Tag Archives: Eric Denton
Lifted Up – to See Jesus – Sunday, March 31, 2019
Helpful Honda Hero of the Week Interview – Thanks KNX!
My Wake Up Call
In retrospect, perhaps the most interesting part of my nightmare was that the actress Angie Harmon, of Law and
Order on TV, was with me to represent our family; Debi, the kids, my siblings, to me. In character throughout the dream, not in front of a judge or jury, but trying to convince me… talking about my life.
Direct and yet kind, almost compassionate; I knew she was telling the truth. Hated every word she said.
In my dream I was in the first stages of Alzheimer’s. Memories were beginning to disappear. Every day, yet important things; like names, words, events. I still knew people, most people, but was at a point when life as I’d once known it was forever slipping away. My family had recognized my dementia but I was unwilling or unable to believe them – hence Angie Harmon as an intercessor on their behalf.
It was a dream, who knows why my subconscious dragged that actress into it.
We wandered through a mall, went up an escalator, she, briefcase in hand, explained that soon I wouldn’t remember Debi, my family, the people around me, her, this conversation… I knew she was right… I was still cognizant enough that the image she painted frightened me… but even in the dream I remembered when, in real life, we looked forward to mom not being afraid of what she’d forgotten. The moment her tension would be gone. I stood on an escalator, in a mall created by my mind, and imagined my kids praying that moment of release would come for me.
It was all so real that it shook me out of my sleep.
Something about Angie Harmon so elegantly walking me through the loss of my mind, thoughts and life while my family, so certain of my impending demise, watched on. I could see them watching us as she talked, I listened. Each of them filled with that familiar dread, on the edge of weeping. Me, trying to grasp the hopelessness of even knowing, when there was so little I could do.
Even in my dream I wanted to fight against the disease if for no other reason than to rail against the indignity of it all. On waking up I felt like I was fighting still – while being consumed completely by loss. Total and complete loss…
I suspect every child who’s lived through the last years of a parent’s life, watching the memories fade into dementia; the words, the moments, the love – just waiting until there’s no recognition when you walk in the room – no glint in the eye or warm embrace, only a stranger… wonders when the same might happen to them.
A familiar face but no name, a song you once knew but now the title escapes you, a memory that’s so real, so fresh but you can’t give it clarity – it’s beneath the surface – and you wait – pray for it to bubble up and you wonder… is this the beginning?
I dreamt it was me watching every memory fade away. I suspect it shouldn’t frighten me. I remember talking with Dad one Friday afternoon, he, sitting in his recliner, mind coming in and out after a devastating stroke, mom next to Debi on the little love seat – thumbing through a magazine – spending ten to twenty minutes on just one page, staring, until Debi encouraged her to go forward. Suddenly Dad leaned forward, held out his hand the way he’d do so often while preaching, while taking in the scope of a great point, and then looking me directly in the eyes and saying “I always knew I was going to die. I just never imagined it would be like this.”
It seemed so ignoble an end for two who had lived so great an adventure, loved so very many, held each of us through our most difficult moments… had held me with such strength. What was I to say to my war hero father, the man who’d led people to build churches, colleges, movements? The one who toured the world and served in so many places? Mom, equally amazing, an author, world traveler, servant to all she met in love – was already beyond asking, beyond her simple sense of wonder… in her pajamas and bathrobe, stuck on the same page of a magazine… what could I say?
His cognizance lasted only a moment – Dad’s piercing blue eyes staring into me – and then it was gone. I’ve thought of it often. Perhaps that’s what slipped into my dream the other night… a simple reminder… we have today. We Have Today.
Life’s adventure, for many of us, will someday slip away like the title of a song we once knew, the theme of a story that once held so much vibrancy for us and now the names, the characters are beyond the veil. We always knew there had to be an ending – we just didn’t think it would be like this…
It was just a dream. Somehow it’s felt like more. Since waking up its made me want to examine again if I’m living fully awake in every area of my life. Because regardless how it all wraps up – it does in fact all wrap up – this part of life. Dad, after serving years in Europe during WWII, ended up dying in his sleep. Mom, who longed to know every detail of our lives, fought for every breath to the end, fully awake, completely unknowing.
The great majority of us don’t get to choose how we die – but we can choose how we live.
I’ve always lived with a certainty that everything’s going to work out. Never felt the need for someone like Angie Harmon to persuade me of my current place in the universe. That said, thankful for the wakeup call. There are so many moments that seem to slip away unrealized. Days that become decades without ever making a bold decision that pushes us just over the edge and into the ride of our lives.
If, like me, you’ve found yourself wondering when something, someone, you know you should know – stay’s just out of reach and you think “Is this it? Is this the beginning of having everything and everyone I know and love ripped away from my consciousness?” Why not choose to build a new memory? A new moment? Why not put everything on the line and jump, try, go, choose, love… brand new?
I’ve lived more than 62 years – I can rest on those decades and struggle to remember the “glory days.” Or I can make today glorious with my decision to call someone, to say “hello,” to make friends, to connect, to reconnect, take up a new hobby, learn new music, start a new adventure and choose today over worrying about what I might lose from yesterday. To choose to be fully present and fully aware for as long as I possibly can, going fearlessly, raging into “that good night” knowing that someday – and probably sooner than at any other time in my life – it will all be wiped away.
I had a dream and it reminded me that we weren’t created to leave a legacy; we were created to live today. It’s what I want to do. Hope I can do it with you. You’re Invited!
The Blessing of Aging and Getting Better
The little I know about wine, I learned the summer of 1976 through the fall of 1978 as a waiter in a private restaurant – a beach club, restricted to members only – that had a phenomenal wine cellar.
The wine cellar was an actual cellar – a beautiful part of the basement – filled with dusty old bottles of mostly European wines. Many were 50 years old or more. Wines bottled at the turn of the 19th century.
In my early 20’s, working my way through college, I was guaranteed 20% of the price of ever bottle I served.
By the end of my first month I’d learned to encourage our guests to try one our full bodied Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux’s – with vintages back to 1919 – kept perfect in our cellars, for a special night like this… It sold for about $120- a bottle.
My take for sharing in the show; running down into the cellar to get a well kept old dusty bottle, carefully wiping it off and presenting the label over my left forearm – now covered with a linen or finely starched white cotton wine napkin – to the host or hostess, the crucial cutting of the seal, careful removal and presentation of the cork and upon approval – pouring a small amount for the host or hostess to swirl about, sniff at and finally sample before serving their guests, was about $25- a bottle. Plus I was tipped on the total meal tab – we were insured a minimum of 20% on every dinner tab. Usually more.
In those years I grew a deep appreciation for a fine bottle of wine – not because I was drinking it – but because 4 bottles in one evening could more than cover my half of a month’s rent with my roommate.
I learned wine not because of the rich, full body of a wonderful Bordeaux, the fickle temperament of a Pinot Noir or the light, yet sweet addition of a fine German Riesling – I had the language and no clue what the reality was. Expensive wine was little more than easy rent money to me.
The fine study of seasonal changes, crop varieties, grape mixtures, local fires and financial failure or success that chefs, clients, fellow waiters and club ownership tried to teach me to embrace and understand as an important part of the aging process that was poured out with each glass simply meant rent, tuition, textbooks, surfboards and little more to me. At 23 the value and wealth that comes with aging was thoroughly lost on me… unless it paid the bills.
These old memories came back today. Wine has taken off in popularity that we never imagined when that little club boasted a wine cellar holding more than a million dollar collection for the member’s access. The French wines – especially the Chateau Lafite Rothschild of any vintage – were my favorite to serve. Opening them, sometimes it smelled like France, like the fall wind blowing warm in from Morocco to further deepen a dark, rich moment before dinner.
Saying something like that was rarely necessary. People who knew what they were doing spoke their way through it. I merely listened and learned. It was a world so different from the one I’d grown up in. I’d pour a glass of wine and think “$15- bucks for that one glass of wine – if they get eight from the bottle – $15-!”
This evening I decided to check some of the prices of the years and wines I remembered. So much money. Some thousands of dollars for a single bottle. Some more… smiling… I thought that somewhere there’s a kid who’s gingerly cutting the seal, carefully removing the cork – praying it isn’t split or cracked – preparing to just dampen the bottom of a snifter for his guest – smiling – all the while serious… understanding this is a ceremony to the host… it’s grown to be a sacred moment… and in the back of the kid’s head he’s thinking: rent! tuition! books! surfboards!
I was that kid for years of my life. Sometimes it doesn’t seem that long ago at all… and I can so clearly remember sneaking moments to myself in the coolness of the cellar – pulling out bottles – curious, reading labels, learning… in those moments I discovered that there’s something of genuine worth and wealth – a rich history – in almost anything, if you’ll take the time to give yourself to understanding that which is foreign to you.
December 5, 1933, the day the 21st amendment to the United States Constitution repealed the 18th amendment – the end of prohibition, making the sale of alcohol legal in the states again. I once sold bottles of wine that had been carefully placed in cellars, before it was illegal, had survived prohibition, only to age into a richer, deeper and much more expensive piece of history – bit of luxury at the dinner table – and one more way for a college kid to pay rent. They became all the better for merely surviving in a dark protected place as someone carefully watched over them.
Wine hasn’t been a part of my life for decades but the lessons learned have stayed with me as I’ve aged and hopefully become of more value to the world around me as I serve. The first time a cork cracked while opening a nearly 60 year old bottle of wine – I retreated to the kitchen – the chef and manager were summoned to remove the cork as I stood by nervously, waiting to get the boot. Cautiously removing the entire cork, pouring a bit into a large cognac snifter, he gingerly pulled away floating remnants as he swished and sniffed – pronouncing it bad – tasting it still, making a face, he handed the bottle to the chef; little more now than expensive vinegar and told me I had nothing to do with it. Go grab another one. Somewhere along the line the bottle, the seal, the storage was mishandled – causing what should have been precious vintage to little more than something for a creative chef to put to work and an old bottle to collect. Nothing, not even the most bitter end, was wasted.
Everyone faces challenges. Some of us leave the vineyard only to age beautifully and become a gift to all who know us. Too many times life – the moment’s we’re mishandled – the severity of it all can make us bitter, full body gone. It’s impossible to tell the good from the bad without taking one simple step – whether it’s wine or people – things need to be opened up. Until then, one doesn’t know if the cellar holds the joy of rent and tuition or merely a bitter end – either way – nothing need be wasted. We each have a part to play.
Others can’t see if we’re bitter or a blessing until they spend time with us and we open up. Just as it’s impossible to hide the fragrance of a fine wine, it’s equally difficult to mask the bitter nature that we’ve kept bottled up. Fortunately for us, we’re not wine, we can choose to change, improve, grow and learn. We can exchange our bitterness and learn to build on our blessings. My prayer for this week is that we’re able to open up in love – build on the challenges and successes we’ve not just survived but often thrived through – and live our lives in celebration together. It’s what we were created for. You’re Invited!
The Life We Never Imagined
My life is different than I’d once imagined it would be, not certain if that’s a universal experience. Is your life what you started out to make it? Did you have an image of where you’d be, what you’d be doing at your current age?
I don’t think I did. Me, in my 60’s, still doesn’t feel like reality, and I’m living it.
Frontloading… doing all the fun stuff first… that’s rarely the way I attack a situation – not even a dinner plate – I’m the one who eats around what I enjoy most, saving the best for last. Examining my time off, travel, time surfing, it would be easy to imagine that I was frontloading and saving all the hard stuff for later on… when maybe I’d be ready for hard stuff.
Some afternoons I’m surrounded by people speaking Spanish that I can’t follow or respond to – we embrace – I put gas in my car, out of my paycheck, to spend several hours driving just for a couple of hours passing out paychecks, money for bills and food, sitting at a table with friends and eating, watching abandoned children play in the safety of the home we built them… it’s an amazing thing…
Some evenings, into the depths of the night, I stand with friends in the heart of urban poverty. Darkness so complete that it chases all but the craziest, the hungriest, the desperate… far from our circle… and we embrace… I shake hands and speak to dozens and dozens of people… I sing out loud – old songs – tell corny jokes – lift my arms and lead those lost in pain to The Lord in prayer. They accept me. We spend an hour or so together on the sidewalks of what was once skid row like the old friends some of us are – some of us have known each other in our weekly one hour gathering for decades – and good things happen where they shouldn’t really… it’s a miracle… so ephemeral that some nights it seems like it must be impossible.
I bury people. Stand at their gravesides and say the final words before a family gets into their cars and says the most difficult so long’s that are ever said – knowing the separation will be impossible to bear. Today it will be Betty. A wonderfully loving mother of friends I hold so dear to my heart. We’ll gather like family. Laugh. Cry. Say goodbye. This couldn’t be me…
Hope. Practical… in a way that applies to the most complex theological issues we face as the created. I strive to bring Hope that heals, holds, reconciles and reconnects. Friday – Good Friday – The Message of the cross. Sunday, Easter Sunday – celebrating the resurrection and our invitation to say “Yes!” to a life that’s bigger than anything we could ever imagine. Life Big enough to salve our heartbreak with Real and Healing Hope, today, forever… I’ll do it this weekend and Lord willing I’ll do it again next weekend. Weekends… It seems like we’d eventually begin to get it right. Not sure why God uses me… except that I said “Yes.” I’m pretty sure that’s what He wants from all of us. “Yes.”
Don’t even remember what the life I once imagined might have looked like… mainly because my blessings… countless blessings… have washed that old life away. I don’t miss it. Wouldn’t trade one afternoon with the people I love in Mexico, the friends I love in the heart of our city, the fellowship I share in our incredible church – a small part of God’s Great Big Kingdom – for even one of those imaginary moments… as fun as they may have once seemed.
My family – in more ways than I’ll ever begin to comprehend – has played such a vital role in making the miracle the life I’m experiencing possible. Each of them, at some point, embraced the incredible calling on our hearts as that of their own. They’ve traveled, served, loved, sacrificed and laughed… giving themselves wholeheartedly to our adventure together. Some moments it feels as if my life, my being, my becoming is a celebration of all their greatest hopes for me.
I stood in the road as our 2 year old grandson refused to – or struggled to call me “grandpa.” He called me “gramp.” Laughing, smiling, almost teasingly with eyes that sparkled he called me “gramp.”
And I felt like a million bucks.
Examine all that’s good in your life. Not the threatening stack of bills or the loss that refuses to let go of your heart… but all that’s good in your life and celebrate. Let God awaken the adventure that was dead within you and enter into this Easter weekend with new Hope. Hope built on the many blessings that you never imagined. They’re there if you’ll take a moment to look for them.
Wonder in this: God, The Uncreated One, loves us and wants to open that which is blind in us to new life. God, The Alpha and Omega, Beginning and the End, is inviting us to a bright morning with the adventure we were created to live out – the one we never imagined – it’s waiting still for the first page to be turned if we’ll only say “Yes.” God, The Great I Am, is inviting us to each other… to a new unity we’ve yet to discover… to love… pervasive and impossible in its power to open eyes, heal and restore that intangible something that we continue to miss in our lives so filled with the meaningless.
We belong together. It’s at the core of each of our earliest hopes, dreams and imaginings. We’re being invited to The Celebration of Creation. RSVP when you feel His Hand on your heart. Say “Yes” to the life that fulfills the dreams we’ve never dared to dream. It’s who you were created to become. It’s why we so desperately need a resurrection. Incredibly… You’re Invited!
Learning to Say “Yes!”
16 year old me – wandering Europe – on adventure!
My parents said “yes.” They gave me money. They drove me to airports, loaded me into vw buses and even dropped me on the side of high desert roads to take off into the wild unknown – often without a return date – no cell phone, internet, any guarantee of future contact. Mom would kiss me and ask “Do you have enough medication?” Dad would give me a hug and say something like: “Don’t forget to call your mom sometime.” Tell me he loved me – maybe slip me another $20- and I’d be off.
My buddy Brad (a frequent traveling companion in my youth) and I were talking the other day about our parents. All of them are gone, with the exception of Mrs. Delk, in her 90’s, in a rest home. In so many ways our folks were different as night and day: Brad’s dad was a lawyer who flew an airplane, mine? a preacher who drove a Rambler. Brad’s folks wandered off and tried things like EST. Mine wandered off until they knew the backstreets of almost every town in Europe (and the world for that matter) and always dreamed of standing one more time on the Ponte Vecchio… anywhere beautiful… away…
But our parents were alike in one way that forever changed us. When we wanted to go, they said “yes.” They encouraged it. They wept through it. They prayed over it. They said “Yes.”
As a society, we say “No” far too often as our children become young adults. We stifle their creativity, self worth, independence, personal determination and spirit of adventure.
We don’t own our children and as they age one of our primary tasks as parents is learning how to let them learn and become on their own – trying and hard as it is to watch, failing and trying again.
Life is a dangerous and risky adventure. Protecting our children from discovering that life that is their’s to live is even more dangerous and risky.
Before my teen years we heard the word “NO” plenty around our house. We also learned the value of doing “the right thing” and to “remember who you are.” On many adventures, in an age before GPS, in foreign lands and unknown places, I discovered that those two important lessons could be my “north star” that would always lead me home.
Palm Sunday, Easter, these days that were filled with so much in the home of my childhood, always make me remember the lessons I learned and make me wish I’d said “Yes!” to my children a little more often. They’re both so brilliant, wonderful and filled with life. I pray I didn’t stifle any of the adventure out of them.
And I remember all the times I headed out the front door – not knowing when I’d be coming back, sometimes not knowing where I was going – but leaving with the security of having parents who somehow, somewhere deep within, longed to nurture my sense of adventure, hugged me with worried, yet loving faces and said “Yes!”
I’m saying “Yes!” to the adventure out ahead of me in the days to come. Hope you will too. There’s so very much of life yet to live.
“Yes!”
when family speaks…
Our nephew Derek Hamer, now 18, he and his brother adopted out of poverty in Kenya by my sister Kathleen Hamer and her husband Dan, tell’s his story. Moving all in it’s own right.
If you’ve adopted children or if you’re adopted, or may be considering adoption, watch Derek’s story – like he says – it’s not finished yet – but will surely touch your heart.
So proud of you, as you share your story, and always.
Uncle Eric
Listen in to the Valentine’s Day Message from Central Community
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