Extraordinary Dental Care Is Right Down the Street

Each day Barenga plays Christian music from his phone, a mix of English and Swahili, and everyone sings along while they work. They pray for each other when someone is ill and praise God when someone has a new grandbaby, which is every six weeks according to Van Dyk.

“A lot of tears and laughter happens in this place,” she said. “I’m usually the one with the tears.”

Patient

“Dr. Slate and her staff are simply the best. No long waits, great attention to cleanliness, and compassionate care using the most up-to-date methods available. Our family trusts Dr. Slate completely.” — Rebecca Ozmun

The group gave Van Dyk an African name — Baraka. It means “blessing.” Her background is in textiles, so she teaches the group new skills and comes up with product ideas.

The biggest challenge for Ahadi is finding the right market for their goods. They struggle to find customers. A potential market in the basement of White Rock UMC is their latest plan to generate new buyers. The goal is to expand the business enough so that they can quit their second jobs and work at Ahadi full-time.

For now, with children and grandchildren to take care of, the salary they receive from Missional Wisdom Foundation is not enough to get by. But the work and the fellowship is sustenance in itself.

“It’s nice to come in and know people care about you physically and spiritually,” Van Dyk says. “I have a second family. I can even sing in Swahili.”

The Ahadi Collective 9125 Diceman Drive themixcoworkingspaces.nexudus. com

Franz Ferdinand Von Spitz

Franz Ferdinand has logged more miles than most canines will in a lifetime. He found his way to East Dallas via Germany, Kuwait and St. Petersburg, Florida. When Gary and Suzanne Grant saw the German Spitz’s happy face at a Florida pet rescue, they knew it was the dog for them. His paperwork was in Arabic on one side. After a bit of research, they learned that a Kuwaiti national with connections to the royal family purchased him in Germany and took him home to Kuwait City. After the owner passed away, a family member brought him to a Miami rescue. When the Grants’ careers took them to Dallas, Franz accompanied them on the road trip, coating their Mazda Miata with hair along the way. This fur ball loves to walk from his Lower Greenville neighborhood to Times Ten Cellars or to Pints and Quarts for a hot dog. There is some debate in the Grant household as to whether Franz is named for the famous Archduke whose assassination ignited World War I or the Scottish indie rock band, but they agree that he is an energetic and loving companion.

Philanthropy Focus

Our neighborhood loves to give back and support the organizations that make it a special place. We will showcase a local nonprofit each month and explain how it impacts the community.

Story by ELISSA CHUDWIN| Photos by DANNY FULGENCIO

Janeta Carter isn’t sure if her son will look for her, but she set up a Facebook profile just in case.

The 5-year-old is the only one of Carter’s six children who was adopted by strangers after she relinquished her parental rights.

Carter, 39, repeatedly plays out the possibilities in her mind. Maybe he’ll grow up wondering where his siblings are, or maybe he’ll be so angry that he screams at her.

“I don’t know what the questions or my answers would be, other than I do just want to know that he’s OK,” she says.

In February, Carter graduated from a yearlong program at Exodus Ministries, a faith-based nonprofit that assists formerly incarcerated women. She regained custody of her 13-year-old, Rachel, and is raising her 1-year-old, Dahlia.

There’s a disconnect when Carter talks about her life before she applied for Exodus, as if she’s talking about someone else.

“I’m just grateful to have myself in a good spot, clean off drugs, working toward something in life,” she says.

Carter was the quintessential rebellious preacher’s kid. She drank and did drugs as a teen, but a car wreck was the catalyst for her opioid addiction. She lost her ear in the collision and later became hooked on the Vicodin she was prescribed.

The most crushing consequence of Carter’s addiction wasn’t several trips to jail or a stint in prison. She wasn’t devastated until the court told her to relinquish her parental rights.

“That’s the only time in my life I considered being gone just might be better,” she says. “At least my kids can say, ‘My mom is dead’ versus ‘My mom chose drugs over us.’ ”

Pregnant, she spontaneously looked up hospitals that help expecting addicts. She admitted herself to Parkland, then Nexus Recovery Cen - ter, which recommended Carter for Exodus’ program.

A few months later, she, Rachel and Dahlia moved into a two-bedroom apartment on Exodus’ property in East Dallas.

“For Janeta, the difference is night and day,” says Exodus’ executive director Susan Stephens. “I don’t think she thought she was going to make it. … It was almost as if being hopeful took too much energy.”

At Exodus, nonviolent offenders reunite with their children and learn to be independent. The nonprofit provides furnished apartments, Christian counseling and evening classes that range from self-defense and budgeting to Bible study. It also partners with local businesses, such as Subway and Smoothie King, to help women find full-time jobs.

The program requires women to work, among a lengthy list of stipulations. They can’t use their phones for six months. They aren’t allowed to have a car, so they must use public transportation. They undergo apartment checks once a month.

“At first, I was like, ‘Oh my God, they are overdoing it. They’re a little too strict, like prison,’” Carter says. “Now everything makes sense, and it’s for a reason.”

By the end of the year, graduates have a job, at least $2,000 in their savings account and, most importantly, the sense that they’re valued, Stephens says.

“We believe in them even while they don’t believe in themselves. I think, for the most part, that really carries them through.”

Stephens is considered a mother figure — one who must navigate between encouragement and discipline. She knows the program is exhausting, and women choose to leave more often than she likes.

“It’s really heavy to realize that we can’t want it for them,” she says.

In 2017, seven out of 19 women accepted into the program graduated.

Arika Nicholas lived at Exodus for six months when she was asked to pack her belongings.

“I drank in the program, used drugs,” she says. “I made a bunch of poor decisions and put a lot of people in jeopardy.”