Your Choice
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Your Choice" by Frank Ramirez
"The Trial" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * *
Your Choice
Frank Ramirez
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Romans 5:12-19
And the LORD God commanded the man, "You may freely eat of every tree of the garden...." (Genesis 2:16)
Yeah, Adam and Eve weren't allowed to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but they could eat everything else. Now ask yourself, why would you starve to death if there was perfectly good food to eat within your grasp? Why indeed?
In his book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail, the author Jared Diamond examines the choices made by different societies, and how these choices led to their demise or success. One of the most fascinating involves the Norse in Greenland.
Now the Norse, who we sometimes call the Vikings, had been very successful as they colonized spots in the British Isles and Iceland, but their formula for success did not work well in Greenland. The problem was they simply refused to learn.
Though the Norse were certainly used to cold climates, the island of Greenland is not only far to the north, but the environment was far more hostile than any they had previously encountered. Even so, they refused to make any changes to their lifestyle.
They brought animals like cows that needed to eat a lot of grass and wasted soil that could have been used for crops. They chose cattle in place of hardier species. Why? Because they always took cattle with them, wherever they went. They wouldn't change.
Moreover, when the cows ate the grass, erosion destroyed the precious earth needed for growing. Since the winter was long and the growing season was short, with no grass for the cows to eat during the long cold season, Norse farmers had to decide how many cattle to slaughter in the fall to be eaten, and gamble how many they could support on a diet of hay (also grown in soil that could have been used for crops). If they guessed wrong the cattle starved, froze, or otherwise perished, wasting further resources.
Of course the Norse needed protein, which the cattle provided, but the seas abounded with fish and seal. However, even though they were surrounded by plenty they didn't even try to eat fish.
Despite the fact that there were not a lot of trees in the first place, they insisted on using ships that required a lot of lumber, even though there were other technologies they could have copied. More on that later. The ships wore out because there was little timber to repair them, or to build new ones. Without the boats they could not trade with other lands for things they needed. They gradually grew out of touch with other Norse colonies.
The Norse insisted on wearing the clothing that served them in better climates. This even meant importing entirely inappropriate clothing from Europe so they could keep up with fashions on the continent.
I mentioned earlier there was an example they could have followed when it came to fishing and to building boats that would have required little lumber. Some time after the Old Norse moved into Greenland another group of people also moved there. They were called the Inuit. They were a native people who knew how to live in the cold. They didn't use much wood. They could make clothes from animal skins that kept them warm. They made special boats out of animal skins that did not need much wood, and they covered the top of their boats with animal skins that kept them dry. When it was too cold to catch animals on land for food they could catch fish because they had spears attached to lines so they never lost the spear. They knew how to live within the limitations of the environment, and how to get the most of what they had. They were very successful.
The Norse knew about the Inuit, but they would not copy what the Inuit were doing. They thought the Inuit were not as good as them. They would not ask him them for help. They made no attempt to have trade or any sort of relationship. Instead they tried to kill them off, because they were not the Norse. And eventually many of these Norse starved to death, and soon all of them were gone from Greenland. But the Inuit are still there.
In a way, the Norse were blind. Though they suffered from want and starvation, they were actually living in a land of plenty. They would not use the resources available to them, but insisted, perhaps like Adam and Eve, in making a choice that made no sense. They would not learn from others who they considered their inferiors. It's not much different now. And don't you think people in our time sometimes refuse to learn from others, who cling to the same old thing, no matter how ill suited such knowledge is for the task at hand. Jesus wants us respect all people and to learn from each other. Everyone has something to teach us. Everyone is loved by God.
(This story is taken in part from information from the book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail by Jared Diamond.)
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
The Trial
Craig Kelly
Psalm 32
Slowly, she lowered herself into the steel-framed chair. Even with the padding on the seat, back, and armrests, that chair always made her back feel sore after she would sit in it for extended periods. As she adjusted her position to make herself comfortable for what was sure to be another long day, she looked down at the vinyl-covered armrests. Pulling her hands back, she noticed that the end of each armrest was slightly discolored, its uniform grey taking on a yellowish tint.
A lot of sweaty palms have touched this chair, she thought. While on one level, she found this somewhat disgusting, she also thought it was rather understandable, given where she was. Her chair was in the front row behind the waist-high partition that marked off the viewing area in Courtroom 1, located on the second floor of the county courthouse. Right behind the prosecutor's desk.
Many other family members of victims had sat in that chair before her. That's a lot of sweaty palms anxiously awaiting verdicts. She quickly checked her own. Dry as a bone. She wouldn't be leaving any sweat stains behind.
On the contrary, she looked as placid as a statue. Stone cold. Through her ten-year-old daughter's disappearance, through finding her remains six months later, through the yearlong investigation that followed, through the arrest of Walter James Corbin, a 55-year-old factory worker, and through the trial that was now in its second week, she had refused to break down. After her husband died a year after her daughter's birth, she knew she had to be the strong one. Her daughter needed a strength as well as tenderness, and she had to take on both attributes herself. She had become so accustomed to being the strong one that it seemed only natural to be strong during this ordeal. Frankly, she was a little surprised at her own reaction. She knew it probably wasn't healthy to forego grieving. As soon as this trash gets what's coming to him, as soon as I hear that death sentence, I'll grieve, I'll celebrate, I'll do whatever. She just had to get through the trial first.
So there she sat, dressed as usual in a black, knee-length skirt, a matching blazer, and a burgundy blouse, the collar folded neatly over the lapels of her blazer -- poised, dignified, strong. Corbin had cut her deep; there was no way on God's green earth she was going to show it to him.
A few other spectators made their way into the courtroom, followed by the prosecution attorney. He was a short, bald man with a dark, bushy moustache that looked slightly too big for his face. While she didn't agree with his choices regarding facial hair, she had to admit he did a decent job as a prosecutor. He laid out the facts plainly and with confidence, conveying his belief to the jury that the facts should speak for themselves. Forensics, crime scene photos, witnesses who said they saw Corbin hanging out by her daughter's school that same week; it all made for a compelling case. As he made his way to his desk, he looked briefly her way, flashing a subdued, yet confident smile at her. At least she thought it was a smile. Hard telling what he was doing under all that hair.
Five minutes later, the defense attorney walked into the courtroom. She was young, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and judging by her height, she was probably the starting center for her college basketball team. She had to be past six feet, and her heels probably added another good inch or two to her stature. She was sure that this lawyer must be a career woman; there was no way any mother could be so good at defending this monster. She loathed admitting it, but she was doing a good job, countering the validity of the forensics and the eyewitness accounts. She very well could cast just enough doubt in one of the jurors to topple the guilty verdict.
No, no, she insisted to herself, pushing those fears down deep. He's guilty, and the jury will see right through her legal trickery. Despite herself, she had to smile a little as she looked at the defense attorney. She did not look happy. Something must have messed up her strategy.
Another five or ten minutes passed; she wasn't sure. She just wanted to get this over with and get that closer to hearing "Guilty." Finally, the prison guard entered, escorting the accused murderer to his position next to his lawyer. Every day of this trial, she thought to herself as he came in, This guy looks like he should be the lovable farmer from down the road who brings the fresh corn to the church social. He doesn't even resemble a child killer.
And yet, the more she saw him, the more evidence she heard, the more she despised him, this abomination who stole her daughter from her. She would not shed any tears when he got the needle. She watched him sit, despondent, the weight of what lay ahead of him clearly on his shoulders.
Soon the bailiff entered, taking his place by the judge's bench. "All rise," he ordered. Quietly, solemnly, everyone present rose to their feet as the bailiff introduced the presiding judge for the case, Judge Carleton A. Forbes, a 72-year-old judge who looked like he could have been Denzel Washington's older brother. The way he looked at that age made him reaching the century mark seem very plausible.
"Please be seated," he said, his voice calm and velvety smooth.
Everyone resumed their seats. Time to get back to work.
She readjusted herself in her uncomfortable chair as the defense attorney rose to address the court. The lawyer paused a moment, trying to find a way to soften the blow of what she was about to say. There wasn't one.
"Your Honor," she began, "my client would like to... to change his plea." She could tell that his attorney hated having to say that.
The lady in her seat and the prosecutor in front of her both had looks of shock on their faces. It was almost unprecedented for a defendant to change his plea in the middle of a criminal trial, especially one like this that could go either way.
The judge just sat there, his expression unchanged, as if he somehow anticipated this move. "Have you informed your client as to the possible ramifications of this decision?" he inquired.
The lawyer sighed. "Yes, your Honor," she replied, "at length. But he is insistent." She was going to lose, and the mother knew it.
Judge Forbes wrote something down on a legal pad in front of him, cool as a mountain lake. "Will the defendant please rise?"
Corbin slowly rose to his feet. The mother couldn't really get a good look at his face, only being able to see the right side, but he could have sworn there was a slight look of relief on it.
"How do you plead?"
Corbin took a deep breath. "Guilty, your Honor."
The word echoed in her ears over and over. Guilty. Her entire world went into a fog. She only caught bits and pieces of what was going on around her, words like "allocution" and "full declaration." She came back to reality when Corbin started talking again. Starting from the beginning, he gave a full account of everything that happened, leaving out no grisly detail. Ironically, between him and the mother, he was the one breaking out into tears as he spoke. She was still in "strong" mode. Finally, he turned to face her and said quietly, "I can never tell you how sorry I am for all the pain I caused you. I am not the same man today that did those horrible things to your daughter. I know nothing I say can bring her back to you, but all I can do is tell you that I'm sorry and beg your forgiveness."
Forgiveness? For him? Without a word, she rose and walked out of the courtroom. She didn't speak, she didn't think, she barely even breathed until she got home. Forgive him? Forgive HIM? finally came into her head. That single thought almost made her want to vomit.
She used to be all about forgiveness. When she and her husband and baby girl went to church every Sunday, when she would start every day reading the Bible and spending time in prayer, she was all about forgiveness. But now that she was alone, forgiveness was the last thing on her mind. And yet, here she was, with the monster who murdered her only child pleading for mercy from her.
She walked into her living room, dumbstruck, walking slowly to her couch where she plopped down the same way she used to throw down those big loads of laundry she used to do when she still had a family. She looked ahead at the coffee table, and on the far corner, on top of the neatly stacked pile of Times and Newsweeks, was her Bible. She hadn't read it in over a year, but it kept its place on her coffee table. Before she realized it, she had it in her hands. Feeling the bonded leather in her hands, her mind began to be filled with all those verses she used to read:
For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.
Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
Mercy triumphs over judgment.
Forgive, and you will be forgiven.
"NO!" she screamed, slamming her Bible repeatedly on the coffee table. "NO! NO! NO!" Tears of rage and pain streamed down her face, streaking her mascara into war paint. "I don't want to," she finally said through her sobs. "I don't want to, God."
Even as she protested, she could begin to feel life coming back into her. She let her strength subside, washing away through her tears. The statue that had sat in that steel-framed courtroom chair was beginning to melt.
Can I forgive him? I....
She looked down and noticed a black ribbon sticking out of the bottom of her Bible, marking a page almost halfway through. She slowly reached her trembling hand to take hold of it, opening the book to that place. The sobs quieting, she wiped away the war paint as she began to read:
Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven....
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 13, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Your Choice" by Frank Ramirez
"The Trial" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * *
Your Choice
Frank Ramirez
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Romans 5:12-19
And the LORD God commanded the man, "You may freely eat of every tree of the garden...." (Genesis 2:16)
Yeah, Adam and Eve weren't allowed to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but they could eat everything else. Now ask yourself, why would you starve to death if there was perfectly good food to eat within your grasp? Why indeed?
In his book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail, the author Jared Diamond examines the choices made by different societies, and how these choices led to their demise or success. One of the most fascinating involves the Norse in Greenland.
Now the Norse, who we sometimes call the Vikings, had been very successful as they colonized spots in the British Isles and Iceland, but their formula for success did not work well in Greenland. The problem was they simply refused to learn.
Though the Norse were certainly used to cold climates, the island of Greenland is not only far to the north, but the environment was far more hostile than any they had previously encountered. Even so, they refused to make any changes to their lifestyle.
They brought animals like cows that needed to eat a lot of grass and wasted soil that could have been used for crops. They chose cattle in place of hardier species. Why? Because they always took cattle with them, wherever they went. They wouldn't change.
Moreover, when the cows ate the grass, erosion destroyed the precious earth needed for growing. Since the winter was long and the growing season was short, with no grass for the cows to eat during the long cold season, Norse farmers had to decide how many cattle to slaughter in the fall to be eaten, and gamble how many they could support on a diet of hay (also grown in soil that could have been used for crops). If they guessed wrong the cattle starved, froze, or otherwise perished, wasting further resources.
Of course the Norse needed protein, which the cattle provided, but the seas abounded with fish and seal. However, even though they were surrounded by plenty they didn't even try to eat fish.
Despite the fact that there were not a lot of trees in the first place, they insisted on using ships that required a lot of lumber, even though there were other technologies they could have copied. More on that later. The ships wore out because there was little timber to repair them, or to build new ones. Without the boats they could not trade with other lands for things they needed. They gradually grew out of touch with other Norse colonies.
The Norse insisted on wearing the clothing that served them in better climates. This even meant importing entirely inappropriate clothing from Europe so they could keep up with fashions on the continent.
I mentioned earlier there was an example they could have followed when it came to fishing and to building boats that would have required little lumber. Some time after the Old Norse moved into Greenland another group of people also moved there. They were called the Inuit. They were a native people who knew how to live in the cold. They didn't use much wood. They could make clothes from animal skins that kept them warm. They made special boats out of animal skins that did not need much wood, and they covered the top of their boats with animal skins that kept them dry. When it was too cold to catch animals on land for food they could catch fish because they had spears attached to lines so they never lost the spear. They knew how to live within the limitations of the environment, and how to get the most of what they had. They were very successful.
The Norse knew about the Inuit, but they would not copy what the Inuit were doing. They thought the Inuit were not as good as them. They would not ask him them for help. They made no attempt to have trade or any sort of relationship. Instead they tried to kill them off, because they were not the Norse. And eventually many of these Norse starved to death, and soon all of them were gone from Greenland. But the Inuit are still there.
In a way, the Norse were blind. Though they suffered from want and starvation, they were actually living in a land of plenty. They would not use the resources available to them, but insisted, perhaps like Adam and Eve, in making a choice that made no sense. They would not learn from others who they considered their inferiors. It's not much different now. And don't you think people in our time sometimes refuse to learn from others, who cling to the same old thing, no matter how ill suited such knowledge is for the task at hand. Jesus wants us respect all people and to learn from each other. Everyone has something to teach us. Everyone is loved by God.
(This story is taken in part from information from the book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail by Jared Diamond.)
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
The Trial
Craig Kelly
Psalm 32
Slowly, she lowered herself into the steel-framed chair. Even with the padding on the seat, back, and armrests, that chair always made her back feel sore after she would sit in it for extended periods. As she adjusted her position to make herself comfortable for what was sure to be another long day, she looked down at the vinyl-covered armrests. Pulling her hands back, she noticed that the end of each armrest was slightly discolored, its uniform grey taking on a yellowish tint.
A lot of sweaty palms have touched this chair, she thought. While on one level, she found this somewhat disgusting, she also thought it was rather understandable, given where she was. Her chair was in the front row behind the waist-high partition that marked off the viewing area in Courtroom 1, located on the second floor of the county courthouse. Right behind the prosecutor's desk.
Many other family members of victims had sat in that chair before her. That's a lot of sweaty palms anxiously awaiting verdicts. She quickly checked her own. Dry as a bone. She wouldn't be leaving any sweat stains behind.
On the contrary, she looked as placid as a statue. Stone cold. Through her ten-year-old daughter's disappearance, through finding her remains six months later, through the yearlong investigation that followed, through the arrest of Walter James Corbin, a 55-year-old factory worker, and through the trial that was now in its second week, she had refused to break down. After her husband died a year after her daughter's birth, she knew she had to be the strong one. Her daughter needed a strength as well as tenderness, and she had to take on both attributes herself. She had become so accustomed to being the strong one that it seemed only natural to be strong during this ordeal. Frankly, she was a little surprised at her own reaction. She knew it probably wasn't healthy to forego grieving. As soon as this trash gets what's coming to him, as soon as I hear that death sentence, I'll grieve, I'll celebrate, I'll do whatever. She just had to get through the trial first.
So there she sat, dressed as usual in a black, knee-length skirt, a matching blazer, and a burgundy blouse, the collar folded neatly over the lapels of her blazer -- poised, dignified, strong. Corbin had cut her deep; there was no way on God's green earth she was going to show it to him.
A few other spectators made their way into the courtroom, followed by the prosecution attorney. He was a short, bald man with a dark, bushy moustache that looked slightly too big for his face. While she didn't agree with his choices regarding facial hair, she had to admit he did a decent job as a prosecutor. He laid out the facts plainly and with confidence, conveying his belief to the jury that the facts should speak for themselves. Forensics, crime scene photos, witnesses who said they saw Corbin hanging out by her daughter's school that same week; it all made for a compelling case. As he made his way to his desk, he looked briefly her way, flashing a subdued, yet confident smile at her. At least she thought it was a smile. Hard telling what he was doing under all that hair.
Five minutes later, the defense attorney walked into the courtroom. She was young, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and judging by her height, she was probably the starting center for her college basketball team. She had to be past six feet, and her heels probably added another good inch or two to her stature. She was sure that this lawyer must be a career woman; there was no way any mother could be so good at defending this monster. She loathed admitting it, but she was doing a good job, countering the validity of the forensics and the eyewitness accounts. She very well could cast just enough doubt in one of the jurors to topple the guilty verdict.
No, no, she insisted to herself, pushing those fears down deep. He's guilty, and the jury will see right through her legal trickery. Despite herself, she had to smile a little as she looked at the defense attorney. She did not look happy. Something must have messed up her strategy.
Another five or ten minutes passed; she wasn't sure. She just wanted to get this over with and get that closer to hearing "Guilty." Finally, the prison guard entered, escorting the accused murderer to his position next to his lawyer. Every day of this trial, she thought to herself as he came in, This guy looks like he should be the lovable farmer from down the road who brings the fresh corn to the church social. He doesn't even resemble a child killer.
And yet, the more she saw him, the more evidence she heard, the more she despised him, this abomination who stole her daughter from her. She would not shed any tears when he got the needle. She watched him sit, despondent, the weight of what lay ahead of him clearly on his shoulders.
Soon the bailiff entered, taking his place by the judge's bench. "All rise," he ordered. Quietly, solemnly, everyone present rose to their feet as the bailiff introduced the presiding judge for the case, Judge Carleton A. Forbes, a 72-year-old judge who looked like he could have been Denzel Washington's older brother. The way he looked at that age made him reaching the century mark seem very plausible.
"Please be seated," he said, his voice calm and velvety smooth.
Everyone resumed their seats. Time to get back to work.
She readjusted herself in her uncomfortable chair as the defense attorney rose to address the court. The lawyer paused a moment, trying to find a way to soften the blow of what she was about to say. There wasn't one.
"Your Honor," she began, "my client would like to... to change his plea." She could tell that his attorney hated having to say that.
The lady in her seat and the prosecutor in front of her both had looks of shock on their faces. It was almost unprecedented for a defendant to change his plea in the middle of a criminal trial, especially one like this that could go either way.
The judge just sat there, his expression unchanged, as if he somehow anticipated this move. "Have you informed your client as to the possible ramifications of this decision?" he inquired.
The lawyer sighed. "Yes, your Honor," she replied, "at length. But he is insistent." She was going to lose, and the mother knew it.
Judge Forbes wrote something down on a legal pad in front of him, cool as a mountain lake. "Will the defendant please rise?"
Corbin slowly rose to his feet. The mother couldn't really get a good look at his face, only being able to see the right side, but he could have sworn there was a slight look of relief on it.
"How do you plead?"
Corbin took a deep breath. "Guilty, your Honor."
The word echoed in her ears over and over. Guilty. Her entire world went into a fog. She only caught bits and pieces of what was going on around her, words like "allocution" and "full declaration." She came back to reality when Corbin started talking again. Starting from the beginning, he gave a full account of everything that happened, leaving out no grisly detail. Ironically, between him and the mother, he was the one breaking out into tears as he spoke. She was still in "strong" mode. Finally, he turned to face her and said quietly, "I can never tell you how sorry I am for all the pain I caused you. I am not the same man today that did those horrible things to your daughter. I know nothing I say can bring her back to you, but all I can do is tell you that I'm sorry and beg your forgiveness."
Forgiveness? For him? Without a word, she rose and walked out of the courtroom. She didn't speak, she didn't think, she barely even breathed until she got home. Forgive him? Forgive HIM? finally came into her head. That single thought almost made her want to vomit.
She used to be all about forgiveness. When she and her husband and baby girl went to church every Sunday, when she would start every day reading the Bible and spending time in prayer, she was all about forgiveness. But now that she was alone, forgiveness was the last thing on her mind. And yet, here she was, with the monster who murdered her only child pleading for mercy from her.
She walked into her living room, dumbstruck, walking slowly to her couch where she plopped down the same way she used to throw down those big loads of laundry she used to do when she still had a family. She looked ahead at the coffee table, and on the far corner, on top of the neatly stacked pile of Times and Newsweeks, was her Bible. She hadn't read it in over a year, but it kept its place on her coffee table. Before she realized it, she had it in her hands. Feeling the bonded leather in her hands, her mind began to be filled with all those verses she used to read:
For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.
Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
Mercy triumphs over judgment.
Forgive, and you will be forgiven.
"NO!" she screamed, slamming her Bible repeatedly on the coffee table. "NO! NO! NO!" Tears of rage and pain streamed down her face, streaking her mascara into war paint. "I don't want to," she finally said through her sobs. "I don't want to, God."
Even as she protested, she could begin to feel life coming back into her. She let her strength subside, washing away through her tears. The statue that had sat in that steel-framed courtroom chair was beginning to melt.
Can I forgive him? I....
She looked down and noticed a black ribbon sticking out of the bottom of her Bible, marking a page almost halfway through. She slowly reached her trembling hand to take hold of it, opening the book to that place. The sobs quieting, she wiped away the war paint as she began to read:
Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven....
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 13, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
