A Mother's Love

Our Heavenly Father created man and woman as a pair to populate Planet Earth—new creatures with the ability and honor of procreating children in their image as they were created in God’s own image. The three were essential: God, man, and woman. 

Our nation has set aside Mother’s Day to be celebrated this month. Surely, we should honor mothers everyday and abhor the abuses we often see. 

This picture was taken Thursday night at Grover Beach. It exemplifies several golden qualities I see in ideal mothers: Mothers are not afraid to get their feet wet in raising their children. They often lead but are always supportive, right behind their children. They take them safely through troubled waters to safe shores. Daughters reflect the image of Mom. They often look, act, and think like her. Once a mother, always a mother. The sun may rise and set, but a mother’s love is 24/7.  

She is the source of life at birth, the provider of food for growth and food for thought. A mother’s milk is symbolic of Jesus—our everything, all that we need, our Alpha and Omega. Mothers crystallize the gentle, caring, and nurturing qualities of the godhead: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

I love the story of Adam opening his eyes and seeing Eve for the first time. “Wow. Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.” They were made for each other. That wow sound has echoed in my head since I was a little boy. I have been blessed to have such positive female relationships in my life. 

I count twelve mothers, or potential mothers, in my core family: two grandmothers, one mother, one mother-in-law, one wife, one daughter, two daughters-in-law, and four granddaughters. That’s a perfect dozen who have discipled me. 

It pains me to think of the unequal status of women, spousal abuse by males (notice I didn’t say men), insults, put-downs, and treatment of women and girls as chattel. Stand up for the right. Stand strong. Contribute what you can in your unique way. Happy Mother’s Day. 

—Larry Smith

Mother, May I?

“Then he said to the disciple,
’Behold, your mother!’”

— Jesus, in John 19:27

When I was a child, Mom (Marise) and I would race to the backyard wall and back. The races faithfully followed one format. I sprinted to an early lead—for I was fast—touched the wall, turned around, and the race was lost. Because there, approaching the wall, was my mother, puffing and giggling and making all the motions that in others accompany speed.
I knew I was doomed if I looked at her, but I couldn’t help myself. Gleeful incredulity grabbed me so that I’d double over laughing, struggling for breath, morphed to stone by a modern Medusa. Mom passed me on the stretch every time. The moral stands somewhere between the tale of the tortoise and the hare and the experience of Lot’s wife.
However, don’t get the idea that Mom herself couldn’t be fazed. She didn’t come by her family nickname, The Great Inhaler, for nothing. For instance, you would never steer close to another car if Mom were a passenger. Minutes later, when you could again draw breath, you’d wish you had actually hit the car. Less trauma on the lungs.
Her best inhale took place the time I came home from college in San Luis Obispo to Ontario, a four-hour drive. I had set up ahead of time with my brother, Bruce, so that Mom was in her bedroom when I sneaked into the house. Before mobile phones existed, I knew a telephone number whereby one could ring one’s own house, so I placed a handkerchief over the mouthpiece (for that faraway sound) and called from the kitchen. Mom picked up the phone in the bedroom and we talked for fifteen minutes, or until the phone bill might be running high. Then we said goodbye, hung up, and I waited.
Enter Mom. Oh, what an inhale! Windows buckled. Curtains flapped wildly. All the air was sucked out of my body. Airplanes soaring overhead lost altitude. Pilots would blame it on “turbulence” but we knew it was Mom.
At 53, Mom really took to running. She began training, entered 6K races (about four miles), and worked up to running a half-marathon at age 57. Mind you, she wasn’t any faster than when we raced to the wall. She wore a tee shirt with a picture of jogging turtles above the words, “Start slow, and then ease off!” But she kept at it, working out every day. In the 5K Turkey Trot held in Dana Point, California, in her eighties Mom took first place in her division five years in a row.
Maybe running is in my mother’s blood. Growing up in Greensburg, Kansas, whenever she spotted black clouds boiling in the distance she ran home before the fine dust stung her legs and arms. At her home it seeped through cracks and covered the kitchen linoleum until she couldn’t see the pattern. In the middle of the dust bowl in the depths of the Great Depression “dust pneumonia” whistled through Kansan shuttered houses. At night, her family slept with wet cloths draped across their faces.
In 1936, her father experienced severe abdominal pain. Before antibiotics and sulfa drugs, he lay for a week in the veterans’ hospital, waiting for a surgeon. By the time they opened him up he was filled with gangrene. His appendix had burst. He died there, leaving his 35-year-old wife with no income and five children, ages 3 to 11. They had to be shipped off to relatives in other states for a year until my grandmother found a job at the post office and the children could come home. They returned with stories of sleeping in barns as the mice scurried about.
As much as she ran, my mother couldn’t avoid the sting of losing her father and then, decades later, her husband, my father, to lymphoma. After he said No to dialysis, our family gathered around his bed and talked and laughed and watched him die.
“Are you okay, Jim?” Mom would ask. He wasn’t, of course, and would never be again in this life. Whether he grunted or smiled weakly or closed his eyes in resignation, she remained close by, tending to his every need.
After Dad died, Mom started running in a different way. When people came to visit her, they rarely found her at home. She might be at aerobics class (at 60, she became a certified instructor), or wandering through a museum, or substitute teaching, or playing piano at various events (she’s a superb pianist), or swing dancing (she became a professional dancer at 67) or, much later, organizing laughter-filled Scrabble games with people half her age at a nearby coffee shop, and she often won. (They all cheated like mad.)
She figured she had spent enough of her life at home raising four kids—those other three were a handful—so she ran around visiting friends and relatives from California to Finland, Mexico to Alaska.
These days, my mother is 95, and she cannot run at all. She cannot leave her room in Dana Point. She cannot dance or wander or walk on the beach. She remains immensely vulnerable to the pandemic virus.
But she still laughs, and she still makes me laugh. Last night, I got her to sing “Moon River” “Sunrise, Sunset,” and “Straighten Up and Fly Right.“ We sang together, even though neither of us knew all the words. Recently, via Netflix, I hooked her up with Mr. Bean episodes (she loves Mr. Bean), “One Planet,” and Michelle Obama’s documentary “Becoming.” Her marvelous 24/7 caregiver, Donna, calls her “Queenie” and loves her like her own grandmother.
Whenever I call my mother, she asks many times during the conversation, “When are you coming to see us?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said last night. “Yolanda and I were going to come down in March. We don’t know when we’ll be able to visit you. “ I don’t really know when I’ll see her again.
Sometimes we Facetime, and sometimes her grandchildren and great-grandchildren Facetime with her, but naturally it’s not the same as visiting face-to-face.
It’s not the same as racing to the wall and back.
So I’ll leave with this thought: I love you, Mom. Thanks for giving me life and love
and laughter. Thanks for your courage. Thanks for your care. Thanks for being who you are.
I hope to visit you soon.

—Chris Blake

A Break for the Broken

We are social creatures. Shelter in place, social distancing, physical distancing, isolation, quarantine, solitary confinement, go to your room, prison--these are situations that challenge our sanity and torture us. Freedom never looks as good as when we lose it.

We are in challenging times. This is not normal though parts of it may become the new normal. We see the society we knew tearing apart at the seams: You can’t have an acceptable wedding, and you can’t respectably bury the dead. Can you imagine what a life sentence or a death decree would be like? Maybe you’ve been there.

I love Matthew’s recollection of Jesus' describing what it will be like when the Son of Man comes in His glory, separating and gathering His sheep to the right. At last, they are safely home, and He commends them for choosing to be welcoming friends, give food and water to the hungry and clothes to the naked, visit those who were sick and the prisoners--those who needed a break. That’s what it’s like to be on the right side, which ironically sounds quite liberal! 

Jesus tells us, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (‭‭Matthew 11:28-29).

Today, we can be the “me” in Jesus' s invitation. We can care and share. We can creatively give the broken a break, which, in turn, will free us all. This joy will never end. Everyone who is thirsty and receives will be forever filled with living water. RSVP!

—Larry Smith

Light Carrying

“IF ANY WANT TO BECOME MY FOLLOWERS,
LET THEM DENY THEMSELVES AND TAKE UP
THEIR CROSS DAILY AND FOLLOW ME.’”

— JESUS, IN LUKE 9:23

---

“COME TO ME, ALL WHO LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN,
AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.
TAKE MY YOKE UPON YOU, AND LEARN FROM ME;
FOR I AM GENTLE AND LOWLY IN HEART,
AND YOU WILL FIND REST FOR YOUR SOULS.
FOR MY YOKE IS EASY, AND MY BURDEN IS LIGHT.”

— JESUS, IN MATTHEW 11:28-30

---

Betrayed
bound
forsaken
rushed
accused questioned cursed slapped spat upon punched
taunted dragged ridiculed lashed humiliated condemned
You staggered
blindly under
the great weight
of splintered beam
slamming to
dust mingled
red with agony
and no one
to help.
O my Lord,
that I
could have
carried
Your cross.
Jesus, I
couldn’t then.
I can now.

By Chris Blake

Palisades Bluff Walkway

This picture was taken recently at Beachcomber Park, one of my favorite spots along the Palisades Bluff Walkway. It has everything. The views in every direction are inspiring. The grassy lawn and flowing walkways engender peace and security. You can walk to the edge of the bluff and peer down at the contrasting rocky shore below. You can access the beach below by a nice stairway where you drop into a whole new world of tide pools and incredible shore beauty. As I hear the sounds of the crashing waves, my acrophobia elicits mixed emotions of fear and peace. 

One of the features that always stirs up my emotions is the palm trees arranged in groups of threes. I’ve photographed them at many angles over the years. Landscape designers often recommend plantings in groups of odd numbers:  3,5,7, etc. Could my attraction to these groups of three trees be due to more than their ability to catch my eye?

Wonderful and important trees have been highlighted in the Bible. In Genesis 2:9, we note that “...out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” Here, we see a fantastic garden design of beauty and goodness surrounding a central feature of two contrasting trees. Instructions on horticulture and free choice were given by the Creator to His created companions. 

If we look at the end of the story in Revelation 22:2, we find another tree of life: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” 

There’s a grouping of three trees in the middle of the Bible story that is the heart of everything: the story of Calvary.  “And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do”‭‭ (Luke‬ ‭23:33-34‬).

I really enjoy the Palisades Bluff Walkway. I look forward to walking down the street where the tree of life spans “a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb” (Revelation‬ ‭22:1).‬ Now that’s a walkway!

—Larry Smith

Why Hindsight's 20/20

Let's Go Fishing

Last week, I ventured out of my warm bed in the dark to check out the sunrise at Port Harford. The atmosphere was cold, damp, and windy with a swirl of exhaust in the air. Sitting in my car at the parking lot, I noticed a line of brave souls waiting to launch their boats. I imagined the excitement dancing in their heads as they anticipated the successful challenge they would face and the big fish, or fish story, they would take home. I was amazed at their motivation and tenacity. I’m not a fisherman; I feed the fish more than they feed me. I’m happy to fish with my eyes from shore and my feet firmly on the ground. 

I was reminded of the story of the discouraged Peter and his fellow fishermen-turned-disciples after Jesus died on the cross. It had been a rush of emotions and a blur of activities: Was he—is he—dead?  He’s alive!  He’s here!  He’s gone!  What’s up? Fishing had its challenges, but it gave the disciples a living. They could feel it, smell it, and hear it. Being a disciple was very different. It touched their hearts, souls, and minds. It was big on ideas and miracles, but it had evaporated like the morning fog. 

“What should we do? Let’s go back to fishing.”  

Peter, son of Jonas, must have been the ring leader in getting a majority to go for it. Their lack of success that night must have deepened their discouragement. They must have thought, How are we going to eat, pay our bills, and repair our reputation? 

Then, someone called out from shore with a question and strange advice. “Cast your nets on the other side.” 

“What does this stranger know about fishing?” 

“What have we got to lose, Peter? Let’s try it.” 

“Oh my God! Bingo!” 

Their focus narrows in on bringing in the catch, grabbing the fish escaping from the nets. John then tells Peter it’s the Lord. All attention is  riveted on the One they thought they knew so well as Peter puts his clothes on, jumps in and swims to shore. He’s probably remembering the time he walked on water. Their Master had breakfast ready—their favorite and most common dish, fish and bread. 

The recorded conversation between Jesus and Peter, the one who had denied Him three times in rapid succession, is so powerful. 

“Peter, do you love me more than these?”  

“What a silly question! You know I love you most.  You’ve done so much for me...all of us.” 

“Feed my lambs.” 

“Okay.” 

“Do you love me?” 

“Without question.” 

“Feed my sheep.”  

“Peter, the question is, do you love me?” 

“I get it...finally! I gave the cowardly answer three times the other cold night around that warm fire. Yes, I love you more than life itself. I will become your shepherd and feed your flock. Thank you for giving me a second chance.” 

“Peter, remember, we are best friends forever. I will always welcome you no matter what.” 

I picture a big, manly embrace and a long hold. 

Peter was given a choice of careers. The first recruitment invitation was to be a Master Fisherman of men. The last request was to be a Master Shepherd of youth and adults. Our call is to be kindergarten teachers, builders, tax collectors, doctors, lawyers, seamstresses, cooks—using any of the gifts we enjoy—but we must always be masters at our posts. Note the two opposing arrows on the parking lot asphalt in the picture above. We are given choices; that’s the way of freedom and love. “Choose ye this day.”

—Larry Smith

A Word from our Local Government . . .

Remember When? Part 5

The members of the SLO Adventist church in the 40s and 50s were a diverse collection of individuals who reflected the population of the town itself. They were satisfied to worship in a building that would never be confused with a European cathedral. There were no stained-glass windows, folding chairs took the place of pews, bare wooden floors, no PA, no raised speaker’s platform, no artwork, an old up-right piano that was somewhat in tune, no side rooms where the worship participants met prior to the service,
no bulletin, no church office or telephone. To visit the restrooms necessitating going outside, a walk to the appropriate door and a hope it was not raining. The “church” half of the building was on the West end, toward Broad Street. It was a rectangular room with one door on the Orcutt Rd side. The children’s classes met in the school room on the East end of the building.

The “sanctuary” served as multi-purpose room. On occasion someone would obtain a 16 mm movie. Tom Evens, who lived in Paso Robles with Ester, his wife, owned a camera store in Paso. It was he who brought the 16 mm sound projector and probably the movie. The only movie I recall seeing was produced by Shell Oil Company that demonstrated the safety of the trucks that transported gasoline. One scene was of the tanker turned over with fire burning round it to demonstrate that even in a crash the tanker would not
explode.
A popular church activity was the Singspiration. This event usually brought together people from surrounding congregations. The group rented what was then the Grange Hall, now Guild Hall, on Broad St. The Singspiration was what the name states—people came together Sabbath afternoon to end the Sabbath by singing hymns. After sundown, other activities began: games, a grand march, much talking and catching up on area news.

The event was opportunity for us kids to run around and get to know the kids from other churches. My right hand carriers a permanent reminder of one event: when we were outside running about someone decided it would be fun to pull one another through the grass. When it came my turn, a couple guys grabbed my feet and we began the ride. My right arm was flopping around when I felt a sharp pain. My hand hit a broken piece of glass. I ran to my parents who trundled me over to where Dr. Elvin Wical sat enjoying a conversation. He took a look and we headed to his office, located in the house on the NW corner of Buchon and Osos that served as his office and family home. A few ccs of novocaine, a row of stitches, and back to the Singspiration. I heard my dad complain to someone that the bill was $12.00.

It was a simpler time back then, not that the people were simple, they weren’t. In that time movie theaters were off limits. Television had not yet arrived to the Central Coast and San Luis was a sleepy, rustic community; a place where we kids could ride our bikes to school or to down-town without fear.

—Larry Downing

Crucial Impossibility

Try me in a kangaroo court - and I still will love you.

Beat me to within an inch of my life -  and I still will love you.

Press a crown of thorns down into my scalp - and I still will love you.

Spit in my face - and I still will love you.

Forsake me, betray me - and I still will love you.

Nail me to the cross naked - and I still will love you.

Break my heart - and I still will love you.

Nothing you can do will make me not love you, 

You cannot get beyond my love for you. 

—Smuts van Rooyen

Peak Time

I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve lived a full life and try to make sense out of what I see and experience.  Life cycles through ups and downs, pleasures and pains, stops and goes, ins and outs, hot and cold, news and reviews. This is good and normal. If we’re not cycling, we’re dying or dead. It’s a good thing to remember the peak events of pleasure and anticipate their recurrence. It’s also wise to learn from the low points as we develop a beautiful patina of character—eye-popping goodness.

Dramatic landscape photography often includes abrupt changes in scenery: peaks and valleys, sharp edges and fuzzy fog, sunrises and sunsets, blacks and whites, leading lines and open spaces. In the photograph above, your eye is drawn to the backlit peak. You hardly notice the foreground fence or the distant hills. It takes effort and concentration to notice the details. That’s how we are made.

Our spiritual life is a lot like that. We religiously climb heavenly pursuits. We cry out for a partner in the deep, shadowy valleys of death. We puzzle over contradictions and questionable beliefs. Then, we cycle back to the solid rock knowing that Jesus loves us. We climb the hill to the foot of the cross, fall down, and grasp the feet of a crucified Lord as he lifts us up to be with him in his kingdom today and forevermore. That, my friends, is the ultimate climb to a peak experience. It is more than a lick-and-a-promise. It’s just as real as this pictured peak. See you there. Let’s gladly leave our masks behind and openly live in the light of the Lamb.

Front Row

I positioned myself at Beachcomber Park last week to capture the sunset, purposely leaving a vacant bench in front of me. I was hoping to see someone take the front-row seat so I could include a human element in the photograph. 

Several people approached but didn’t take the seat for fear of interfering with my work even though I told them it was okay. I encouraged them to take a seat. Finally, one family of four and a dog boldly made their way forward and sat down. I doubt they even noticed me. They were happy. I was delighted. 

I notice the back rows of our church seem to fill as quickly as the front rows . . . maybe faster. Occasionally, a speaker will suggest folks in the back move forward into the empty seats. I’ve often questioned the motive of that move. Let’s see how the new physical distancing practices will affect our seating arrangements. 

I love the stories of those who clamored to find Jesus and be near to him: Mary ignoring social protocol and anointing Jesus’s feet with an aromatic potion that was sure to expose her; the woman with the chronic bleeding struggling just to touch him; the paralytic who had friends literally blow the roof off a building, letting him down so he could get up—and walk; Zacchaeus climbing a tree to take a look. The stories are numerous. 

Could we include our story? How close do we like to get? What is the first thing we think about in the morning—other than our mate, of course, or our aching back. Are we front-rowers? 

Here is a gentle, peaceful hymn that now fills my soul. Sing it with me, or hum if you’d rather . . . in social connectedness and physical distancing. 

Near to the Heart of God (Hymn 681)

There is a place of quiet rest,
Near to the heart of God;
A place where sin cannot molest,
Near to the heart of God.
O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
Sent from the heart of God;
Hold us, who wait before Thee,
Near to the heart of God.
There is a place of comfort sweet,
Near to the heart of God;
A place where we our Savior meet,
Near to the heart of God.
O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
Sent from the heart of God;
Hold us, who wait before Thee,
Near to the heart of God.
There is a place of full release,
Near to the heart of God;
A place where all is joy and peace,
Near to the heart of God.
O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
Sent from the heart of God;
Hold us, who wait before Thee,
Near to the heart of God.

—Larry Smith

Warm and Fuzzy

I was taking photos this week with my recently recovered pet Sony on a cold and windy evening, when this stray cat climbed up on the bench and posed for me. It took him ( guessing gender) awhile to warm up to me, but finally allowed me to run my fingers through its warm and fuzzy coat. 

My closer warm, fuzzy friends, wife and dog, were patiently waiting for me in the car. Driving home and thawing out, I’m thinking about the really important things in my life. Yes, I enjoy the hobby of photography, but I love being a hubby and pet master. The warm, fuzzy thoughts, emotions and flesh are where I like to hang out. “Some friends don't help, but a true friend is closer than your own family.” Proverbs‬ ‭18:24‬ ‭CEV‬‬

God is a great designer, maker and director. He had a plan that didn’t include physical distancing . . . or did he? We are now in an emergency situation, with COVID-19 and living in a fallen world. I’m looking forward to getting back to hugging, giving high 5’s, socializing within the six foot zone. I’m also looking forward to walking with God and you in the early morning hours in a renewed garden called, New Earth. Let’s also join on a dance floor called, The Sea of Glass.

Oh man . . . and wo-man! I can hardly wait! Okay. Let’s warm up now with warm and fuzzy words and sounds on Zoom. We’ll add the sweet aroma, sense of touch and clear vision without fuzzy, jumpy screens soon. I’ll echo John’s final words in his revealing of Jesus Christ. “The one who has spoken these things says, “I am coming soon!” So, Lord Jesus, please come soon! I pray that the Lord Jesus will be kind to all of you” Revelation‬ ‭22:20-21‬.

—Larry Smith

Out on a Limb

One afternoon three weeks ago,  I accidentally left my go-to Sony A7-III on a bench by the Bob Jones Trail. The following morning, after discovering the error of my ways, I said a prayer, crossed my fingers, and returned to see if was still there. Nope. Gone.

I checked multiple places; placed lost-and-found ads on Nextdoor, Craigslist, and Facebook; checked with the sheriff; alerted my friends; and we all did a lot of praying. My daughter searched like a bloodhound in every nook and cranny. Nothing. I tucked my glimmer of hope in the back of my mind, adjusting to the fact that my camera was only a material thing, trusting that God knew all about it...I didn’t. So, I left the issue with him and tried to find some good in it all, putting a retired Canon and iPhone to use. Time to move on. 

Then, I got a couple of leads with a phone number, which I called.  No answer, so I left a message. I eventually got a returned call from a woman named Jennifer, telling me she had found a camera in the area of my loss. She wisely interrogated me for details about the camera. I passed where others had failed. Thank God for Jen, and my posse of friends! Sunday, I was reunited with the camera that had become an extension of my arm. It is a part of me. I can change the settings by feel in the dark, and it responds. 

Stories like these have rich details that get left behind, but the main points glow: The nectar of life is found beyond material things. Gain can come from loss. A network of friends is stronger than a spider web. Do your best; then, give it to God. He still answers prayers. Be patient, and trust. Making mistakes doesn’t mean you’re stupid...necessarily. :-) Make sure you’re grounded, and know you’re a child of God, especially when you’re out on a limb.

—Larry Smith

Happy 50th Birthday, Earth Day!

“For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God . . . that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”

— Romans 8:19, 21, NRSV

By Chris Blake

April 22, 1970.
On a drowsy-warm Wednesday afternoon, I sat in a Cal Poly SLO literature class with about ten other students. Outside we could hear a megaphoned voice exhorting people to do something—though I couldn’t quite hear what. With the Vietnam War still raging and the women’s movement emerging and the voting age lowering from 21 to 18 and more than a million people in Biafra dying from starvation and US Postal workers striking for two weeks and the Winter Olympics competing and nuclear testing in Nevada/USSR and an earthquake destroying 254 villages in Turkey and Apollo 13 not landing on the moon and Northern Ireland Catholics and Protestants killing each other and The Beatles officially breaking up,
people were doing lots of exhorting in those days. (All of these took place within the previous month.)
The professor sat up front in a rumpled shirt on the edge of a desk and droned on for a few minutes until he looked at us and said, sort of exasperated, “Why aren’t you all out there? This is Earth Day.”
Hey, buddy, I thought, why aren’t you out there? Walk the talk and cancel this miserable class. He continued lecturing.
I also clearly remember thinking, It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing really matters.

* * *

April 24, 1976.
Here I am, attending this small Seventh-day Adventist church in San Luis Obispo on the corner of Osos and Pacific streets. I had returned the previous month from four weeks in Guatemala, where I tasted the flavors and sufferings of a foreign culture. In two months, I will be baptized (along with Julie Smith) into a new life purpose and trajectory. In three months, I will marry my high school sweetheart, Yolanda Cervantes, to begin our new life together.
The previous year, even before becoming a follower of Jesus, I had become a vegetarian for four reasons: 1) Curbing starvation. We can feed ten times as many people on a plant-based diet as on an omnivorous diet. 2) Healing the environment. According to ecological experts, becoming a vegetarian is the best thing one can do to help our environment. 3) Living healthfully. Not my first reason, but an important one nonetheless. 4) Treating animals with respect. Jesus certainly ate fish, but the fish weren’t caged, shot up with chemicals, and killed without ever seeing the sky, as is the case with some veal and poultry.
I learned at this community of Sabbath keepers that the Sabbath liberates people, and the planet as well. At the opening of Genesis, when Sabbath first appears, God’s children are called to be caretakers of the earth “to till it and keep it” (2:15). Later, in Leviticus, God institutes a sabbath for the land: “Six years you shall sow your field, and six years you shall prune your vineyard, and gather in its fruits; but in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of solemn rest for the land, a sabbath to the Lord; you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard” (25:3, 4).
Niels-Erik Andreason observes, “Every week on the Sabbath, as we contemplate God’s created works, we do not turn away from the real material world, but toward it. We affirm this as our God-given environment, where life is nurtured, sustained, provided for, and made secure.”
Moreover, I learned that after the Second Advent our final destination is not heaven but this earth made new, a place where we plant grapes, strawberries, pineapples, and mangoes (and succulent fruits we’ve never before tasted). We don’t leave this planet and go home to heaven; we leave heaven and come home here to this blue-marbled sphere (see Rev. 21:1-5).
I began to understand why environmentalism is especially important to Christianity. And why, in Revelation 11:18, God is described as “destroying the destroyers of the earth.”
How we treat this planet is how we’ll treat our home forever. Everything matters. The New Earth is second nature to us. As caretakers for the creation again, will we trash New Earth, brazenly wasting and poisoning resources? If not, then we must not trash this earth either. Our eternal home is beneath our feet.

* * *

April 22, 2020.
The previous Sabbath, I planned to preach a sermon entitled, “Why Christians Should Be Better Environmentalists” in this small Seventh-day Adventist church in San Luis Obispo on the corner of Osos and Pacific streets.
But something came up. And over. And around. And through.
So here we are, complying with a “shelter in place” edict, leaving our houses only for “essential” services or activities, shutting vast sectors of our society, breathing with masks and ventilators, enduring food and cleaning supplies shortages and “flattening the curve” and compulsively washing hands and watching the death toll rise and daily “briefings” from the White House and not congregating or hugging or visiting the vulnerable. All of this took place within the previous month.
Some Good News (as John Krasinski calls it) at this moment in our planet’s history is our planet is now set free to breathe better, with air pollution levels not seen in decades. Sea turtles are thriving as nesting areas on beaches are clear. Deforestation has slowed, along with water pollution. Inhale . . . exhale . . . inhale . . . exhale . . .
It shouldn’t take a coronacrisis to make us take care of our home. And we’ve known the essential value of this caregiving for much longer than 50 years.
God, thank You for our intricate and astonishingly beautiful biosphere. Enable us as Your creatures to learn lessons of sustainability and balance and shared joy. Help us to always walk the talk. We desire to peacefully love and pray, not to prey, in and by Jesus’ liberating and life-nourishing Spirit.
Amen.

PS: Yesterday was John Muir’s birthday. Bountiful birth anniversary, you old conservationist!

The Rock

I was moved to take this capture of Morro Rock recently, being impressed with the cloud shapes over it. They resemble Morro Rock in some ways, but I know clouds don’t fly. Morro Rock is one of the Nine Sisters, or Morros, unique to our county. Here is a list of them:

1. Morro Rock 576 feet (176 m)

2. Black Hill 665 feet (203 m)

3. Cerro Cabrillo 911 feet (278 m)

4. Hollister Peak 1,404 feet (428 m)

5. Cerro Romauldo 1,306 feet (398 m)

6. Chumash Peak 1,257 feet (383 m)

7. Bishop Peak 1,559 feet (475 m)

8. Cerro San Luis 1,292 feet (394 m)

9. Islay Hill 775 feet (236 m)

I think the geologists should have reversed the order since they begin in Pastor Blake’s back yard. He’s #1 in my book, so Islay Hill should be as well.

Geologists tell us they are of volcanic origin, and formed over 20,000,000 years ago.  If you believe the world is only 8,000 years old, let just agree they’ve been here a long time. 

There is one rock that is older than all of these, and makes the best foundation: the Rock of Ages. 

“The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold” Psalms‬ ‭18:2‬ ‭

Rock your week . . . with God.

—Larry Smith

A Simple Golden G

A simpleton once asked a coreographer what her dance meant. She replied, “If I could say it in English, I would not have said it with motion.” The essence of her rebuke was that there are languages of the heart that surpass mere logic and must not be muddled with words. Art speaks in its own terms, in its own non-rational way. But I am a foolish man specializing in a foolish art, namely, preaching. I do exactly what I should not do, I meddle with words in matters that are beyond words. So it is with apologies to Saint Saenz that I verbalize what I felt in his music.

I do not recall when I first heard this particular piano concerto and understood its mystery for myself. Here is what happened. As the pianist played the magnificent work I had a distinct sense that the composer had given the left hand playing the bass clef the specific task of asking disturbing questions that probed the absurdity of our existence. Under its deft fingers low noes rolled out in confrontation demanding answers of the right hand. The questions seemed strong, primal, unanswerable. The treble hand responded with frenetic, yes, frantic movement, seeking to neutralize the powerful undercurrent of inquiry from the left with rapid staccato and virtuoso. The rapid answers however, were not satisfying, but seemed to me to be no more than futile exclamations of painful anguish.

The pianist’s hands continued to argue back and forth in mutual agitation they reached a profound crescendo. And here at this magnificent height the argument was suddenly and dramatically broken by a sudden, gasping pause, a pause for breath, a pause for sense. And in the weight of that pause the right hand forcefully struck a single g. It was a haunting, golden g, filled with resolution. It was a g I wanted to drink down again and again. It was a g that for one incredible moment removed the tension of life and gratified my soul. And when the tensile argument between the playing hands resumed its fury, I understood that even one entity, one living thing, just one, single person standing alone against the world for just one brief moment is of stunning significance.

When Mary Magdalene came to the tomb of Jesus the bass clef of her life was already asking urgent questions. “Why God did you forsake him and let him die? How could you allow the horror of the cross?
How could such a superlative life collapse in to ashes? Where is the promised hope of Israel? Where were you?” And although the treble clef of her soul answered from the fullness of her splendid love it seemed to be no more than a futile pretension. “I will make death better,” she said, “I will rub sweet smelling oil on his leather dead skin, I will wash his face this one last time, and then remember him as long as I live!”

But even so fragile an expression of love would be denied her, for when she arrived at the tomb to salve his body, he was not there. There was nothing for her love to anoint! Now the painful panic of the broken believer overtook her and she fled in to the dew wet of the garden crying, “They have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have put him!” In her confusion and loss she ran headlong in to the risen Lord and mistook him for the gardener. “Sir if you have taken my Lord away, please tell me where you have laid him, and I will go and get him” she sobbed. And at that desperate moment Jesus looked in to her frightened eyes and struck a single golden note, a haunting, beautiful, golden g. “Mary!” he said. One word. Just her name, “Mary!”

And she knew it was Jesus. He was not dead. He was alive! It was he, for he had spoken her name. Spoken it as he had a hundred times be- fore. But now he spoke it from beyond the grave, from the far side of her death. Now it was a resurrected name hanging in the silence of the fragrant garden. And, in that pause, the frantic music of her soul re- solved to meaning. She was his and had eternal life!

—Smuts van Rooyen

Crashing Peace

I was disappointed in my quest for a sunset Thursday night . . . just grey-blue sky. While waiting for it to change I began to focus on the waves, crashing against the dark, rocky shore below. The mandated closure of businesses provided a new vantage point to watch the undulating belly of the ocean, and listen to the sounds. It was soothing music to my ears and restful to my soul.

Catastrophic events give us pause to re-examine, reshuffle and pla again. Let’s use this crashing time to look to God, the best things and listen intently to our calling, finding peace beyond reason.

“Don't worry about anything, but pray about everything. With thankful hearts offer up your prayers and requests to God. Then, because you belong to Christ Jesus, God will bless you with peace that no one can completely understand. And this peace will control the way you think and feel.” ‭‭Philippians‬ ‭4:6-7‬ ‭

—Larry Smith

Flashback

One year ago we were basking in the tulip festival of the Netherlands. I would not have imagined then that an invisible virus would change the world so dramatically. I understand that massive amounts destined for export are not going to waste.

Reviewing the rear is fun, but we cannot continually live looking in the rear view mirror. That would be a backward life. We must keep our eye on the road. However, an occasional glance is essential. Knowing what’s behind us can help us move safely forward. 

It’s good to remember the good.

Here are a couple of quotes I find meaningful about looking back:

”We have nothing to fear for the future, except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us, and His teaching in our past history.“ - EGW

“Hang in memory’s hall the precious words of Christ. They are to be valued far above silver or gold.“ - EGW

Tulips are varied and beautiful, but lack aroma. Wouldn’t it be nice if they had an aroma as well? Paul encourages us to be a sweet perfume to those around us. I see the members of our church resembling a bouquet of flowers . . . a variety pack of varied beauty and aromas. 

Here’s a current project. Could we be the human bouquet in SLO that beautifies the soulful landscape of our neighborhood? Could we be creative in zooming out the gloom, saving faces FaceTiming, or maybe simply praying for complex issues? I encourage each of us to think about the flower we have been gifted from God. We need tiger lilies, fox gloves, birds of paradise, statice, gladioluses, roses and even pansies. Let’s support and complement each other as we become that bouquet. That would be something we could file in our memory bank. 

—Larry Smith

Remember When? Part 4

The establishment and operation of a school was a significant commitment on the part of the SLO Church members. What we students experienced was a revolving door teacher mill. Each teacher was a unique individual and each left her imprint on her students. Miss Bernadine Schants was the youngest. She had completed two years of college prior to her placement in a school with students from grades 1-7. Her teacher-training courses may have provided an introduction to subjects associated with elementary education but they had come short in preparing a teacher to manage a classroom of harum-scarum kids
who soon became aware their young teacher had much to learn about enforcing classroom decorum.

Miss Schants drove a light-green 40s something Dodge coupe. In addition to transporting our teacher, now-and-again a couple students would grab a stack of math flash cards, climb in the front seat, and quiz each other on the multiplication tables. Very versatile car, that Dodge.

There came a time when bright kid came up with the creative idea that it might prove of interest to cross the spark plug wires in Miss Schants’ chariot. The suggestion brought about a quick search for the hood release; a firm pull on the lever and before us, nestled snug in the engine compartment, was the flat-head six cylinder enginve. Any guy knew what to do next: a tug on a couple of wires; a quick switcheroo, and push the wires back on the plug and it’s a done deal.

The afternoon was longer than usual for the guys. Any who watched us would have wondered why the snickering and furtive whispers. The conclusion of that school day brought a gaggle of can’t wait to see the fireworks guys straining their necks round the side of the building. Anticipation grew as Miss Schants walked to her car, pulled open the door, climbed in, settled behind the steering wheel, turned the key, hit the starter and, of a sudden, all manner of strange and wondrous sounds originated from under that little
Dodge’s engine compartment. (For those who have not experienced the effect of crossed spark plug wires—expect to hear a serious of mild explosions as the car backfires a time or two. Usually an engine manages to run, but the resulting noise is not unlike what one might imagine if a hand full of gravel was tossed into the cylinders. The initial reaction for many well be to run before the whole thing blows up.)

I don’t recall who came to rescue the schoolmarm’s dilemma. Perhaps her boy friend? Yes, the young educator had a boy friend. We were fascinated when we saw her ride in his car. The bench seats in those years allowed, even encouraged, a passenger to slide over to snuggle next to the driver. It’s been known for some guys to wax the front passenger seats to make the slide more efficient. Was Miss. Schant’s friend a “seat polisher,” or did the slide come natural? Such a cozy situation is not permitted with our
modern center console configuration. Our loss!

The school/church building had several rooms that were ordinarily locked. There came a day, however, when someone neglected to lock the Dorcas room. The discovery led to the student production of a memorable fashion show. We rescued several old clothes that fit over our school clothes. Slipped into clunky shoes, and waltz into the classroom. One kid took the opportunity a bit far. He found an old whale-bone corset that more-or-less fit round his clothes. When his turn came to parade down the isle, Miss Schantz came unglued. That kid was sent into detention and his parents, as I recall, were informed of
his adverse behavior.

My seventh grade instructor, Mrs. Boodt (pronounced Boat), was the most competent of the string of teachers who did their time at the SLO school. Ernie, her husband, was a Cal Poly student; later on staff at Monterey Bay Academy.

Mrs. Boodt knew how to teach math. The previous year my parent’s hired her as a tutor for my sister and me when they realized Miss Schants was not able to do our math, much less provide instruction.

With Mrs. Boodt in control, shenanigans became a memory. A highlight of Mrs. Boodt’s tenure was when her husband visited the school and took us kids on a trek north-east toward what is now Laurel Lane and Flora. Open fields between the school and the mountain and few streets welcomed the one who wished to escape. With Mr. Boodt in the lead, we would be away from the classroom for an hour or two; at times longer. Our wanderings on occasion took us part way up the hill that rises to the North-East of Orcutt
Rd.

At the conclusion of my 7th grade year, our family moved to Soquel where we resided for the next eight years in the two story house across Old San Jose Rd from the Soquel Adventist Campground that Central California had purchased some time earlier. The conference was looking for a tenant. We met that need. What took place at the SLO school after we moved is a story for someone else to tell.

—Larry Downing