Author Archives: Eric

Jackets for Jesus – Thanksgiving 2001

November 24, 2001

He stood across the street – maybe fifty yards from where we were talking – waving his arm, calling her back. She stood with us, I’ll call her Suzy, and in five minutes or less began to tell us her story.

The first time Suzy came through line was summer. One warm evening, in the midst of our “regular” crowd came a group of young people that appeared to have fallen out of a punk rock concert gone horribly wrong. Bodies covered with odd tattoos, faces lit up with smiles that reflected thousands of dollars of dental work as kids, they waited, some laughing, some, like Suzy, in dark silence, for a meal. In her silence, Suzy stood out. She wears her tattoos on her head and face. They’re hard to miss. When I talked to her, she had little to say, but the visual impact touched each of us. She became more than a topic of conversation, we made it a point to keep an eye out for Suzy. Counting the nights she was not in line – sharing bits of information gathered from those she was. Something about Suzy, in the middle of the poverty we see weekly, touched us uniquely.

Now Suzy stood in front of us, short of breath, asking for a meal, a jacket, anything. She was too late, everything was gone. Another five minutes and she would have discovered an empty corner, under a street lamp that works sometimes, in front of a cathedral that’s been closed for years, windows missing, door’s boarded up, next to an empty lot with a deep hole in the ground where the original Union Rescue Mission once stood. A corner that’s little more than a lonely spot of concrete in the darkness of the heart of LA. Long since abandoned by traditional commerce and Christianity, Home to Jackets for Jesus every Sunday night for 13 years. A corner of Hope to the tens of thousands of men and women living in poverty we have served in Jesus Name. Suzy may have been hungry, she couldn’t weigh more than 90 pounds. She had to have been cold, fog rolling through the high rises and into the city, she wearing only a threadbare t-shirt and cheap pair of jeans that fit poorly. Now she was too late and about to face rejection, again.

Suzy, in her poverty, is unforgettable, a question waiting to be asked. The hard question on the final of life we would all rather avoid. With nothing left to offer I reached out and told her how much we cared- how we were concerned for her and kept her in our thoughts and prayers. She lowered her proud eyes, shadowing her tattooed face, put her hand in her hair and whispered, “thanks.” I didn’t need much of an opening, so when she spoke, I jumped right in and asked her to tell us her story. What a bold question! What audacity! Imagine, a stranger you’ve only met several times embraces you then asks you to summarize your life in five minutes or less. Who could do it? Suzy did. No time to think. No outlines or notes to go by- thinking on the fly, she jumped right in. We soon learned that her tattoos reflected a heart that cried out for God. We were family, prodigals all, some just a little closer to the warmth and fellowship of society, all of us longing to be secure in the Healing Arms of The Father.

Suzy ran away from home at the age of eleven. Now twenty, she has spent nine years on the streets of other states. Skid row has been home for just three months. She has no room, she sleeps in a parking lot, against a building, several blocks from our corner. When she was fifteen she had her face tattooed with the marks of a warrior, to show that she is fearless. Last year she found Christ. She had a crown of thorns, tattooed on her brow, covering her upper face and encircling her head and upper neck. She wanted God to know that she was ready to be a martyr for Jesus whenever He needed her. She was obviously crying out to belong.

Looking into her eyes, no longer repelled or curious about the tattoos, I asked her if she was still serving Christ. Tears stood on the brink of her eyelids, not hesitating to answer, still fearless as a warrior, she was direct and honest, “I still believe, but I’m not following Him. There’s so much I need to repent for…” My heart was breaking. Her “boyfriend,” not skinny and emaciated, but apparently strong and well fed now began to wave his arm, to call

for her. I shudder to think who he earns his money from. Knowing our time was short, I reminded her that she could still call home, (not knowing if this were true or not), that God still loved her, (I’m certain about that), and that there was not better time than today, with Thanksgiving just days away.

Seemingly stunned for a moment, she hesitated to answer, than looking directly at our small group she asked, “What day is it?” I felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of me. There in the darkness twenty five years rolled away and I remembered living in the far country. I remembered asking a stranger what day it was… my heart went out to Suzy. She was disconnected from family, from God, from time. We would celebrate Thanksgiving in warmth, wealth and comfort. Suzy didn’t know it was Thanksgiving.

Now angry, the man waiting for her made it clear she’d better move- fear was in her eyes. Reaching out, I asked if she would do me a favor- she stopped – how many men must have pushed this young girl around over the years for “favors” – “Can we pray for you?” “I can’t now- I’ve got to go.” “Not now, but this week, we care about you, can I keep you in my prayers?” “Yeah, yeah… that would be ok.” Then I asked her what I always try to ask for from the people on the streets I pray for, “Will you remember to pray for me, my name is Eric…” by now she was in the middle of the street, she stopped and looked back, “that’s Eric, will you pray for me?” “Sure. Okay.” And she was gone.

This week as we prepared to feed over six hundred people on Thanksgiving through Central Community, with each meal I prayed for Suzy. As I sat down to eat with strangers and discovered one of them was a man we had given a ride home from the streets late one night, I praised God for the miracle that drew us together again and wondered where Suzy was spending Thanksgiving. As my twenty year old daughter and I put our turkey in the oven late Wednesday night I praised God for her safety and prayed that Suzy might be safe as well. Sharing in the wealth, security and comfort that our family enjoys at Thanksgiving my heart broke for the certain loneliness, poverty and insecurity that Suzy experiences daily. And I hoped that she was praying for me. That somehow she would begin to take her first steps towards Home, if not for herself, as a lonely warrior for another. I could never have survived all she’s endured. The least and the most I can do is pray. Will you join me in praying for Suzy today. She’s not lost to Our Father. He knows right where she is – He knows what time it is in her life today – His heart is breaking for her and all the other Suzy’s living in poverty.

Corners of hope, it’s a good thing to offer the many who are still lost in darkness. There are bigger works to support with your prayers, work and finances, however, there are very few that are reaching out to Suzy, that even know she’s on our streets and looking for hope. Christmas is coming. My prayer is that Suzy is serving Jesus this Christmas and that she has the opportunity to celebrate His birth with people who will love and care for her in His Name. You can help. Will you join me in praying for Suzy? It’s easy to point a finger in judgment, a little more difficult to humble ourselves and remember that we too once wandered in the far country. That though our children may not have run off and put tattoos on their faces that still their hearts carry scars and they are often lonely. Healing and The Way Home begins when we reach out to another in love and then leave them with Jesus. He wore the only crown of thorns that counts. He’s The Warrior who still calls us to battle for the hearts and spirits of every Suzy. He’s The Light that never goes out on the corner of Hope we call Home. He’s The Reason we go to the streets every Sunday night. You’re an important part of the team.

Thanks so much for all you do. Set a little aside for our Christmas party on the streets this year. It will be December 23, (the Sunday night before Christmas day), you’re invited to join us. Don’t forget to pray for Jackets for Jesus. Don’t forget to pray for Suzy.

for changing lives,

Eric M. Denton

Recognizing Our Moment

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qO7Qrhss_j8

While in graduate school I was on staff at a thriving church in rural Indiana. The senior pastor, Vernon Maddox, would take me on occasional visits to struggling churches in neighboring communities where we would bring a needed gift and listen to the pastor’s needs and personal concerns over lunch together. I learned the depth of a servants heart in those afternoon’s away from the office.

A retired missionary attended our church briefly and then he and his wife went to Hartford City, Indiana, a community of 5 or 6 thousand people, just north of our little hamlet to plant a new church. They began by meeting in a church that opened their basement to the new little fellowship. Soon they had a gathering of 15 or 20 people, his wife playing piano and teaching Sunday School while he preached and carried the pastors work.

He was my favorite visit. Rides home, through fields of green or grey, I’d tell Pastor Vernon how sorry I felt for a man with so Godly a heart living out his calling in the basement of a church in a town God barely remembered. What could be worse?

Then he lost his Sunday School teacher and pianist – his loving wife, so dedicated a lifetime partner in ministry -to an unexpected death.

Now alone, far from the place of his birth, Vernon said we were going to take him for lunch. I dreaded the moment. Untimely death had yet to visit our family. I had one funeral under my belt and already felt so sorry for this man’s calling that I didn’t think I could face him with the additional sorrow piled on.

I’ll never forget walking into that little church basement to the awful sounds of someone straining at a guitar. The missionary made pastor laid down a cheap instrument, greeted us, apologized for his struggle at playing and said that now that his wife was gone he was teaching himself to play guitar so they could still have Sunday worship. He was going on.

Pastor Vernon hugged him. Tears were shed. We went and enjoyed a healing lunch and all I could think was what did this guy do that God would punish him with a life like this?

It was years before I realized that his faith and commitment to his calling in places known only to God was the kind of single minded devotion that had kept the church alive across the centuries in countless other little towns like Ephesus, Corinth, Philippi, Hartford City and the list goes on and on. “Great is Thy Faithfulness!”

I confess that as we approach a season when I’ll be begging for turkeys, backpacks and Christmas presents for Siempre’s kids I’m inspired and motivated by my encounter with this loving servant of God as well as the willingness of a senior pastor who knew I had some important lessons to learn.

I’ve also discovered that images of the church with hip purple lighting on stage or a cooler than corporate image no longer attract me – they did once – not any more. I’ve seen so much that’s shallow take front and center while that which carried real depth was shining brightly in Hartford City or some other place that to the world appears to be “God forsaken,” But to The Father is as Holy as a cross or a simple manger.

You may not be sure of your calling or why God has let your life fall into such heartbreaking circumstances, maybe it’s time to pick up an old guitar, or whatever else is needed, and give thanks that He has plans for you in whatever Hartford City you’ve been planted. This is a season of Thanksgiving. Like every year I’m nervous, excited and somehow certain that God will do great things. I don’t want you to miss one moment of the miracle (even when it looks like little more than Light slipping out the basement doors of a forgotten gathering in some Hartford City) This is our moment. So many are waiting. You’re Invited!

Winning Routines – another lesson from Fit for Today!

The following story in the pdf is true. Meeting this man changed the way I look at much of life and how we approach our daily tasks. You can meet and exceed your personal goals. You just have to be willing to find your mountain and live out your passion. Enjoy.

Winning Routines and The Story of The Bicycle Mechanic – a printable pdf with this weeks exercise log can be found here: 2015 Fall Fit for Today Diet Sheet Week of October 13

Fit for Today – and How You Can Get Fit for Life

One of the tabs at the top of my page is titled Fit for Life. Kind of arrogant really. It’s not like there’s a magic pill or a genie in a bottle who’s going to make and keep you fit for the rest of your life. Fitness is a decision – our decision – and we make it one day at a time.

I believe in BIG goals and dreams. I know they require a well laid out plan with effective action steps that are put into practice day in and day out if you’re ever going to succeed. It’s the same with fitness. Whether you want to lose 200 pounds, take off 20 or you’re just battling to shake off those final stubborn few, it’s all the same. Eat less. Move more. Today. That’s it.

You can spend a bunch of money on some fancy gym or diet and if you stick with it – you’ll find success. I’ve discovered that almost every plan and routine is successful for those who stick with it. Same with Fit for Today. Except that this year I’m posting everything on my website as well as on fb and it’s free, gratis, nada… jump right in and get just as fit as you’d like.

If you want to make contact or ask questions just use the contact form at the top of the Fit for Life link and I’ll get back to you. Each week there are new forms to download in a simple pdf format that you can then print out on your own or load them to your phone or computer. And if you live in our area, you’re always invited to join us Tuesday evenings for a weigh in, lesson, a little help from each other and sometimes even a walk together.

Today I’m posting one of my favorite pieces I wrote a couple of years ago about my very own downfall – afternoon breaks at Starbucks and “The Cautionary Tale of an Oatmeal Cookie.” Read it, believe it, take it to heart next time you wonder why you just can’t shake those final few pounds. Your body can be a beautiful Ferrari or you can clunk around in an old Ford Station Wagon – with our health, for most of us, it’s our choice – and for almost all of us… we can do better. I know I can. You’re Invited!

Cautionary Tale of The Oatmeal Cookie

What We Do – Memorial Day Weekend 2013

Click the photo to view Memorial Day Weekend in 1 minute. It’s just a minute 🙂

Building. It’s the first part of our work in meeting the needs we face surrounding our work in Mexico. This little video reduces months of planning, preparation and the final days of construction to just 1 minute. It was an amazing weekend with good food, good friends, great times together and some hard work. Our work that began so simple has in so short a time become a lifesaving work that we only imagined on our very best days. God is too good.

Pastor Ken McDaniel again made everything look easy. I know he has an amazing team of people- from Mark Berg at the front end of the plans to Miguel as his work mate and translator through to the end of the task. It’s such a blessing to work with Ken.

Soon the first Teen Cottage@Siempre will be filled with boys. Our prayer is that this new facet of the community at Siempre Para Los Ninos will help our teens prepare to meet the real world demands that are placed on them so quickly. Please join us in praying God’s Grace over the first uncertain steps the kids take together in this move.

siempre

Eric

Old Yeller made us cry, no matter how many times we watched it. Lassie convinced us that he really knew that Timmy was in the well and could get help, or even pull him out on his own. We knew all the words to the theme song for Underdog: “speed of lightning, roar of thunder – fighting all who rob or plunder – Underdog… Underdog!” We even listened to songs about dogs… from “Hound Dog” to Dr. Demento’s weekly standard. Dogs occupied both ends of the radio dial, from our childhood through our teens.

I’ve always had a dog. They run with me, sleep next to my bed, keep me awake nights, start my morning rituals, give me something to complain about and have been fodder for a thousand stories. Not today.

Over 13 years old, had to have Hunter put to sleep yesterday. Paid a vet $140- to put a needle in his forearm, holding his head in my hands- I asked: “How long will it take?” Looking down, Hunter was gone, the vet walking out of the room said: “Take all the time you need.” I knew his room really wasn’t available to me for that long- so I kissed my old dog on the head one last time –stood, did my best to “be a man” and headed out to the car where we’d taken our last ride together.

Perspective: thousands lost nearly everything in the storms of Oklahoma, 5 H.S. kids lost their lives Monday in an accident on Jamboree, Debi’s dad died this month, this week marks the 5^th anniversary of mom’s death… in the big scheme of things, Hunter was just a dog, I get that. I’ve never had time for people who let their dogs wander around blind, deaf, incontinent, senile and barely able to walk – but I get it – that’s been Hunter for the last 6 months and I’ve just not been able to face the harsh reality that after 13 years another old friend, an important part of our family life, was gone.

Our last dog, Chelsea, an English Setter from the pound, ran with me until one morning when I came downstairs she couldn’t get up to walk. Nearly 12, waiting for the kids to go to school and Debi to work, made that same last sad drive with her. Said I’d never get another dog. Within weeks Julia and I were wandering in and out of the pounds again looking for just the right puppy. It took several months but soon we walked in on Hunter and it all just clicked. Smart, funny, loyal and a righteous pain in the neck when he wanted to be, Hunter was the first dog I’d owned who could easily do my long runs of up to 20 miles. Always in great shape – the one time he refused to listen was when he got out the front door – dumb dog was next to impossible to catch.

25 years and just 2 dogs – pretty blessed. Hunter’s out again. I’m glad he’s not suffering… but I’m going to miss that stupid, smelly old dog. One of the kids snapped this shot after a morning run five or six years ago. We both look like pups. Debi’s taken good care of us. Never want to make that last drive again. Don’t think I’ll ever get another dog. Next time I get the urge- I’ll just fire up Old Yeller.

A Message from My Mom

SO MANY YEARS. . . .so many months. . .hours. . . .minutes . . .and not all of them happy. Count them up – perhaps the sorrows outweigh the joys. It’s strange how one joy can cancel out many sorrows!

The past year seemed to add up more sorrows than joys…nothing evened out when I tried the system of one joy canceling out three sorrows. But the thought came to me as a bright diamond in the dark….these sorrows MAY bring joy SOMEDAY.

When a mother holds her infant until the five-o’clock hour of the dawn as the baby fights for the breath of life…I shall be able to say “take my hand….I understand your anxiety”….when a family lays away a beloved member and the tears fall, fall freely, and they long for a view of a rainbow…I will be able to say, “I’ll cry with you…hold my hand…I’ve walked this way before.” When the heart is bound with grief-a sorrow so deeply hidden within because of a prodigal child…I will say, “Yes, take my hand, I too have walked this way before.” When a mother sits by the hospital bed of her near grown child as he struggles to hold onto the thread of life…I will softly whisper, “Here…hold my hand let’s share together.”

When dreams lie shattered in the dust…the dreams of years of planning and waiting-and the future seems dark, I will say, “Take my hand, I have walked this way before.”

But someday the dawn will break and I shall see the rainbows and the long journey’s end and I reach the moment we all must face when eternity looms out ahead, I am sure at a second’s fraction of time I will reach out and someone will take my hand and say, “I’ve walked this way before – come follow me.”

And this one final joy will cancel out all sorrows.

Ione Denton

from My Alabaster Box

Out of Control?

Our weekend was overwhelmed with family in the hospital, Central Community and Jackets for Jesus. One night without sleep, Debi going one direction me another with our daughter Julia stepping up and filling in all the gaps that were left undone… This morning, as Debi headed back out into it and I sat down for a bowl of cereal, caught this picture on fb and smiled. Sometimes life may feel out of control- but it can be in the best way possible –this photo is that kind of fruit. These young leaders aren’t even aware of it. Too cool.

You might recognize the backdrop- that’s Siempre Para Los Niño’s, our children’s home in Tijuana. The good looking group of young people are leaders from the church of God across northern Baja California, Mexico. (check them out on fb here) They’re not just hanging out together, they’re planning a summer camp for the end of this July that will be held here:

It’s a small camp on a nice piece of land in the hills just north of Ensenada. It holds a special place in my heart because that land was given to my dad by family friends in the late 60’s. Dad in turn gave the property to church of God in Mexico. Dad loved summer camps- thought being outdoors did something special for kids –helped them see The Best Face of God. He used to bribe me with fishing trips out of Ensenada if I’d come and help him work at the camp- long before it was a camp. It had been a ranch… those cabins in background were little more than a few outbuildings and a barn. Some trips we’d go down and shovel out the last of the horse and cow manure. One trip we worked together on a roof- stripping it down to bare wood, replacing and mending what needed fixing –then putting on shingles. On the roofs of those little buildings you can sit and look at the ocean, which we did, and dad would cast a vision of how someday children from across Baja, children of poverty who might never enjoy a week in the country, would come and enjoy the view, creation and fall in love with their Creator. Love the memories of those times alone with dad. He was a generous visionary.

That’s why I love the picture of all those young people– leaders –together, working to fulfill the vision of a man they never met and who’s name they’ll never know. God is too good.

So while we were at the hospital- not knowing whether to pray for Debi’s Dad to rally back around or that The Lord would let him peacefully slip into eternity this was happening at the church at Siempre as part of the youth meetings.

That’s the “little” church we built at Siempre. I’d say: “the work that started it all…” but it probably really found its genesis somewhere on the roof of a rickety old outbuilding as a dad, cast a big vision of love into his son… who really just came along to go fishing.

People get hung up about “the church.” From time to time we deserve it, no, we’ve earned all the grief heaped upon us. But in almost every church, of any background, creed, denomination, faith, etc… what you’ll find are people on a quest for intimacy… folks who somewhere, at the very core of their being, know that “we belong together.”

The church of God in Mexico has maybe 50 congregations in the entire nation. They’re pretty theologically conservative and can be socially restrictive… at their heart- is a great love for God and people –and I’m always thankful to share our small part in their great work. My life has been made so much richer because these kind people opened their arms to me as a child- traveling with my father –and as a pastor in these years that Central Community has been building in Mexico.

Occasionally, working in Mexico, things have felt just a bit out of control… especially when all the challenges of our work at home, the needs of our family and personal issues come into play and then there’s a simple photo like this and I’m reminded just how small my vision is and how faithful God continues to be. “He’s faithful when we are faithless.”

We’re building again this Memorial Day Weekend. You’re Invited. One of the most wonderful moments of each build is when we sit on the plywood of a new roof and look out at the ocean and think: “We’re almost done!” Little do we realize that God’s Great Work in us is just beginning.

We don’t have enough money to get the job done yet- barely enough to begin. We don’t have the workers necessary to complete the task yet. It’s in The Hands of God – not out of control at all. And we have an amazing opportunity to remind ourselves that we’re not alone. We can make a difference. That we belong together.

You’re Invited!

My Tribute

Fall and Spring semesters of 1972/73, my first year out of high school, still living with my parents, I attended Golden West Jr. College. It changed my life.

I was a less than enthusiastic college student, new to the community- lost half the time just trying to navigate around rural north Huntington Beach- filled with oil wells, truck farms and long stretches of nothing but wetlands and beach. Childhood friends were scattered across the country in four year schools. My father had just left the church where he’d been Pastor my entire life. My two older brothers were newly married and my younger sister, now the new kid in class, a junior in high school, had her own worries.

I was lonely.

Unexpectedly, I jumped right in with both feet and did a bunch of stuff all on my own… not typical behavior for me. I joined the soccer and rugby team- having no clue what either sport required –thought I’d give it a shot. Never an athlete in school, but always involved in sports: YMCA (Gray Y), church teams and I was one of those kids who enjoyed P.E. class. When the junior college coach assured us that if we went out for the team- we’d make it –I figured: “what’s to lose?”

I wasn’t a star- but I wasn’t the worst of the lot either. Great memories of my first feeling of running in cleats, in the mud… splashed head to toe… freezing… digging it. Incredible adrenaline rush of being chased down in rugby, taking and giving hard hits- scoring…no one came to watch our little teams. Quite certain no one in my family ever came to one of our games. Junior college sports- new ones especially –and soccer and rugby were as new as they came in ‘72/’73- don’t attract crowds. We certainly didn’t. But what fun we had together.

I took a square dancing class. That was out of left field for the preacher’s kid who grew up in a household without dancing. New to Orange County- long before the explosion of wealth and prestige it carries today –the square dance class seemed like a good place to get to meet the natives… it delivered… in social halls, city parks and so many other gathering places – I square danced… and I had fun!

My girlfriend attended a major university and her schedule only allowed for us to date one or two times a week. My square dancing class met on Wednesday nights in a room where one of the math professors, always wearing a cool cowboy shirt and encouraging us to do the same, rolled in a record player and would begin to call. As he’d call, he’d set us in squares, teach us how to greet one another, use the more experienced dancers as anchors and the clueless guys like me… looking back I think I was the only new guy…would just go along for the ride. Each night, each new move, each assigned outing to a “club” began as nerve wrenching adventures that always seemed to end up with lots of laughing, sweaty bodies, cookies and punch. It was a stretch for me. It was so much fun.

Don’t know what dad was going through during those years… honestly, don’t remember asking – I must have, we’re a pretty open family – just don’t remember all the specifics except this, he wasn’t making much money. We were living in a great big, brand new house just between Huntington and Newport Beach- and I qualified for grant money –not cash money… certainly not a scholarship… but the kind that if I took a job in the library on campus, they’d give me a paycheck. Embarrassed, even still I jumped at the opportunity.

My love of libraries deepened at Golden West. I learned to bind books- a lost art in the age of eBooks. The Dewey Decimal System became second nature. The librarians became my friends… and they let me order whatever books I wanted to read…still remember holding a fresh copy of “Three Comrades” by Erich Maria Remarque. Sharing it with anyone who’d read the sad love story… then watching the old movie- that F. Scott Fitzgerald –wrote the screenplay for and crying… So much of my life was spent in libraries.

Today, can’t remember the last time I took the time to cross the threshold of one… much less to savor the wealth of knowledge and earn my very own study table through hours of devotion. Time… The skills I learned and honed working in that little library carried me through so many other libraries at great universities and gave me the confidence to research, explore and stay just a step ahead… long before the age of Google.

Political Science: where I was challenged to take on a project –and studied the slaughter of dolphins while catching albacore tuna in nets… and joined so many others who were working to save their needless deaths. Geology: my lifetime passion for rocks finally found its form as Mr. Gibson opened the planet to us- I could never forget our field trip to Palos Verde Peninsula and learning about our shifting planet. Philosophy: Plato, Socrates, The Theaetetus… living a semester in that dialogue… feeling so incredibly inadequate to the task… challenged. Theatre Arts (Drama): each of us was required to write and perform a one person “show” for lack of a better word. Unbelievably, not only did I give myself to it; still remember the young passion I put into it. English 100 and the instructor who believed in me… sat with me on her own time… pushed me to discipline myself to write… (she’d hate all these little dots I freely use and the dashes I throw in whenever I want to! And the exclamation point as well), and today I can’t even remember her name.

Wish I could. She may have saved me. The “dumbbell” spelling and math classes I’d been relegated to because I came in at the last minute, without application- something one could do as a student in those freewheeling days of building a better society –were killing me. She taught me that the disciplines were not meant to restrict or confine me but to give freedom to my thoughts and imagination so that even more people could and would want to hear my voice. She worked with me when I didn’t want to work and I’m so much the better for her efforts. She believed that my voice had worth. She not only believed in me, she believed in what I was yet to become. A transformation took place within my work ethic as a student- because of her.

Joni Mitchell. I fell in love with Joni Mitchell at Golden West. Each of the library study carrels had jacks for headphones, not the little kind that pop into an mp3 player or phone, but big old RCA jacks where real music could be heard. Students had the opportunity to stop at the “media center,” so far ahead of it’s time, and request an album to be played for just their study time at just their carrel.

Needle on vinyl and Joni would reach into my soul as I listened to Ladies of The Canyon day after day and pretended to study. Morning Morgan Town, Real Good for Free, Big Yellow Taxi, Woodstock and so many other soul stirring ballads spoke to me as I prepared for whatever life might have in store. Music opened my imagination and I was invited to dream.

Two short semesters at a community college- they changed my life. I went alone. No one from the town I’d grown up in or the High School that just felt like family a few short weeks ago was there and yet somehow- the best of education happened to me –I found my way.

I believe in quality public education. I’m the product of a great public education. I remember what it was like to be that lonely kid and not to feel like I was in a candy store- taking whatever I wanted… that would come years down the line at another university… but instead, at the age of 18, feeling like someone had thrown out just the lifeline I needed to take the next step into the world of growing up. When I lost faith in myself there were people who made it their job to not only teach me- to not just plant a seed- but the reawaken that which so many great educators had given themselves fully too for so many years.

For their love, when I was lost and lonely, I’m forever grateful. Can’t imagine what my life would be today without my time at Golden West.

Time Away

It’s been far too long… but we use to schedule 2 or 3 days off every few months or so just to get away. Don’t do it much anymore- but I still highly recommend it. Even when we couldn’t afford it and stuck it on a credit card- it helped us, emotionally, through some of life’s challenges we all face. Think I can safely say we miss it… I’m guessing our adult children do as well.

When the kids were little- we alternated between places and times where we’d take the kids with us: skiing, to the beach for a couple of days, etc… to when it would just be the two of us and we’d have a gracious friend stay with the kids. One of our favorite getaways was Aliso Creek- familiar surroundings –golf, we golfed together, -and the ocean… hard not to find a little rest and healing with beach, water, waves and a gentle evening breeze.

That’s our son John- 18 or so –in front of La Jolla Shores,one of our all time favorite get away spots, surrounded by our kayak and fishing gear. Think Debi and I had taken a break and John visited us from nearby Point Loma Nazarene University… Don’t remember if we caught fish- rigged those boats to catch big game…and mostly just got an incredible work out from them: garage to truck, up onto racks, strapping them down, everything into the truck, then assembling the things in the dark on the sand, paddling for miles- literally –with a gps, fish finder, carrying live bait… then paddling miles back in – the whole process in reverse back to Riverside with a good wash down before returning everything to the garage!

And I RAN- in the dark -each morning before doing that. Now it wears me out just writing about it! What a difference a decade makes.

Taking a rare break from Jackets for Jesus tonight. I’m still sick, and didn’t want to infect a couple hundred guys on the streets. Instead I’m doing what each of us- those who’ve served together on the streets for years –does when the rare night comes that we’re not all together. I’ve watched the clock and prayed. They’re getting ready to leave the church, they’re at McDonald’s, now they should be getting started and serving, they’re on their way home… soon they should be getting to the church- provided the van didn’t break down… and I can’t sleep… because I’m not where I know I belong; with them.

Belonging- it’s why Debi and I use to take an occasional Monday through Wednesday away together… -it’s why we took our kids to all the places we’ve been and the spots they fell in love with… -and it’s why a simple picture like this makes me smile: I belong… we belong.

Kayaking, surfing, running, sailing, cycling, fishing… the list is long but it’s not about doing, it’s about belonging- someplace – having a community that we can relate to and with – it’s essential to who we are as people- it’s why we write, why we’re on fb- we long for intimacy, the knowledge that we belong- it’s our deepest quest and at The Heart of what we were created for – we belong together.

Missed being with the team because I was sick. Gave me the opportunity to think of each of them by name. To remember just how much they mean to me and how thankful I am to belong. Also reminded me that I probably ought to take Debi away for a couple of days once I’m feeling better. Just might even invite the kids and the grandkids!

We belong together.

ericdenton.com

we belong together…