Saturday mornings I’m walking my “usual” in Santa Monica from here to there and back. At my age, jogging is no longer the option it was when I would traverse these same streets as a youth. But I have found walking to be good too. It has unique virtues.

For starters, it allows me to appreciate the Camelot-like beauty. The green lushness of one’s surroundings along the way is highlighted … in the mind of the walker, perhaps more so than that of the jogger or biker? At my age it makes me feel better to think so. Or, could it be that earlier in life the beauty was just taken for granted? Most likely it’s a little of both.

Walking also permits the time to give greater thought to things the busyness of our lives has a way of shoving into that rarely visited closet called … “later”. And so it was this morning. My mind wandered to a part of Los Angeles I had been to only three nights before; a church far south of downtown, off Slauson, that I have visited from time-to-time since first being invited by a Deacon several months ago.

As I approached that night I was again confronted with how unlike this neighborhood was to Santa Monica. Slauson is a grassless corridor of corrugated metal, chain link fences, concrete and asphalt. As evening approaches small groups of shadowed figures populate the darkened doorways and driveways. The feeling that grows with each block in that area of town is one of no good going on. But I knew I was wrong.

The service started with the usual Sister reading scripture, followed by another Sister encouraging those in attendance to sing and pray; giving thanks to God for all the many blessings He had given to each and every one in the sanctuary. Finally a Brother read the verses to be taught to the children for Sunday school, before it was time for the Pastor to step up to the pulpit to moderate the evening’s Bible study in his usual cheerful way, as I had seen him do on a number of occasions before.

But, this night was different. Heads turned. Some to see the clock and others just to look around. The Pastor wasn’t yet there. Where was he? His wife who had taken a seat quietly toward the back said he had something to take care of. He would be along in a minute. And so he was, but again, something was different. He seemed out of breath. Because he was late and had hurried to get there? I thought so, but was wrong. More likely, it was from a rush of adrenaline.

Like me not long before, his wife and he had been driving down Slauson to get to the church. But, nearby them a car exploded. It burst into flames he said -- literally becoming airborne, flipping in midair and landing upside down on another car near them. Surely the people inside the car were dead or grievously injured. He now asked his friends in the room to join him in prayer for them. We did.

In that neighborhood wisdom mandates the prudent to depart scenes of violence quickly. It is presumed more violence could soon follow. Even so, the Pastor told us, he had tried to call 911 as they proceeded to church. When he finally connected with the emergency dispatcher, however, he was put on hold, and remained there until they reached the church. While holding, however, they spotted a police officer along the way. They tried to wave him down, but the officer didn’t stop. Did he not see them or was it because they were black? Who knows? The pastor was not shocked but you could feel his frustration.

Only after they had reached the church did the dispatcher return to take his report. Probably too late. He knew that. Nevertheless, he had tried. He knew that as well. However, that did not quell the emotion in his voice nor the tears forming in his eyes. Again, he had been forced to confront the harsh realities of the neighborhood in which his flock resided. Yet, there was more.

Before the Bible study began, a Brother requested the podium to make a public service announcement. He had received an e-mail that reported that in the week before members of a black gang had allegedly stolen around 450 kilograms of narcotics from a Hispanic gang. The e-mail reported that in retaliation the Mexican Mafia had ordered the members of its numerous gangs around Los Angeles to randomly kill 450 black men.

Was it true, or just a hoax? Who knew? It really didn’t matter to the men and their wives in the room that night. All they knew was that it was possible -- each of them now a potential target because of something they had nothing to do with. The only sound that remained in the room was that made by their children playing among the pews.

I looked at the painting on the wall above the church’s baptismal. Jesus was baptizing a man. Both were black. Something hit me. I wished that I too was, at that moment, in that room. In part, I very much wanted to appreciate fully the pain and suffering that some of these men and women had endured in the course of their lives, and knew that I could never. But, more than that, I wanted to understand how even under such circumstances they remained the people so full of joy and hope I had come to know them to be. Yet, I was soon reminded of the obvious answer as the Pastor retook the pulpit.

He proclaimed the Lord their Protector. He then proceeded to lead his flock to take up what he said was the more important business for which they had assembled. All present then focused upon finishing the evening praising and glorifying their Lord with an excited and devoted study of the Book of Revelations – the end of days. The atmosphere of joy, peace and comfort in the room soon return.

My mind then returns to the present. I look up. The sun’s warm glow is at my back and I know it may soon be time to go home. For some reason, though, I am now not only more grateful for what I have taken for granted, but more compassionate than when I had begun my walk on this bright and beautiful Saturday morning in Santa Monica.

© 2005 Clifford C. Nichols

Cliff Nichols is an attorney practicing criminal defense/entertainment law in Santa Monica, California. He may be contacted regarding this editorial at either (310) 917-1083, www.cliffnicholslaw.com or www.thedailystand.com