodbye and a quick squeeze.

Silence descends.  Once again, the Lovely Lady and I sit, our feet almost touching as she stitches and I doze.

If I may be so forward, I’m going to share a secret.  You won’t tell anyone, will you?

It’s not the manly man thing to admit, but I’m going to say it anyway.

I miss the girls.  Already.

Funny.  I dreaded them coming to visit.

Old age creeps up like that, you know.  First, the empty nest and its accompanying blue periods.  The excitement of ball games and concerts, of proms and ACT tests, is missing from everyday life.  The arguments over bedtimes and haircuts, and the bustle of school mornings and the cemetery-like silence of Saturday middays, all are suddenly over.  Done.

Just like that.  Done.

Time moves on–a year, then ten–and another reality takes the place of children and constant action.  The house is a lot cleaner.  And, I like that.  Bedtime is more calm.

“I’m going upstairs now.  Good night.”

No shouting, no arguing about who gets the shower first–or last.

I like life like this.  It’s peaceful.  Calm even.

Why did she ever invite those girls to stay for all that time?  Aren’t there motels in this town?

The dread built for weeks ahead of their visit.  Then, another bolt from the blue comes.  A sleepover with even more girls?  Absolutely not!

Oh.  It’s already arranged.  Whatever.

They arrived five days ago, charging into the house to bury their heads in my chest as they shouted my name.  I suppose they did the same to their aunt, the Lovely Lady.  I just remember that I was suddenly thinking about how glad I was to have those noisy girls in this quiet old house.

Wet swimming suits on racks, laptop computers recharging in the corner, and heat lamps left on in the bathroom. . .

It’s all coming back to me now.  I like having children in the house.

But, the five days flew by and their visit is over.  Done.

Just like that.  Done.

Even pizza with a couple of the grandchildren wasn’t enough to capture the feeling in this ancient house for long this evening.

It is quiet.  Too quiet.

If you’ve followed my writing for very long, you know I live inside my own head a good bit.  There are memories flying around in there that only I recall.  Tonight, I am remembering being a young father again and I have trapped a couple of jewels of wisdom I want to give away.

You’ve heard the first one before.  There are a lot of ways it has been said, but this is my perspective on those years, seemingly now gone beyond recall for me:

Grab hold of the time you have with your family at home and live it out–to the last minute, to the last hug, to the last tear.

Every moment we have with them is a gift from our Creator.  Every moment.

While you’re at it, grab that foam-rubber pool noodle and have a sword fight with the kids.  Blow bubbles on the front porch.  Play the piano as they stumble through the trumpet solo.  Get on the ground and look for a four-leaf clover with them.  Smile as you teach them to drive a stick-shift car.  Even if you’re terrified.  Smile.

Come to think of it, there is an item or two on that list that I can still do with the future generations coming up.  Not the stick shift thing, though.

I am still alive.  I may need to grab hold of another moment or two before I sink down into that easy chair for good.

What’s that?  Am I forgetting something?

Oh.  The other jewel of wisdom.

Don’t dread what’s in the future.

Take life as it comes.  There are some events which will be less pleasant than others.  A lot less pleasant.  They are part of the process.

Every moment is a gift from the Creator.  Every moment.

You may actually enjoy the next one.

Try it.  Because these days too, will fly and soon be over.

Just like that.  Done.

“How did it get so late so soon?”
(Theodore Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss) ~ American writer/poet ~ 1904-1991)

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”
(Ecclisiastes 3:1 ~ ESV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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“I do’d it myself, Daddy!”

He had, too.  The little boy wore his underpants backward all day.  But he had put them on himself, without any help.  A better father would have figured out a way to teach a life lesson while encouraging the tyke in his self assertiveness, but on that day, it seemed to be good enough for this young dad.

He did it himself.

Funny.  By yourself isn’t always a good thing.

The phone rang at the music store this morning.  It was the Lovely Lady, calling from a neighboring town about twenty-five miles away.  A good friend had an appointment with her medical specialist and needed some moral support, so she dropped everything and went.  By yourself isn’t always a good thing.

I assumed that the doctor’s consultation was completed and she was preparing to come back.  It wasn’t quite that simple.

“The back tire is flat.  It’s pouring down rain.”  “No, it wasn’t good news.”

The last was in answer to my question about our friend.  I wished I could put my arms around her right then, but these smart phones don’t work that way yet.  I closed the store and drove my old pickup truck the twenty-five miles in the rain to change her tire.  By yourself isn’t always a good thing.

She stood and held the umbrella to keep the rain off me while I took off the flat tire and replaced it with the little doughnut spare.  She could have stayed in the car and kept warm and dry, while I changed the tire by myself.   I’m glad she knows that by yourself isn’t always a good thing.

Why is it this way?  When we are children, nothing could be more important to us than to do something by ourselves.  It’s almost a rite of passage, this attitude of independence.

“I can do it myself!”

We stood by the side of the huge Arkansas River the other day and watched the event unfold.

A lone fisherman in his little bass boat pulled up to the jetty beside the boat ramp and tied up, jumping onto the rocks and trekking up to the parking lot where his truck and trailer waited for him.  Backing the trailer down into the water, he got out of the truck and back into the boat.  He used his electric trolling motor to push away from the rocks and rounded the point coming toward the back of the boat trailer.  Perhaps, he was distracted by talking on his cell phone, but as he approached the trailer, he switched to the outboard motor at the rear of the boat.

The start of the problem was when he got over to the left just about six inches.  Instead of pulling up between the outer supports of the trailer, he floated in right over the left one, tipping the boat a little.  I assumed that he would back out and try again.  He, being a man, wasn’t about to reverse the motor.  Seriously.

He did the only thing he could do (without backing up) and, walking to the front of the boat, dropped off to the front of the trailer, between the prow of the craft and the post by which it would be secured to the trailer.  Seemingly forgetting that the outboard was still pushing it forward, he stood in front of the boat and shook it until it dropped between the side supports.

No longer snagged and held back by being high centered on the left support, the boat surged forward and knocked the man down, trapping his leg between the hull and the trailer.  He was no longer distracted by the phone, but dropped it onto the deck, now looming over him, and turned his full attention to escaping the trap he had set for himself.  High up on a bluff above him, we were too far away to do him any good, and no one else was nearby to help.  He was on his own.

Within a few seconds, which no doubt felt like an eternity to him, he was able to shove the boat over a bit and release his trapped leg.  He jerked out quickly and sped around to the side of the boat trailer to cut the power to the motor.

By yourself isn’t always a good thing.

I think I heard him say into the phone, as he picked it back up a minute later,  “I do’d it myself!”

Well, perhaps not.  But, the situations don’t feel all that different–the toddler’s and the fisherman’s.

Sometimes, our pride gets the best of us, doesn’t it?

I remember the little boy’s face as he announced his triumph over the article of clothing.  I didn’t have the heart to correct him then.  That would come often enough in the ensuing years.  We expect our children to exhibit a certain amount of foolishness as they learn.  There is time to correct as they grow.

The fisherman, on the other hand . . .

My mind drifts back to the events of today and I realize the blessing of family and friends.  I also realize the blessing of wisdom to ask for help when we can’t face the task at hand alone.  From friends who need support as they face the unknown, to a husband and wife who can count on each other to help shoulder the burden of disappointment and unexpected barriers in the way, our lives are full of chances to step back and admit we can’t do it alone.

Perhaps it’s time to let go of our pride and just nod our heads the next time we hear the words–

“May I help you with that?”

I’m working on it.

By yourself isn’t always a good thing.

“Pride precedes destruction; an arrogant spirit appears before a fall.”
(Proverbs 16:18 ~ ISV)

“When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed.”
(Maya Angelou ~ American poet/author ~ 1928-2014)

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I finally admitted it to her tonight.  It’s been coming on for a couple of days and I just got tired of keeping it to myself.

“I think I’m depressed.”  I couldn’t hide the tremor in my voice.

She already knew.  Funny how that works. But, understanding that when I actually say something about it I need to talk it out, she asked a question or two. 

“Do you know why you’re depressed?”

I didn’t.

Well, I didn’t until she asked.  Then it hit me.

The phone call.  Yesterday.  At the music store.  I didn’t recognize the name on the caller ID and still can’t recall what the little girl’s name was.  Actually, she’s just graduating from high school, but under the circumstances, I think I’ll stick with the little girl designation.

All the girl wanted was to send some pictures of her graduation to her old piano teacher so she could share the girl’s joy.  She knew the lady no longer lived in her home, but she was also sure that I would know where she is now.

I do.

The old piano teacher was my mother-in-law.  She died just over a year ago.

How am I supposed to tell this little girl that her favorite teacher is dead?  Why do I have to be the one to interrupt the girl’s celebration with news that can only detract from her joy?  But, it must be done, so I do it as gently as I can.  In spite of my concern, the news must have been a shock.

The tears come as I relate the story to the Lovely Lady, and I stop talking.  She understands and allows the quiet to calm the storm within.  My mind goes to other sadness over the last day–another friend’s father-in-law died, and the brother of a friend will be buried tomorrow.  Again and again over the last twenty-four hours, I have heard of death and the prospect of it in the near future.

I am sad.  But as usual, simply putting the thoughts into words has set the process of healing in motion.  My mind recalls that I wrote of this immediately following my mother-in-law’s death last year and as I re-read those words, I remember that all is not as dark as I have allowed myself to believe.

It will make this post dreadfully long, but I hope you won’t mind reading the words again, too. 

Sometimes, being reminded of truths we already know is enough to give us new hope.
____________________

Dancing in the Grass

The two-lane avenue led through a once-rural residential area, and was normally a quiet road, with just the occasional family station wagon on its way home, or a school bus filled with kids who were bound for several hours of captivity in the academic world.  The funeral home around the corner seldom entered the thoughts of the folks living in the neighborhood, but once in awhile, the sleepiness of the area would be disturbed as a police cruiser would speed past, lights flashing, on its way to the intersection a few blocks to the west.  There, it would stop traffic for several moments as the oncoming procession, headlights ablaze (even in the bright sun of the afternoon), made its slow and tedious way through.  Oncoming drivers were respectful, pulling over and waiting to move on until the entire line of cars passed.

Not so with the young urchins at one house along the way.  At the first sight of the police cruiser, they would run to stand in the grass beside the road, awaiting the black Cadillac hearse which was sure to be close behind.  As soon as it drew near, the boys began cavorting and turning cartwheels in the grass between the palm trees that grew tall and straight.  Laughing and jumping, they played happily, as the sad procession eased along the avenue and then slowly moved out of sight.  It was an odd custom, but one which was repeated whenever the funeral caravan was spotted.

I’d like, if you’ll allow it, to speak for a few moments about death.  It’s not a popular subject for polite conversation, is it?  We’re uncomfortable talking about the end of life. 

We have so many euphemisms for the word die.  In genteel discussions, we suggest an individual passed on or possibly passed away.  A certain fine lady I know of used to describe a family member’s death simply by saying they went to heaven.  With others, one could perish or expire or even be deceased.  In coarser company, they would say a person kicked the bucket or possibly even croaked.  Trying to be a bit more poetic, we suggest they cashed in their chips or bought the farm.  However you look at it, we work extra hard to avoid saying someone died. 

Why is that?  What makes us avoid talking directly about dying?  No one denies it takes place; we simply don’t want to actually speak about it.  Oh, I know there are people who are obsessed with the idea of death.  Some individuals can’t speak of anything else. 

There was one young lady whose writing I once followed, simply because she posted links to some very nice music and classical poetry.  After reading a few items of hers, it struck me that she wrote and posted of nothing else but death.  Every piece of music was a dirge or requiem; every poem a tribute to some person who had died or a lament about death.  It was obviously an unhealthy preoccupation that could lead to no good end.  I quit reading her articles. 

Surely, somewhere in the midst of these two extremes, either never mentioning the subject or else dwelling incessantly on it, is the middle ground upon which we can walk and learn.

The Lovely Lady’s mother died last year.  Her body died, that is.  My spiritual beliefs assure me that her spirit is alive and living with her God.  Over the weeks after she died, I heard a good number of platitudes.  I don’t disagree with any of them. 

She is better off.  She is whole again.  I wouldn’t want to make her live in that crippled and diseased body for one minute more.  

But. 

Most of us don’t want to go past the trite words and talk about death in any more graphic terms.  It is a reticence born of long practice.  And, if we had no hope past our last breath in this life, that might be understandable.

The phrase from the New Testament springs to mind:  “Where, oh death, is thy victory?  Where, oh grave, is thy sting?” 

That passage goes on to say that death has been swallowed up in victory, won by our Savior as He paid the price for our sins.  I will not argue the truth of the words.  I wonder though, if our reluctance to speak about death, our fear of the grave that follows death, shows how much we actually believe the words.  It stings too much to speak of it in plain language. 

It almost appears that we believe death has defeated us when loved ones are taken.  We seem, at least, to fear that same defeat for ourselves one day.  As we speak in hushed tones and use our cryptic language to describe the event, we teach our children to fear as well.

The odd behavior of the urchins described earlier may be a lesson for those of us who have forgotten what it was like to know no fear of the future. 

There was a time in our lives when celebration was the norm, rather than a rare occurrence.  We would live forever!  Why should you stand and be solemn when you could dance? 

I will readily admit today that my face burns with embarrassment as I confess to you I was one of those urchins.  Right now, as I consider the sorrow of the occupants of the limousine and cars following–mixed with anger at the oblivious children who danced at the approach of said cars–the shame I feel is almost palpable.  Others who participated may not feel as I do, but I would like to go back and take a different course of action. 

 That said, there is something to applaud in the unfettered spirit of those youths.  Why should there not be a sense of celebration at the graduation of a soul which in life has grasped hold of the grace proffered by a loving Savior, and now has entered into His presence?  If that is not cause for celebration, what is?

I won’t dwell on it–in fact, will probably not speak of it here for some time–but, I hope you will feel the freedom to talk openly about death and its role in shaping our lives and those who will come after us. 

Don’t be embarrassed to admit it if you fear the unknown, but by the same token, don’t be embarrassed to celebrate when a saint, who has run the race faithfully and finished the course in fine form, is rewarded with rest and heaven.  Our sorrow as we miss their presence surely is eclipsed by our joy at their going to their real home.

I’ll not be dancing at any funerals again. 

I do, however, hope that a little balance–sorrow offset with joy, our natural fear of the unknown weighed against the supernatural hope which lives inside of us–will give us the perspective we sorely need.

And, even though you probably require no such reminder, I’m going to keep this in mind:

Our God is good, all of the time!

“Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive…We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects. And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.”
(“Weight of Glory” a sermon by C.S.Lewis~Irish novelist/theologian~1898-1963)

“The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keep out joy.”
(Jim Rohn~American motivational speaker)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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“Do not hold over people.”

We laughed aloud as we read the words, the Lovely Lady and I.  She had purchased a new coffee maker for me, the old one having given up on keeping the black liquid hot longer than five minutes after it was brewed.  I unpacked the replacement and thought that perhaps, I should read the warning on the carafe.

“Do not bump”  Okay.  That makes sense.

“Do not clean with materials that scratch.”  I’m on board with that one, too.

“Do not use on any rangetop…”  I’m not so sure here, since the hotplate on the coffee maker is a close approximation of one on a stove, but I don’t want to be argumentative, so we move on.

“Do not hold over people.”  Seriously.

What idiot holds a coffee pot over people?

We discussed it at the dinner table yesterday.  After we stopped laughing again, a number of explanations were offered.  Eventually, we narrowed it down to our litigious society and over-eager personal injury lawyers, and the conversation moved on to important things such as soccer and no-thank-you helpings of squash.

I can’t get the phrase out of my mind.

Do not hold over people.

The coffee maker’s carafe fades into the scenery as other images take its place.  They flash by so quickly, it is hard to retain them.  Parents reminding their children of past transgressions again and again–Husbands and wives bringing up the past and events which should have been long forgotten–Politicians using words spoken decades before to diminish and smear their opponents–The list goes on and on.

Do not hold over people.

I cringe as I think about the times I have held the scalding liquid over the heads of fellow travelers.  When I did pour out the contents of the pot it was, of course, for their own good.  Or, so I told myself.

I’m not so sure anymore.

I may have enjoyed it.  Power makes one cruel.  And unforgiving.

Perhaps, it’s time to put the carafe down.  Maybe, it’s time to use it for the intended purpose.  The contents, when dispensed in the correct manner, are refreshing and even invigorating.

And, they don’t leave the recipient scarred for life.

Do not hold over people.

My arms are tired anyway.

Coffee, anyone?

“Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you.”
(Colossians 3:13a ~ NLT)

“I believe in trusting men, not only once, but twice–in giving a failure another chance.”
(James Cash Penney ~ American entrepeneur ~ 1875-1971)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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“I want to believe in people.”

The video showed a man speeding down a water slide and flying through the air to land in a pool of water many feet away.  It was an amazing feat.  Astonishing!

It was also a fraud.  It never happened.

Insignificant?  Petty?  Sure.

There are more important things in the world, but the realization that your emotions and credulity have been manipulated by a technician and his computer is disappointing at the least.  It can be infuriating if we dwell upon it.

When the fraud was pointed out to my friend who shared the video, her response was the almost plaintive quote you see at the top of the page.

It is a desire shared by every one of us.  And, day by day, it is an optimism which is being eroded.

I want to believe in people.
__________

The news story for days has been of a little girl who was savaged by vicious dogs, her face lacerated and disfigured.  Then, the story reports, when she was released from the hospital,  a worker in a fast food restaurant insisted her parents take her out of the establishment because she was frightening other children.

The public uproar was instantaneous and furious.  Boycott the restaurant chain!  Send money for the child’s medical treatment!  We are shocked that anybody could do that to a little girl!

We want to believe in people.  Obviously, we can’t.

Today, the tables are turned.  All the news outlets are reporting it is likely the story itself is a hoax.  The tale is now of a family that couldn’t cover medical bills, so decided to use the media and a wealthy corporation to make sure that they were not going to be left penniless.  If the current news reports are to be believed, they lied.  The event never occurred.

We want to believe in people.  We can’t.

Time will demonstrate who is telling the truth there.  We certainly can’t know from our vantage point today.
__________

Every day, it seems, they walk through my door.  They probably come through yours, too.

Stories.  They tell me stories.  I want to believe that the narratives are not simply fabrications.  I want to think that not one of these folks who stand in front of me and weave their tales of woe are lying to me.

I would be wrong.  People lie.

Now that I think of it, so do I.

You are surrounded by people who may be lying to you.

What a situation!  We live in a world filled with folks who seek their own good and are willing to lie and cheat to get it.  That includes you.  It includes me.

Who knew?

You already know the answer to that question, don’t you?  I wonder, is that the reason He told us to consider each other better than ourselves?  Is that the reason he told us to open our hearts and homes to strangers?  Is that the reason he told us to spend time with the lawbreakers in prison?

Maybe it’s time to open our hearts to liars and thieves, to the homeless and destitute.  There is a bit of each of us in those descriptions, isn’t there?

No, we can’t believe people.  But we can believe Him.

We believe in God.

People?  We simply love them.

We open our hearts and hands to them.  Because it’s what we–each one of us–need.

Because it’s how He told us to live.

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'”
(Matthew 25:40 ~ NIV)

“You who speak languages, you are such liars.”
(Orson Scott Care ~ American author/educator)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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You could have heard an ice cube melting.

I think perhaps I did.

She said the words and looked expectantly from face to face of the three men across the table from her.  Not one of us took the cue.  It was an obvious cue.  We looked at her blankly and struggled to think of an appropriate answer (for men).

I don’t remember what was said next, but I think someone told a joke.  It seemed the appropriate answer.

Perhaps, I should start a bit earlier in the conversation.  Not very much earlier.  Just one sentence.  Her question.

“You men should have a discussion about that, don’t you think?”

It was a logical point for the conversation to reach, but honestly, we never thought it would go that far.  A sensitive subject was being broached and we assumed that the conversation would just move on without a call to action.

Especially a call for us men to talk about that.  With other men.

The Lovely Lady and I were with our Old Friends.  I write the phrase as a title because they really are–old friends.  The same age as we are.  Almost lifelong companions.

We stood up with each other in our weddings, decades ago.  We carried around each other’s babies, along with our own, decades ago.  We helped each other through the teenage years our children went through together, decades ago.  We supported each other through the empty nest sadness–well, the ladies did.  We men just grunted and acted like it didn’t matter.  We knew it did.

Now we show photos of the new grandchildren, and of the black eyes and battle scars the older ones are earning.

We know each other.  We like each other.

You’d think that she would be aware.  We don’t talk about that.

I came home later that evening and sat thinking.  Does she really expect us to talk about things like that?
Really?

I am not a socially sensitive man.  It’s not because I enjoy being a neanderthal.  It’s just that I don’t think a lot about the difference between the sexes.  It’s never been that important for me to contemplate.

I’ve been thinking more about the difference between the sexes.

The female of the species likes to communicate with words.  They sit around and do whatever shared activity it is they enjoy, and they talk.  The activity doesn’t matter; the conversation does.

The male of the species communicates with the activity itself.  We fish and golf, we bicycle and play basketball.  We do the activity.

When we’re done with the activity, we talk about the activity.

The ladies talk about children and husbands, personal problems, and medical issues.  They discuss how to deal with hyperactive kids and what herb or medication is effective for osteoporosis (or even more personal ailments).

Men talk about activities–sports and fishing, the weather and how business is looking.  The closest we get to talking about a personal medical problem is to yell at another player on the basketball court to shake it off.  We don’t want our personal issues discussed, much less have suggestions made as to a solution to the problem.

Don’t believe it?  Watch what happens the next time a man falls down while riding his bicycle.  Do you suppose he’s likely to lie in a heap and wait for help to arrive?

No.

He’s up as quickly as he can hop to his feet, hiding the rapidly swelling knee or ankle, and yelling out,  “I’m all right!  I’m all right!”

What he means is,  “I don’t want to talk about it.  Get on with riding and let me deal with the pain alone.” 

The females of the species even travel to the restroom together, one would assume communicating while waiting their turn to use the facilities.  For all I know, they may even talk while using the facilities.  I don’t know that.  Come to think of it, I don’t wish to know that.

On the other hand, the male doesn’t want anyone to know he’s even going to the little room, much less come along with him.  We even use euphemisms to hide our intentions, like I’m going to see a man about a dog, or I have to answer nature’s call.  We don’t want company and we don’t want to talk while we’re there.  We look at the ceiling or the floor if we have to wait and are just happy to be washing up and walking out the door.  Without talking.

Have I made this clear enough?

We don’t want to talk about it.
____________________

Wow.  For a guy who doesn’t think about the differences between the sexes, there are a lot of words written on this page describing at least this difference.

We don’t want to talk about it.  Especially not that.

I wonder though.

Not that men will ever communicate in the same ways that women do (we are from Mars, you know), but it seems fairly important that we talk about some things.

Yeah.  That, too.

The Apostle, in his writing suggested that we need to look, not only to our own business, but to the business of others.  He wasn’t talking about commercial business either.  Right before those words, he wrote that we were to consider others to be more important than ourselves.

Still I wonder.  Does that mean I have to talk to him about it?

It does seem likely that communication may be required.  That’ll take some effort on my part.  And on yours.

Time to get started, isn’t it?

One thing though.  I’m not talking with them in the rest room.

A guy’s got to set some limits.

“It sounds so trite, but in relationships, you have to communicate.”
(Peter Krause ~ American actor/director)

“Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves; do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others.”
(Philippians 2: 3,4 ~ NASB)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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