Saturday’s weather could not have been more perfect for celebrating my friend Kent.

Worship

We met at Christ in You, a lay Catholic ministry. Kent was not Catholic, but he loved the teachings. Our group was made up of mostly Catholics, with a sprinkling of Protestant brothers and sisters. We were filled with the Spirit of God, and our worship differed from that of a typical Catholic service. “The worship singing brings down the anointing,” said Joanne, the ministry leader.

I did feel the power of the Holy Spirit fill our small gatherings. We were in one accord, praising the Lord — my hands lifted high, giving Him praise. My Sundays would begin with Mass, and later that evening we would meet with the lay group. Kent was always there.

Wednesday Meetings

If Sunday was not enough, we also gathered for a Bible teaching on Wednesdays. The worship followed the same pattern: powerful praise music, followed by a lesson on the Word of God. I was a lot younger then — four-hour services were the norm. Looking back, it’s difficult to explain the hold this ministry had on me. One key reason was that the teachings were rich with Biblical knowledge, seasoned with Catholic doctrine. I was definitely growing in the Lord.

Birthday Twins

Kent and I shared the same birthday. So, a few days before August 6th, there was sure to be in the mail a lovely birthday card from Kent. In the last couple of years, he decided to create his own cards — one Scripture after another, followed by a special blessing. I will miss all the seasonal cards he sent, especially around Christmas.

Kent the Genius

This blog was edited by Kent for a period of time. This came to an end when I could no longer email the blog to him, as something went amiss with his computer.

He quoted Scripture and truly understood the Word of God. If you had a math problem, Kent would solve it in a heartbeat. I knew he had received a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics from UCLA, but it was not until the funeral that I became aware he also held a Master’s in accounting.

The many times he accompanied us in handing out lunches on Skid Row in Los Angeles, he knew his way around L.A. better than anyone. Our conversations were filled with the wealth of knowledge Kent so generously offered.

I live in the city of Orange, near Tustin St., a main thoroughfare in the city. For as long as I can remember, I had always known it as Tustin Ave. Kent, without even living in Orange, corrected me one day. He was keenly aware of his surroundings and knowledgeable about so many subjects.

The Birthday Celebration

A few years ago, Kent and I met to celebrate our birthdays. He shared that he was tithing to many different organizations — political, Christian, you name it — Kent was donating money across the board. “How much are you giving, Kent?” I asked. I could not believe his response; he was more than generous. I advised him to pick three organizations, to pray before giving, and then to tithe accordingly.

The Funeral

Walking into the service as the praise song Majesty filled the room took me back to my days at Christ in You. Joanne was right — the room was filled with a powerful anointing. Oh, how I wanted to lift my hands in praise, but for some reason I cannot fully explain, I started to cry. My tears were of joy for my friend Kent. So many people came to send him off to heaven, and that song brought so many memories of him flooding back to my heart.

Five speakers in all, each with a unique story to share about Kent. The pastor shared that he had saved all of Kent’s phone messages. He played one in which Kent was singing a Psalm in cappella — Kent was not a gifted singer, but he was a gifted musician. He played the piano and had a remarkable ear for tuning one. His true instrument, however, was the accordion.

We were all aware of Kent’s medical disabilities, which began early in life and affected his speech. Kent also suffered from schizophrenia — yet not one of the speakers mentioned any of his challenges. Why? Because they knew Kent’s heart, and they loved and received him just as Jesus would.

The Phone Calls

Without fail, once a month I would receive a call from Kent. “Just wanted to know how you’re doing — and is (name withheld) still fornicating with her boyfriend?” That was Kent: honest and bold. Kent meant nothing unkind by this; he simply stated the truth. He always did.

When the young lady in question finally got married, one of the first things I did was call Kent with the news. There was great excitement in his voice. I will miss those phone calls.

Biola University

Since the funeral was held in La Mirada — a stone’s throw away from my alma mater — I decided to visit my old stomping grounds. I graduated in 1997, and boy, have things changed. The campus is still as beautiful as I remember. The main reason for the visit was to stand before the mural of Jesus. It took me a while to work my way to the grandiose image of Christ. Once there, I needed a photo. A young man was exiting the cafeteria, coffee in hand.

“Excuse me, can you please take a photo of me?” “Of course,” he said with a foreign accent.

George

Sometimes, through the providence of God, we are meant to meet certain people. This young man’s name is George, from Zimbabwe. He is a student at Biola and has earned his PhD in Cultural Studies. He is also a missionary. We talked, and he shared that in his tiny village, two wells had recently been installed. He mentioned that a Catholic priest had help organize the placement of the wells. George is Protestant — yet together with the Catholics, a spirit of unity prevailed for the sake of the village’s much-needed water supply.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, thank You for the life of Your son Kent. May he rest in eternal peace. Heavenly Father, thank You for the beautiful praise music, and especially for the closing hymn, How Great Thou Art. You are an awesome wonder to all who serve You. Lord, help George to complete his studies and supply every need of his village. Amen.

In the spring of 2016, our son invited us to join his family for Easter break. Though well-traveled, a trip to Cabo San Lucas was new territory — something worth looking forward to. My ancestors are from Mexico, yet personally, there are no deep roots there — no tías or tíos, no cousins to visit. Whatever cultural connection exists came not from the land itself, but from the traditions our mother passed down, a woman born and raised in the United States. Everything heard about Cabo San Lucas pointed to one thing: a playground for singles, a party town. What no one had mentioned — and what would soon become very clear — were the dangers lurking in its waters.

The Arrival

The airport was bustling from the moment we arrived — signs everywhere welcoming tourists, and scores of locals competing energetically for attention, each eager to sign up the next group for a popular excursion. The atmosphere was a bit overwhelming.

Getting to the car rental office brought its own set of frustrations. The staff attempted to charge far more than the agreed-upon price — a shady but apparently common tactic. Our son Mikos stepped in and handled it with confidence, though the language barrier occasionally required some translation assistance to keep things from escalating. Enterprise Car Rental in Mexico operates quite differently than its American counterpart, and since no one was looking to start an international incident, a reluctant compromise was reached and we moved on.

The Chain Letter

Our granddaughter Maddie was worried sick — she had broken a chain letter and feared the worst. A gentle reminder set things straight: as Christians, superstition has no hold over us. God is in charge, not chain letters.

Or so it seemed.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the luggage locks refused to cooperate. Every combination tried — birthdate rearranged in every possible sequence — yielded nothing. Meanwhile, the rest of the family was already downstairs, buzzing with excitement to get to the pool. Without access to the suitcase, the bathing suit was as out of reach as the water itself.

Finally, Mikos called up to the room. “What’s taking you so long?”

The reply came quickly: “Maybe Maddie should have sent that chain letter after all — I can’t get this lock open.”

After nearly an hour and the patient assistance of a hotel porter, the suitcase surrendered. Everyone was finally reunited at the pool. A stroll along the beach followed, and Mikos and Wil eventually waded into the water. The waves looked a little rough, which was enough reason to stay on shore and watch. That instinct proved wise — the current swept Wil under without warning, dragging him down before releasing him. After that, Wil wanted nothing more to do with the Sea of Cortez.

Resort Piña Colada

Resort life has never been particularly appealing — the sun has taken its toll over the years, and the whole bathing suit affair is, frankly, overrated. A good piña colada, however, is another matter entirely.

Just as a comfortable position had been found in the lounge chair, drink in hand, an uninvited guest appeared — a large lizard creeping deliberately toward the chair. Petrified is not too strong a word. As it turned out, these reptiles are simply fellow sun-seekers, scattered everywhere across the resort grounds, completely unbothered by the human crowd and posing no threat whatsoever. Still, no one warned us about the lizards.

Time To Pray

The following day, the rental car was put to good use with a drive toward San José del Cabo. The village itself was worth every mile — beautiful, unhurried, and full of quiet charm. That morning, however, there was friction between Mike and me. The exact cause has since faded from memory, as petty grievances tend to do, but the tension was real enough.

Then came the steps of Parroquia San José.

Walking into that humble, beautiful church, a simple prayer was offered — asking to be freed from the spirit of anger that had taken root that morning. Something lifted. The church, unpretentious and welcoming, provided exactly what was needed: stillness, grace, and the presence of the Lord. There is something profound about that reality — that in any corner of the world, one can walk through a door and find the Tabernacle of Jesus Christ waiting. No appointment necessary. No explanation required. Just mercy, freely given.

The Bathing Suit-Cover Up

The next day, the pool held no appeal. Glancing out the hotel window, the lounge chairs lining the beach looked far more inviting. Mike agreed, towels were gathered, and down to the beach we went.

A recent purchase had quickly become a travel essential — a bathing suit cover-up with flattering slip-on pants that had done wonders for confidence. No discomfort, no self-consciousness. Just ease. A spot was chosen, towels laid out, and for a while, there was nothing to do but rest.

The Red Flag

Eyes opened from a light rest to an unexpected sight directly overhead — a red flag snapping in the wind. In English and Spanish, the message was unambiguous: No swimming allowed.

The sun, however, was relentless. After a while, the heat made a brief wade in the water seem entirely reasonable — just enough to cool off, nothing more. Walking down toward the shoreline, Mike gradually disappeared from view, and the only thing clearly visible was that red flag, whipping urgently in the wind as if trying to say something worth hearing. A few local vendors nearby were quietly displaying silver jewelry, but otherwise, it was still — just the sea, the flag, and one very warm traveler walking toward the water.

The water felt so good on my feet that going in deeper seemed harmless enough. It took only seconds for the sea to decide otherwise.

Round One

Without warning, a violent undercurrent seized control. There was no fighting it — my body was dragged deep, tumbling without direction or footing. At some point, my head struck the ocean floor. Shock gave way to panic. Coming up for air was impossible; the current tossed and held me with what felt like heavy, deliberate hands pressing down from above.

Then, in the chaos, came stillness — not of the water, but of the soul. A prayer rose up from somewhere deeper than the fear. God, help me.

And just like Jonah, the ocean spit me out.

Staggering back toward shore, dazed and beaten, there was barely time to find my footing before another sight registered — my beloved cover-up, that dear and faithful travel companion, being pulled back toward the waves. What happened next defies all reasonable explanation.

Back in I went.

“Oh hell no — you’re not getting my cover-up!”

Round Two

The ocean, apparently, was not impressed. It took me again. This time was worse. With one hand clutching the cover-up and my body completely surrendered to the current, there was nothing left to do but pray a second time — and mean it even more than the first. Once again, mercy prevailed. The sea released its grip, and this time I reached the shore for good.

Still dazed, still half-running from the water’s edge, a voice cut through the noise. A nearby vendor — a man selling silver crosses — approached and said calmly, in Spanish:

“Señora, necesitas una cruz más grande.”

“Lady, you need a bigger cross.”

I finally made my way back to Mike, who took one look at me and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“I almost died while you were out here sunbathing!”

I was a complete mess. Sand was everywhere — lumped inside my bathing suit, ground into my hair, packed deep into both ears. An outdoor shower nearby offered some hope, but it was useless. No amount of rinsing was making a dent. I was essentially a walking bag of sand, and with every step back toward the hotel, I could feel the gritty weight of the ocean still clinging to me, unwilling to let go. My body had collected enough sand to make a sand castle.

But the sea had let go. Twice.

San Lucas had been watching over me that day — of that there was no doubt. And to my guardian angel, a sincere apology was long overdue for putting her through all of that. But also — and this felt equally important — a word of thanks. Because somehow, against all odds, she helped me get the cover-up back too.