“You can take pictures of the wishing well if you want.”  The thin lady simpered proudly, as if she had just given me permission to view the Crown Jewels.  Moments earlier, we had entered her domain, stepping across a worn and scraped-up threshold into the dimly lit interior of the shabby building.  The ancient wood floor was bereft of finish, with most of the rough boards popped loose from their original, tightly-fitting, positions.  The surface flexed as we stepped into the only room and continued flexing as we walked gingerly, causing our minds to leap quickly back to the signs outside declaring that the owner was “Not responsible for accidents”.  Perhaps they were fearful that the floor would collapse beneath our weight and wanted us to be forewarned that there would be no compensation forthcoming.  We were already aware of that last part, simply by seeing the condition of the establishment.

We had sped down the highway past the place, headed for home from a weekend of tourist-y activities, a relaxing time away from the hectic pace that our lives seem to have attained recently.  The dilapidated sign outside spoke of treasures within and we could not resist the tumbledown shack, turning back to see if there were, indeed valuables awaiting us.  Another faded sign informed us that the “famous” crystal wishing well was located here.  We went in, but besides finding a frowning and suspicious business owner, found none of the normal items we expected to see.  There were no antiques, no housewares from ages past, not even any glassware from the depression era to tempt the foolish investor (a title I will vociferously deny, ignoring the collection hidden in my closet).  Old records–you know, those black things that once rotated atop our stereos and blasted forth our music, when the scratched spots weren’t holding the needle in place and causing it to play the same phrase again and again–were scattered on what passed for display tables.  We saw other miscellaneous items around the room, but there was absolutely nothing that I would have paid more than a few cents for at any garage sale.  I was ready to leave as quickly as my eyes swept the room.

But the lady had warmed up a bit and wanted us to know all about the old place.  A famous gangster was reputed to have had a shady business upstairs at one time.  I didn’t want to see, fearful as I was of the thought of walking on the floor downstairs, much less of being on the floor above that.  She didn’t offer us the chance.  She did insist that we view the “crystal” wishing well, merely a rocked-in grotto with murky water almost to the floor level, at the very back of the room.  “There’s a fish in there,” she announced proudly.  We didn’t see the fish.  It didn’t seem smart to throw any coins in the “well” if there was a chance that the fish might be harmed, but she thought that we would certainly want to photograph the well.  I reluctantly took the picture and was ready to be away from the depressing place.

The Lovely Lady, by my side, had noticed some items in a dingy counter nearby.  By now, the woman was eager to describe her treasures, pieces of crystal which she had adorned herself with copper wire and beads.  “They’re so full of energy and inner beauty!”  I couldn’t help but think that the opposite was true of the emaciated woman, herself almost lethargic and depressed.  Like a flash in the darkened room, a thought occurred to me, and suddenly I understood that we were being offered a rare opportunity.  The whole weekend, we had been consumers, obsessed with our own comfort, our own needs.  The folks offering what we needed were just there to accommodate us and our every whim. This lady, on the other hand, needed us.  She didn’t just need our money, she needed us to recognize her for who she was–a fellow human being, with a longing for respect and acceptance.  I looked around and saw the room with different eyes.  She was doing what she could to provide for herself and her family, and what was in this room was the result of her efforts.  The hand painted signs, the crude “wishing well”, the fish she cared for in the murky water, the decoration on the crystals she was offering, those were all her handiwork, her labor.

My attitude adjustment complete, I inquired if we might purchase one of her crystals.  She brightened up and a little of the energy and beauty that she sees in the crystal suddenly seemed to be present inside her.  We talked for awhile longer and she invited us to visit the cave up on the hill, which we did.  It too, was underwhelming by most standards, but it was hers and she was proud of it.  Our admiration cost us nothing at all, but was of great benefit to the young lady.  When we drove away just moments later, the broad smile on her face along with her invitation for us to return, were genuine.  The sour, suspicious person who had greeted us was gone…all because we recognized her as a person worthy of our esteem.

Miles down the road, as we approached a bridge across one of the many rivers in that area, the Lovely Lady wondered what it would look like from the river’s edge.  It may be a different concept to you, but we are, as I have mentioned before, lovers of bridges.  Many are actually works of art, simply placed conveniently for us to cross over previously impassable barriers–valleys, rivers, or even deep chasms.  I found the access road and we again turned off the highway.

What a refreshing break!  Moments after the pavement was left behind, we were walking a dirt pathway beside the river, down into a washout and up the other side, butterflies and dragonflies flitting around us.  Then suddenly, as we approached the river’s verge, looking through an opening in the trees, there it stood!  The concrete arches soared into the air, supporting the roadway above with grace and with style.  Invisible from the road itself, the beautiful old structure provided ease for the travelers who sped past, unawares.  An unattractive road and a railing, it was to those who never took time to see what lay underneath.  A beautifully designed piece of art and a labor of untold value was what we saw from our lowly vantage point.  All because we had taken the time to leave the beaten path and spend a few moments in appreciation of what we couldn’t have seen before.

For some reason, once again, I feel the need to leave you to work out the details of this one for yourself.  I could tell you what to think, could wax eloquent about the parallels and the relationships between the two events, but my bet is that you don’t need me to do that.  I’m going to trust you to finish the job before you move on to other pursuits.  You won’t disappoint me, now will you?

We visited the Crater of Diamonds park a day or two ago and as I stood in that field, I found myself thinking about the old song, “I’m just an old chunk of coal, but I’m going to be a diamond someday.”  I’m starting to believe that perhaps it simply depends on your viewpoint.  A lot of those chunks we think are still only made of coal are already well on their way to becoming diamonds.  You just have to know where to look.

You’ll be better at finding them than I was, I’m sure.

“He has made everything beautiful in its own time.  He has also set eternity in the hearts of man.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:11a~NIV)

“And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and scarred with sin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand”
(Myra Brooks Welch~American poet~1877-1959)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

It was nearing the end of the month, the time when the shopkeepers who had a “Buy, Sell, Trade” sign in their windows thought seriously about covering up the “Buy” part of the message.  After years of being in business, you begin to understand the ebb and flow of sales and acquisitions.  With the beginning of the new month, government checks securely deposited in the bank, the folks who depend on the generosity of their fellow citizens for their sustenance are free with cash.  Purchases are made, promised paybacks are taken care of and for a few weeks they will have tools and furniture and musical instruments.  For a few weeks.

As the month runs out, so, often, does the money.  Reacquiring their treasures costs more than actually buying them once and keeping them, but the cycle has been set into motion and will never stop.  They are trapped.  I’m not sure how the economical “safety net” worked in our Savior’s day, but even then, He spoke of the poor who are always with us.  The store proprietor in our tale understands that, even wondering sometimes if some of those “always with us” poor are assigned to one particular individual who will be their benefactor for years at a time.

The man who stood before him the other day was one such person.  Thirty-five years ago, they had begun their relationship with the same type of transaction as was being suggested now.  “I know it’s a little ratty, but if you’ll give me forty dollars for it, I’ll come and buy it back next month if it’s still here.”  The item in question is not merely in ratty condition; it is trashed.  Good for nothing except salvage, there is no investment value in it at all.  “Sorry,” comes the answer.  “There are already too many of those waiting to be parted out in the back room.”  The man looked at him with surprise.  A refusal?  This one was always a “soft touch”, not difficult like the pawnbrokers.  The store owner shook his head again and turned away.

Ten minutes later, the man was back.  Something in his manner was different.  “I really have to have some gas for my car.  I know you don’t want this thing, but is it worth fifteen dollars to you?  I don’t know what else to do.”  The businessman realized that this wasn’t a business proposition, it was a broken man needing help.  With a wink, he said, “Why don’t you keep it and I’ll just get you a little cash.  Between friends, right?”  It was a cinch that the item would be in the pawn shop by the end of the day anyway, but it didn’t matter.  With the plea from the man, the proprietor had also heard other words of the Savior, as He had said, “As much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to me,” and he realized that the opportunity had almost passed him by.

A friend of mine posted a picture online the other day that grabbed my attention and my heart.  The “shoes” on the feet of the man (or woman) in the photo were actually empty plastic bottles, flattened and laced with a twisted leather strap to make them into a thong of sorts.  The hopelessness of the person’s poverty needed no face.  Ten weathered and beaten toes, sitting on top of two pieces of “trash” said more than any words, any sad, empty eyes in a face could convey.  I was struck by the responses of others to the photo.  Most reacted with horror and compassion.  The one that impacted me the most though, was a man who angrily demanded to know what the shoe companies of the world were doing to take care of the problem, assuming that they had millions of dollars of ill-gotten profits at their disposal and asserting that it was their mess to clean up.  I am more saddened by his response than I am by the photo.

It is the response of many in our society…the “not my fault” argument.  His words said, “I feel bad for this person, but it is someone else’s responsibility to help–someone with a lot more money–someone who owes more to the poor than I.”  Where his argument falls down is that the latter part belies the former.  If it is not his responsibility, he doesn’t really feel bad for the person.  If we will not act to obey our consciences, they are of little use to us.  In a culture where the expectation is that an institution will shoulder the burden that should rightfully be our own, true charity is not present.  The “you” that the Teacher laid the burden on is not some nameless corporation, nor even a government bureaucracy, but the onus is laid squarely on the person being addressed.  I. Am. Responsible.

Once again, the preacher inside is begging to stand at the pulpit and pound it a bit, but he’s had enough time to get his message across.  The application will have to come in the hearts and minds of the readers.  Can I leave that task with you? 

We’ll all hope that at the end of next month, that shop keeper is better prepared and a little more aware of what is expected of him.  Perhaps, we’ll all be a little more ready to do our part. 

We won’t be doing it just for the one to whom we hand the cup of cool water.

“Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavily burdened and I will give you rest for your souls.”
(Matthew 11:28)

“The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet and essayist~1807-1882)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

“Your integrity is in question and will be monitored!”  Those were the words I read through a red haze a couple of nights ago.  I had come into my business to take care of some late night tasks before sitting down to write for awhile.  The email I found was from a customer who thought they had ordered a particular CD and had been charged for it, but that we had never sent it.  Normally, these questions are easy to clear up and the customer is served with respect and hopefully returns to purchase more items.  This time it didn’t look as if that would be the result.  The customer had added those nine fateful words as a postscript to the email.  You might say that I was not a happy camper.

I realize that to many of you, I seem to be mild-mannered and level-headed, but there are a few people who know differently.  I do, on occasion, come unglued.  On this evening I was furious.  This was the first time this customer had contacted us regarding their problem.  It would seem to make sense to assume that an error had occurred and to attempt to have it rectified, but they were actually questioning my integrity!  I was ready to fire off an equally offensive missive, but was drawn up short unexpectedly as I researched the issue.

I found that the customer had indeed placed and received an order, but that it had been for a different item than what was referenced in the email.  It was obviously an error on the customer’s part, but it was the title of the song they had actually ordered that drew my attention.  The song was a popular Christian title from a year or two ago entitled “7 X 70”.  Seeing the title was all it took to stay my hand from typing the angry words that this person deserved to hear from me.  Many of you will immediately understand why.

Peter, the Rock, came to his Teacher and asked, “How many times do I have to take flack from people and still forgive them before I can respond in kind?  What do you think?  Seven times?”  His Teacher responded, “No, not just seven times.  Put up with it and forgive them seventy times seven.”  The number, of course, was of no consequence.  The meaning was that forgiveness should be offered as many times as the offense was committed.  The hard man, Peter, wanted a finite number to be able to count to and then retaliate.  The Teacher needed him to understand the meaning of true grace and He made that number so high that no one would be able to keep track of when the limit was reached.

My customer had offended me once.  I wanted to retaliate.  At first.  The “7 X 70” in front of me was a slap in the face, waking me to my own offense.  I admit that I was shamed.  No.  I am ashamed.  I had indeed taken offense at this customer’s words, but not only that, I now see the way I act toward many people on a daily basis.  I assume the worst, when probably more often than not, a simple error has occurred, possibly even on my part.  It is the way of the world today, is it not?  Expect perfection and accept nothing less.  The person we trample to achieve that goal is of no consequence; only our own satisfaction matters.

Illustration by Vectorportal.com

By retaliating and refusing to forgive, we place ourselves in the offender’s power, chaining ourselves to them with a bond that can be broken by only one thing…forgiveness. Again and again, I hear people tell the stories of growing old and realizing that they have carried bitterness with them all the way from childhood into their senior years.  I love the reports of how they can gain freedom, though.  I have heard of people crossing the country to find an estranged friend, perhaps phoning a parent they have refused to talk with for many years, or even writing a letter to a stranger at whom they took offense.  The key, the one that unlocks the prison in which they have confined themselves or the one that releases the shackles they have placed on their own wrists and legs, is a tiny one.  That key is just three little words, albeit so very hard to say…“I forgive you.”

I don’t ever want to be held in such a prison. 

As I considered these things, my mind went back to the problem at hand and I started over again on my note to the customer.  I explained what had transpired, suggesting that they were mistaken about the title they requested.  I pointed out that as Christians, we had a responsibility to treat each other with respect and asked them to contact me again.  They did.  A short note of apology arrived the next day.  Our accounts are clear with each other.  There are no handcuffs, no chains, not even a scrap of rope with which to tie us.

Whew, what a relief!  I’m just wondering, though.  If we’re trying to keep count, is that one against them?  Or, one against me?  Oh well, 7 X 69 then.  I can live with it…

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”
(Lewis B Smedes~American author and Reformed theologian~1921-2002)

“…and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
(The Lord’s Prayer~from the Book of Common Prayer~based on Matthew 6:12)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

We had an argument at the dinner table today.  Well, not so much an argument, as a discussion…No…it was an argument.  I’m assuming that some of you will want to weigh in, so you can get your keyboards and smart phones ready to make your comments.  You see, we were arguing, strangely enough, about ice cream flavors.

I will admit to being no connoisseur of gourmet foods.  I am not a “foody” in any way.  I eat food.  Real food.  I’m not fooled by a little raspberry sauce drizzled around a dish so tiny you have to use the lowest section of your trifocals to find it on the plate.  Presentation has nothing to do with the meals I like.  Flavor and texture.  Those are the most important attributes I’m seeking in the materials that pass my lips.  For instance, corn on the cob, fresh from the garden, husked and boiled in water, with a little salt and butter added…now that’s real food.  Creamed corn?  Not at all!  While there may be a slight corn-like flavor to the recipe, the dreadful mushy, slimy dish resembles corn not at all.  A fresh tomato is good for any number of things.  Eaten by itself in wedges?  Sliced and laid atop a freshly grilled hamburger patty?  One of a few select ingredients in a plain dinner salad?  All wonderful conditions in which to consume the enigmatic fruit/vegetable.  Stewed and breaded?  I think the Valley Girl of the Seventies said it as delicately as I can put it–“Gag me with a spoon!”

You begin to see a pattern here, don’t you?  I like plain food.  The honest flavors and natural textures of foods are a treat to the palate and need very little embellishment.  I think I’m what used to be called a “meat and potatoes” man.  I’ll eat those other dishes when they are on the menu; even enjoy them at times.  But, for comfort food, for feeling that all is right with the world, I’ll have the fried chicken with mashed potatoes, thank you!  Sure, a little white gravy will go nicely on the potatoes, but not too much.  I want to taste the food I masticate.

Vanilla ice cream.  It’s what I prefer.  Actually, what I crave, since it’s not really supposed to be in my diet at all now.  If you’ll promise not to tell the Lovely Lady, I will admit to having a serving of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla just this evening.  I passed on it at dinner today.  But, it called my name for the rest of the day, so I answered.  Just a little.  Vanilla is an amazing flavor.  If you must know, that was the reason for the “discussion” at the dinner table.  One of our guests refused the offer of this food-of-the-gods after the meal, with one word, “Yuck!”  It was her contention that vanilla is plain, a non-flavor, if you will.  While there was a day I would have agreed with her assessment, I will readily confess that I have seen the error of my ways.  My sister-in-law (aided by her husband) creates an incredible home-made vanilla ice cream, the memory of which will make you want to spit out any Cookies and Cream you taste thereafter.  I have had Butter Pecan I thought was really good, but one spoonful of Aunt Jan’s homemade recipe drove away any fond thought of that plastic flavor which remained.

I have thought of this phenomenon numerous times, while consuming unseemly quantities of the fat-laden nectar.  I’m convinced that when we start to add flavors to the original, we begin a journey down a path that leads to all kinds of excess which make us forget what we loved in the first place.  A teaspoonful of chocolate syrup added today, turns into a couple of tablespoons the next time and before you know it, you’re consuming some substance unidentifiable as ice cream, with a name like Chocolate Chunky Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Nightmare, and wondering how you could have sunk so low.  (You may press “send” on those angry notes any time you are ready now…)

What’s my point, you ask?  As usual, I employ the ridiculous to illustrate the plain truth:  It is so simple to leave the path of clean, straightforward joys, mingling them with gaudy, overpowering extravagance, and before we know it, we no longer recognize the original product as real, as desirable. “Plain Vanilla” we call it, implying that it is somehow lacking.  The concept holds true throughout our culture.  Clean cut, wholesome young men and women are replaced by Hollywood with surgically enhanced and painted caricatures with attitude problems.  A criminal record is a plus, not an embarrassment.  If pets are important to you, it is no longer acceptable to just have a dog in the backyard, buying dry dog food at the local supermarket when they run out.  We must shop at stores which cater to the pet’s whims, offering amazingly expensive toys, clothes (yes, clothes!), and food.  Don’t leave that poor pooch alone at home all day!  Doggie Day Care is the only loving way to treat Fido in this culture!  Families who enjoy the simple pleasures of spending time together playing at the park are replaced with the Madison Avenue image of the family who spends together at the amusement park, while wearing costly mouse ears and hugging imaginary princesses who have no interest in returning the adoration.  Bigger, better, more flavor, more excitement…all these are desirable; while plain, clean, pure,and simple are pejoratives used to poke fun.  The add-ons eclipse the original, making it seem obsolescent and passe’.

I’ll have two scoops of Vanilla, please.  I’m fairly sure that great things are more often accomplished by just plain folks.  Heroes are more likely to be normal people with simple values than they are to be the fake, embellished stars on television.  Honest and responsible young adults are reared in the homes of honest and responsible parents.

On second thought, make that just one scoop.  (Watching my calories and fat intake, you see?)  Still Vanilla.  It’s an amazing flavor…

“‘White,’ Saruman sneered.  ‘It serves as but a beginning. The white cloth may be dyed, the white page may be overwritten, the white light may be broken.’  ‘In which case, it is no longer white,’ Gandalf answered.  “And, he who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.'”
(Lord of the Rings~J.R.R. Tolkien)

“‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free, 
’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…”
(Simple Gifts~Elder Joseph Bracket~American Shaker songwriter~1797-1882)

Originally posted 10/10/11

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

“Every mom aspires to be the World’s Greatest Mom, and by some crazy quirk of logic, most succeed.”*

In this week preceding the day some politician has randomly designated “Mother’s Day”, possibly driven by payoffs from the flower and greeting card lobbyists, our thoughts seem to go back in time to the days when our own mothers were the moving force in our lives.  The images that are depicted by said industries in their commercials and on their product are of sentimental and unrealistic scenes of domestic bliss.  The regal women in their pretend world are always perfectly coiffed and put-together, make-up applied professionally and coordinated designer clothing clinging wrinkle-free to a model’s body.  I sit here tonight and from nowhere in my dimmest memory, can I draw forth such a vision.

I remember a slightly overweight woman in mule slippers and an old terry-cloth robe, standing at the bottom of the stairs and yelling, “If you don’t get out of bed and down here right now, you’ll get no breakfast, AND you’ll miss your bus!”  The sack lunch we were given wasn’t filled with Lunchables or with Jiff peanut-butter (“Choosy mothers choose Jiff!”) and Smuckers jelly sandwiches (unless those were on sale that week), along with an apple and a note, but was more likely to have a potted meat sandwich (bargain bread with the soupy stuff smeared over it) and some slightly stale potato chips (from the 5 pound bargain package) tucked into a “baggie” inside.  By lunchtime, it would taste like a feast to the hungry urchin into whose hands it had been shoved as he ran to catch the bus.

You see, my Mom never was anything like a “Desperate Housewife” or one of the “Real Housewives of (fill-in-the-blank)”.  She was Mom…sometimes grumpy, sometimes doting…often harried, frequently docile, but always loving and teaching and pushing.  There was never a time when we didn’t know that she wanted the best for her children.  Oh, we didn’t always show her respect and she didn’t always have a quiet demeanor when dealing with us, but there was no doubt that she was on our side.

I learned to think on my feet from Mom, as we sat and argued for hours.  Truly, that trait of mine (the arguing) comes from her and not from my father, who hated arguments of any ilk.  But, I will always have the picture in my mind of Mom, as she stopped to think about a point her antagonist had just made.  She would purse her lips, then stretch them thin, tapping her cheek with a long finger, considering carefully what had been said.  Within seconds, the answer was on her tongue and the verbal joust would resume.  Even into her old age, she has been an able debater, leading some of her children to avoid delicate subjects, should she decide to challenge any random premise.  The skills of logic I learned in those encounters have served well in many situations.  The argumentativeness, I’ve had to work to control a bit more than I’d like to admit.

I could spend hours discussing her traits, good and bad.  The strident defense of her children when they were accused unfairly, the stubbornness of refusing to be bullied into paying fees for useless services, the tirades at us for our lack of initiative in housework…all of these and countless more, went into who the woman was and is, but only one more occurrence will I burden you with today.

I will admit that I was the strangest of her children and the hardest for her to understand.  I would cry at nothing, stomping up to my bedroom and sulking for hours over the least of slights.  I could work with tirelessness on a project that caught my fancy, but then would sit in indolence and procrastination when presented with a job which had to be accomplished, but in which I had no interest.  I remember one particular evening, when I had once again stormed up the stairs long before bedtime and lay sobbing on my bed.  As the time to be asleep passed and my tirade continued unabated, Mom called me downstairs.  At that time of night, it was an action which usually only meant that corporal punishment was imminent.  But, this time, she led me to her chair and, sitting down in it, set me on her lap and just held me.  I was eight, and hadn’t been in this position for a number of years, but it was comforting.  Kindly, she asked what was really bothering me.  I actually didn’t know, but the words just popped out, “I want a puppy!”  My Dad, sitting in his recliner across the room, snorted.  But, Mom just talked with me about the situation, explaining quietly and lovingly that the family dog would have to do for now, since there was no way possible that each of the five kids could have their own pet.  (We weren’t licensed to be a zoo…)  I didn’t really want a puppy; it was just the first thing that came into my head.  But, the loving and tender way that Mom responded was all I needed to calm down and stop crying.  Within a very short time, I was on my way to bed comforted and secure.  It was one of the few times that I dropped right off to sleep upon lying down.  A mother’s love can do that.

Do I have a point?  Just this…the fact that Mom didn’t fit a single one of the “ideal” requirements that makes up the perfect mother in the eyes of the rest of the world, had nothing to do with her ability to do the work that God had set in front of her.  She wasn’t a perfect person in any way, but she was exactly the mother that I needed to help me grow up into a man who could think for himself, learning to love another woman who would also be a “perfect” mother, and becoming a father who could love and teach and support his own children.

By writing this, I mean to honor, not only my own mother, who needed the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon to raise her brood, but I want to honor mothers everywhere who daily do the task in front of them.  It is largely a thankless job for 364 days of the year, but it does continue for every one of those monotonous and unexceptional days, in spite of the lack of notice on our part.  I hope you will take the time to let your mother know of your honor and love, and respect in a very real way, not only this weekend, but also upon every opportunity which presents itself on the other days of the year and indeed, for the rest of her life.

It will only be a partial payment of a debt which is owed her.

“If you have a mom, there is nowhere you are likely to go where a prayer has not already been.”
(Robert Brault~American writer)

“Her children stand and bless her…”
(Proverbs 31:28 NLT)

*Robert Brault, “A Robert Brault Reader”, May 5, 2012