The nonprofit social enterprise, which mainly works with , provides financial services, health education, agriculture and business technical training and more. Coloradans can most easily support its cause by buying shopping totes, jewelry, ornaments and more created by over 30 .

On Thursday evening, more than 40 people gathered to do just that at Convivio Café, a women and immigrant-owned, Guatemalan-inspired café at 4935 W. 38th Ave. in Denver. Guests chatted and munched on traditional Guatemalan snacks, such as canillitas de leche, or condensed milk soft candy, while the latest handmade designs were displayed for the Master Weavers Collection exhibition opening.

Friendship Bridge’s communications coordinator Marta Julia Ixtuc Cuc traveled from the Central American nation for the occasion.

“We’re changing lives,” she said. Ixtuc Cuc spent two years in the U.S. for education, then, upon returning to Guatemala, she had “this big responsibility of giving back to my community.”

That obligation led her to Friendship Bridge, which runs 11 branch offices throughout Guatemala, plus its small team in Lakewood.

The nonprofit maintains a staff of over 200 in total, with the majority in the Central American country, said chief development officer Nicole Eubanks.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., she pointed to the significance of Friendship Circles, which operate as volunteer groups that educate, advocate and raise funds for the nonprofit. Evergreen, Genesee and Foothills are all home to circles in Colorado, on top of others in California, Texas and Wisconsin.

Eubanks hopes to start another one in the south metro area in the coming months.

Joan Crawford, an Applewood resident, accompanied a friend who belongs to the Foothills Friendship Circle to Thursday’s event. She’s frequented similar events held with the aim of empowering women around the globe.

“Like any woman who is living today, you gravitate toward helping or thinking of ways to support other women,” she said.

This year’s – part of a report that provides findings on gender inequality internationally – ranks Guatemala as 113 out of 146 countries in gender equality. That’s the poorest performance by a Latin American and Caribbean nation.

Comparatively, Iceland tops the list, and Nicaragua holds the No. 7 spot. The U.K. sits at 22 and the U.S. at 27.

The majority of Guatemala’s almost 18 million residents – 56% – identifies as mestizo, or a mix of Spanish and Amerindian, and an additional 42% identify as Mayan. More than half of the country’s population resides in rural areas, according to the .

The youngest and most populous Central American nation, Guatemala is described as a “predominantly poor country” that struggles with health and development, malnutrition, literacy and awareness of contraception – and the indigenous population suffers “disproportionately,” according to Factbook.

In Guatemalan cities, “we’re just like in the U.S.,” with opportunities for women, said Maya Colop-Morales, manager of the Handmade program. Rural communities tend to lean on traditional patriarchal systems, although “the whole country’s not like that,” she added.

Originally from Guatemala, she lived in New York for a time, then returned to her home country to start her own business and eventually join Friendship Bridge.

Colop-Morales’ specific program – Handmade by Friendship Bridge – has sold thousands of products, supporting artisans like Valerin Bin Pop. When imagining the future, the 18-year-old indigenous Maya Poqomchiʼ woman wants to open a textile store with her mom and run a small restaurant.

The recent high school graduate used to join her sisters in helping their single mother sell prepared foods and maintain a weaving business. Now, she works with her mom full-time.

“I am fascinated with weaving textiles and combining colors because I can express my imagination in them,” Bin Pop said.

The Handmade program presents “this opportunity that women start talking about money,” Colop-Morales said.

Established in 1990 by founders and doctors Ted and Connie Ning, Friendship Bridge focused on impoverished communities in Vietnam, then expanded to Guatemala in 1998. Among its current offered services are different types of loans, lines of credit, a mentoring network, education sessions, agriculture credit and training, business training and the Handmade program.

“I do see the change,” Colop-Morales said. “Friendship Bridge is truly making an impact.”

“I thought it was really undignified she had to sit in the dirt to wait for the bus,” Warren said. “Already, our society doesn’t think highly of buses as a way to get around, and this just added to that perception.”

With that in mind, Warren collected wood he found abandoned around his neighborhood and built a bench emblazoned with the phrase “Be Kind” on the seat. The 28-year-old Denverite carried his creation to the bus stop and plopped it down, creating a spot to take a load off where there previously wasn’t.

“You walk around, and you’ll see so many bus stops in our city that are not serviced by something as simple as a bench, and it can make a big impact,” he said. “People need to sit down.”

As of March, the Regional Transportation District maintained 9,720 active bus stops across its eight-county region, said Brandon Figliolino, RTD community engagement specialist. He could not say how many of those stops have shelters or benches.

“The benches and shelters at bus stops are mostly owned by advertising agencies contracted by the municipalities or the cities/counties themselves,” Figliolino said. “The municipalities in which RTD bus stops are located all require permits to install shelters and benches. RTD does not install amenities at bus stops that are not located on RTD property.”

Warren dabbled in woodwork for most of his life as a hobby, but it took on new meaning during the pandemic as he began researching what elements impacted cities positively and negatively. As someone without a car, Warren was hyper-focused on improving city transportation and began to notice accessibility and infrastructure issues on his daily commutes.

Around the beginning of the year, Warren read about the Charlotte Urbanists, a North Carolina group of activists who work on improving their urban environment. Warren was inspired after learning about their group’s building of benches to put at bus stops, and he decided he could do the same in Denver.

Since January, Warren built three benches, dropping one at the Sheridan Station bridge, another near Sheridan and West Colfax Avenue and the third at Sheridan and West Eighth. Last week, Warren planned to drop another at West First Avenue and Knox Court.

The bench at the Sheridan Station bridge has since gone missing — Warren doesn’t know who scooped it up — but he’s not deterred.

Figliolino said RTD would not remove a non-permitted bench from a bus stop and that the responsibility to remove it would be on an adjacent property owner.

Anyone who would like to request a “bus stop amenity” like a bench or shelter can contact the city or county where they live to request one, Figliolino said. Denver residents can contact 311 or visit PocketGov.com.

“A big part of it for me is to draw attention to the fact that our city’s public transit infrastructure goes beyond what rail lines exist,” Warren said. “It comes down to the human needs of using that transit, which includes good seating, shady seating, ways to keep the rain off you. All those are important for creating a city where people happily take the bus and light rail.”

Warren said he finds scrap wood from construction projects in his area and can cobble together a bench in the side yard of his West Colfax apartment in a few hours. He makes note of bus stops without seating while he’s out and about and then carries the benches to their destination when he finds a good spot.

Local pedestrian activist Jonathon Stalls featured Warren on TikTok, showing him dropping off one of his benches, and that social media spotlight already inspired others to reach out to him to join his cause.

“This world is very big and has very big problems and it’s incredibly easy to feel powerless against those problems,” Warren said. “It’s good to feel informed and in touch, but if I spend all day worrying about those problems, I’m going to be an empty vessel. Instead, I’m going to worry about a bus stop in my neighborhood, and I can fix that and then I feel full. I can’t change the world, but I can change my little world.”

This story is part of The Denver Post’s Faces of the Front Range project, highlighting Coloradans with a unique story to share. Read more from this series here.

Hard work and education led Castinado to another field: technology. He is a technology executive in merchant services at the Bank of America in Denver.

And he has another box on his resume: inventor. Castinado has received 109 patents on ideas related to banking services and has filed applications for more than 200.

In 2021, Bank of America was granted 512 patents, a record for the company and up 16% from 2020. They include new developments in artificial intelligence, data analytics and payments.

Russell Kendall, Castinado’s manager, said in an email that the advancements in technology pursued by Bank of America employees give the company “extraordinary opportunities to make financial services more innovative, seamless and convenient.”

Bank of America believes innovation isn’t just reserved for a select group of people, but is everybody’s responsibility, said Kendall, who has been granted more than 20 patents.

“We think this approach encourages ideas to emerge organically and in direct response to a client need or challenge,” Kendall said.

That approach appeals to Castinado. He said some of the best ideas are born at the end of meetings when people are talking and bouncing ideas off each other.

“When I come up with an idea a lot of times it’s on the back of an envelope,” Castinado said. “The best success I’ve had is through collaboration.”

He said most of his patents include co-authors. His inventions largely focus on innovations in how payments are made and transferred. Castinado said a lot of his inspiration comes from looking at everyday problems “that we think somebody has already solved.”

Castinado has proposed seeking a patent for a payment method he pondered while waiting in the drive-thru of a coffee shop during the height of the coronavirus pandemic.

“I thought, ‘I’m handing my credit card to somebody who just had their hands on somebody else’s credit card,’ ” Castinado. “I’m not a germaphobe, but I just thought there has to be a better way to expand how you use contactless payment.”

He started thinking about using a mobile, near frequency communication device that would link with the sales register in the business and automatically make the payment.

“Now you’re communicating back and forth without ever having to take out your credit card,” Castinado.

The bank is looking at applying for a patent for the process.

Castinado said it’s exciting for him to help people apply for their first patent. The inventions are the intellectual property of the bank, but the individual’s name is registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Employees receive wooden plaques with a diagram of the patent. Castinado hung several of his plaques on a wall at his home in Northglenn.

“But my son took over that room,” Castinado said. “He refurbished it to make it his bedroom, so I’ve got stacks of these plaques that are waiting for a new home.”

Castinado has worked at Bank of America since a consulting job he took there in 2008 turned into a full-time position. He had worked for a number of companies, large and small, in the U.S. and other countries, and had his own technology consulting business. Castinado wasn’t looking for a permanent gig, but he liked the culture of the company, which is headquartered in Charlotte, N.C.

What has been a 32-year career for the 53-year-old Castinado had its genesis when two close school friends in Nebraska declared they wanted to be system analysts. “I had no idea what that meant, but I said, ‘Yeah, OK, if that����ap what they’re going to do that’s what I’m going to do.'”

He was heeding advice his father had given him. “I remember him saying if there are people you admire, see what they’re doing and do what they’re doing.”

Castinado also observed his father and his entrepreneurial spirit. While his family lived in Mitchell, Neb., his parents owned a restaurant and a Mexican movie theater. His father did work helping other migrants become U.S. citizens.

Castinado went on to college and earned a degree in computer information systems. He worked in the telecommunications industry and branched out to logistics and financial services. Castinado said he embraced the focus on innovation at Bank of America.

“My innovative curiosity and my thrive to work hard, my cultural upbringing and the values that were instilled early on in my life, just really melded” with the job, he said.

Hanson’s work as what she calls a “micro farmer” and her collaboration with other people of color and underserved communities in the Denver area recently earned her recognition from program. She also received a $25,000 grant in the company’s Heroes to CEOs competition.

Bob Evans Farms, which sells its food products in grocery stores across the country, also provides mentorship for veterans, Hanson said. That alone is valuable, she said.

The grant will help, too. “Now, this year, I have money upfront to pay my vendors,” Hanson said.

Her business, will also be able to host community events and continue to support other entrepreneurs by using her skills as a photojournalist to help get the word out for them.

Hanson was involved in journalism in high school and worked as a photographer and in communications when she joined the U.S. Air Force straight out of high school. She was stationed at Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany. She met her husband, a fellow airman, there.

“I needed college money. I needed life experience and I needed to be on my own. The Air Force presented that experience,” Hanson said. “Of course, when you’re 18, you have no idea what you’re really signed up for.”

She covered all kinds of events, from VIP visits to the base to crime scenes. Hanson was a medical photographer at the hospital. Her last assignment was in the morgue.

“I spent eight years in the military. I saw a lot of really hard things,” Hanson said. “I saw heroes and I saw some of the most heinous things. There was no way to process it.”

Hanson said at the time, the military really didn’t have a way to help people to heal. “They were just like ‘You’re a broken soldier, you’re a broken airman. You have to move on.’ ”

Hanson and her husband moved to California, where she grew up. She stepped away from photography and storytelling. She took a class in plant biology and liked it, but didn’t see it leading to a career.

During that time, Hanson became a mother. Her three children, who are schooled at home, were diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. The family moved to Colorado in 2016. Hanson’s husband lived in the Denver area while his father was stationed at the now-closed Lowry Air Force Base.

“Our life in California just wasn’t panning out the way we wanted it to. It was a faster pace and we didn’t want to raise kids there,” Hanson said. “And knowing that we had to home-school, we wanted more space.”

Her path to farming wasn’t a straight one. Hanson was at an alternative medicine conference where people were talking about the role of psychedelic substances.

“And this one guy said, ‘I’m into chickens.’ And I was, ‘I don’t know about you.’ ”

That’s when she learned about Veterans to Farmers, which trains veterans in agriculture and connects them with other programs and grants. The goal is to give veterans an opportunity to learn new skills as well as ways to recover from trauma and PTSD.

Hanson signed up for a multiweek course and hands-on learning through a partnership between Veterans to Farmers and the Denver Botanic Gardens, which hosts the program at its Chatfield Farms site in Littleton. She learned about planting, harvesting and tending crops.

“I thought it sounded like an amazing opportunity. I was also just incredibly sad and depressed and was willing to try anything to be my healthiest version at the time for my kids and my partner,” Hanson.

And for herself, she added. Hanson grows herbs and other plants on a quarter of an acre where she and her family live in east Denver. She also has plots at Chatfield Farms.

Hanson uses lavender and other ingredients raised by local farmers to make bath and wellness products, which she sells online, through women-owned boutiques and community-supported agricultural groups.

Farming led Hanson to pick up her cameras again and resume telling stories. She uses her communication skills to tell the stories of such organizations as Veterans to Farmers, , the , the and the farm business

“I came to farming for my mental health. I didn’t think I would get back to photography, storytelling, any of that,” Hanson said. “But it was another door that opened. I care about the challenges for veterans, for Black women, for people who are systematically underrepresented outdoors across the board.”

Farming has changed her, Hanson said. It has taught her about adaptability and resilience.

“I believe that it����ap made me a better friend, a better partner, a better mom,” Hanson said. “It’s grounded me.”

Updated May 18 at 9:50 a.m. to correct name of awards program.

This story is part of The Denver Post’s Faces of the Front Range project, highlighting Coloradans with a unique story to share. Read more from this series here.

Frances, who has been taking photographs for six decades, also keeps busy as a writer, author, publisher, traveler and Denver homemaker, among other pursuits. During a recent interview at her University Park home on a sunny afternoon, Frances was amped about publishing, literature, history and the future.

A professional photographer since 1972, Frances enjoys travel, she’s versed in international photography and photojournalism. As a writer, she’s penned magazine stories, web articles and books.

A lifetime member of the Professional Photographers of America, Frances teaches photography workshops at OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute), a continuing education program through the University of Denver, for adults over age 50. She’s been recognized by the PPA for having received 100 teaching awards from the organization over the course of her teaching career.

The owner of Photo Mirage Books, founded in 2018, Frances has self-published several photo books including “Fragments of Spirit: 60 Years: A Photographers Recollections of Taos Pueblo, the Region and its Arts”. She champions photo-art book design.

Frances first went to Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, as a child in the late 1950s with her family. It was the start of a lifelong love affair with a magical place, its people, architecture, landscape and culture.

“I was just agog,” Frances recalled. “I was absolutely fascinated.”

Frances discovered the camera as a young woman while an exchange student at Heidelberg University in Germany. She earned a master’s degree from the University of Colorado at Boulder in comparative literature.

“At first I really didn’t know what it was all about, but I loved looking through the viewfinder,” Frances recalled. “I discovered that the camera wasn’t a barrier, it just happened to start conversations. I pointed it at people and it became an in.”

Frances has been pointing cameras at folk ever since, including thousands of brides and grooms.  She’s photographed more than 4,000 weddings and events and has authored and published books on weddings, wedding photography and wedding dresses.

Wendy Walberg, a local attorney, first met Frances in 1980 when she hired the wedding photographer. The women became friends, and Frances has been taking professional photographs of Walberg and her family every since.

“There is never a time when you interact with Sara when you are not fascinated by what she is doing,” Walberg said. “She is just expressive, and entertaining and engaging. She has great ideas and lot of enthusiasm. She is enthusiastic about everything.”

Over the years Frances photographed Walberg’s sister’s wedding and their mother’s 80th birthday celebration. When Walberg’s eldest daughter, Erin, died in 2017, Frances combed her photo archives and produced a photo of Erin that is among Walberg’s dearest keepsakes.

“All of my bookshelves are filled with photos taken by Sara,” Walberg said. “I adore her and consider her my friend. She knows my family and she’s always been there, over a lot of time and a lot of places.”

When taking photographs, Frances goes a bit old school, she still prefers to peek through a viewfinder rather than view an LCD display. Still, she enjoys, practices and excels at virtual editing of photographs, in contrast to her viewfinder habit. Frances also embraces taking photographs with iPhones, a practice she often relies on. She experienced radical change in photography.

“I use to develop film” in a darkroom with liquid chemicals, Frances recalled. “It was a disaster, I had allergies, I would get nasty red hives. I was very glad to move into the computerized world, although it wasn’t easy. This is what’s so exciting, that there is always something new. I’m a pixel surgeon now.”

Whether photographing a wedding or an event, or taking photographs entirely of her choosing, at her leisure for pleasure or as a photo journalist for an upcoming book, she has several in the works, Frances, like most photographers, if not all, pursues basic core principles.

“The light is really exciting,” she said as brilliant sunlight streamed into a room at her home. “Getting to the right place at the right time and knowing what your are going to see is crucial. This shooting business is pretty serious. Do you ever sweat and get nervous when you’re shooting? I still do.”

As Frances thumbs through her book on the Taos Pueblo, she has fond recollections of her work, where it has taken her and the people she has met, including friendships she’s nurtured.

“It was 60 years in the making,” she said proudly. “Now it’s a big deal, it is history.”

Frances and her husband, Karl, remodeled their Denver home, converting a brick residence into an adobe dwelling. Karl, an artist who works in metal design and fabrication, built and installed unique, eye-catching downspouts on their home’s exterior. The couple loves Denver and has no desire to live anywhere else, but they’re thrilled with the pueblo look they’ve given their home.

“Artists, writers and everyone in the West love adobe,” Frances said.

Her book, Fragments of Spirit, published in 2020, is: “Dedicated to the Taos People and the wonderous place that is their home — and to all those who would preserve the heritage and dignity of Indigenous Peoples everywhere.”

“Michael’s value is that he is kind of a prodigy child,” said Deborah Walker, host of KUVO Jazz’s radio show “The Gospel Train.” “He is so gifted and has an extraordinary ear. He’s able to play any type of music. He accompanies all types of individuals from classical to pop to gospel even though his mainstay is the gospel industry.”

Williams, 52, started as a musical child prodigy singing at Denver’s King Baptist Church with his siblings from the time he was a toddler.

“My dad treated us like we were the Jackson 5,” Williams said. “I remember being as young as 2, and we had to rehearse six weeks straight for an Easter program.”

By 9, Williams taught himself to play the piano by ear after his mother gave him his first lesson. Williams’ late father played the accordion and was an understudy for the Temptations, he said.

“At an early age, I was able to hear different notes,” Williams said. “I used to think I was crazy hearing all these things. I was so sensitive to sound, and I couldn’t read music yet.”

Williams played the trumpet, sang and tickled the ivories so well that, by age 13, he performed for gospel choirs across Denver, and, by 16, he was directing adult choirs. Williams recorded his first CD at 16 with Earth, Wind & Fire’s lead vocalist Philip Bailey, who grew up in Denver.

Decades later, Williams is still entertaining Denver audiences. He has played with legends passing through over the years — Josh Groban, gospel singer Yolanda Adams, Sinbad — but prefers to play for his community and teach up-and-coming artists what he knows.

Williams cast a wary glance toward his wife, Jendayi Harris, when asked to recount a typical week in his life.

“You’re going to make me say that in front of my wife?” Williams said. “She’s going to say I’m too busy.”

Nearly every morning, Williams plays the piano and sings for funeral services at Taylor Funeral and Cremation Services. On Mondays and Wednesdays, Williams teaches music classes at Aurora’s William Smith High School. During the other days of the week, he teaches private music lessons in piano, vocal, composing, theory and performance. Every Sunday, he plays piano and sings for King Baptist Church like he’s been doing most of his life.

Williams also teaches online Bible study classes at his ministry, the .

While the schedule is full, Williams said he is blessed to have made a career out of his passion.

“Music has saved my life,” Williams said. “A lot of people in the Black community were getting involved in gangs and those kinds of things when I was growing up, but music kept me off the streets and engaged and kept me in the church and saved my life from destroying myself because there was a lot of other options around me. I just love performing.”

It’s clear performing is where Williams is most comfortable. Shy in person, Williams said he blooms on stage.

Settling down in front of the keyboard in his office, Williams took a breath before diving into piano improvisation.

“Let’s see if we get any complaints from the neighbors,” Williams said, pointing toward the hallway of the mixed-use office space.

As a beautiful melody filled the room, his shoulders relaxed. His fingers flew. A grin took over his face.

“I wish I could explain what it feels like when I play piano,” Williams said. “I get to be creative. I just get into it. It’s been my go-to in times of life challenges. Music is the universal language. I believe in music, and I believe in love, and I believe in God.”

This month, Williams has been the musical director for “History of African American Music,” a journey through U.S. history from 1920 to 1970 featuring blues, jazz, gospel and soul put on by the  The “History of African American Music” has its last show at 7:30 p.m. Saturday at Aurora’s Grandview High School, 20500 E. Arapahoe Road. Tickets are available at .

“A lot of people said if I would have left Colorado, I probably would have been bigger but I like to blossom where I’m planted,” Williams said.

As the musical director, Williams is responsible for teaching and arranging all the program’s music, teaching the singers all the notes and harmonies, selecting who’s going to lead what song and compiling and teaching the band their notes. Williams also plays piano during the performance.

“When I first heard of him, I thought he was just a gospel guy,” said Florence Ayers, executive director of the Colorado Black Arts Festival. “Boy was I wrong. He can do it all, and he’s just so good at it. He’s just masterful. The show is getting rave reviews from our audience surveys.”

This story is part of The Denver Post’s Faces of the Front Range project, highlighting Coloradans with a unique story to share. Read more from this series here.

Willis, standing in the door of his home in Denver’s Park Hill neighborhood, said he’s been getting the daily hot meals for a little while.

“And he’s real good at bringing them. I appreciate him so much,” said Willis, motioning toward Abels. “He always greets me with a smiling face.”

“Underneath the mask,” Abels said.

For the past two years, just before the coronavirus pandemic hit, Abels signed up to help with the program. The organization prepares and delivers an average of 600,000 meals a year out of its kitchen at its headquarters in the Five Points neighborhood.

From 500 to 600 hot meals are delivered each weekday and about 750 boxes with a five-day supply of frozen meals are delivered each week to people who are homebound.

Abels and other volunteers provide the people power to ensure that those who aren’t able to go shopping or fix their own meals don’t go without food.

“All of these clients for the most part, they don’t get out, they don’t have mobility. This is their one hot meal a day,” Abels said.

After being in the corporate world and running his own communications consulting business, Abels was looking for a way to contribute that was “very on the ground, really grassroots.”

“I had known about Volunteers of America and Meals on Wheels and I saw something one day that said they were looking for drivers and I sort of put that in the back of my head,” Abels said.

“What better thing to do than to help people out who are really in a situation,” he said.

The 70-year-old Abels, who moved to Denver from Chicago 43 years ago, worked a little bit in the VOA kitchen where the food is prepared but likes delivering the meals better.

“I like the interaction with the people even if it����ap just, ‘Hi how are you, it����ap good to see you. You doing OK today?'”

Abels has gotten to know his clients. In some cases, he knocks on the door to let them know their food has arrived and waves to them. Other clients ask him to put the food in the freezer for them. If it snows, he has asked clients if they want him to shovel their walk.

Abels also fills in when other drivers can’t make it, said Natalie Gill, a marketing program manager at VOA. A total of about 150 people drive the coolers and boxes to central drop-off points and pick up the food to take to individual homes.

“There’s a pretty long wait list right now with certain areas with Meals on Wheels because we don’t have the volunteers. We’re always in need of Meals on Wheels volunteers,” Gill said.

Roughly 130 people are currently on a waiting list to receive the meals. Clients must be 60 or older and live within the seven-county delivery area. There is no set cost for the meals and people pay what they can or nothing.

Abels started out driving a route on Thursdays and added two contiguous routes on Fridays. Gill said Abels is willing to take extra shifts and fill in when other volunteers cancel at the last minute.

“That’s huge for us because things come up and we get a lot of cancellations,” Gill said. “Sometimes staff members need to fill in or you just kind of have to figure it out as you go.”

Program managers said Abels goes above and beyond and his “connection to the clients always shines through,” she added.

Being a Meals on Wheels driver is one of the safer ways to volunteer during the pandemic, Gill said. “You’re alone in your car, delivering meals to the client’s door.”

When he started making deliveries, Abels equipped himself with gloves, masks and hand sanitizer. On a recent delivery day, he pulled into the parking lot of a neighborhood church to pick up the boxes and coolers full of food for the people on his route.

Abels pulled out the lists that match people’s names with the food they get. Some clients get just two hot meals a week. People are provided with emergency boxes with frozen or nonperishable food in case of bad weather.

“On Fridays, in addition to the hot meal we deliver a two-day frozen box so that they have a meal Saturday and Sunday,” Abels said.

Hundreds of people keep the wheels rolling for the program, Abels added. They include the cooks, people who box the food, the drivers and companies that donate the coolers and other items.

“The need is, sadly, way too great. You can do a little part and it����ap real,”  Abels said. “I would say that for a really small investment in time, and it could be as little as two hours a week or even two hours a month, the reward that you get is far bigger.”

For more information about Meals on Wheels, call  303-294-0111.

“Those look like squirrel tracks — could be the ones I used to watch from my window every day,” he said, scanning the scorched and denuded trees lining the alley beyond his incinerated garage, a smile sneaking across his grizzled face. “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day.”

It’s through animals that the 60-year-old Iowa native takes inventory of his blackened and flattened neighborhood, pointing out in a 360-degree sweep which creatures survived and which perished in the Marshall fire. Two dogs were rescued from houses across West William Street from his, but a block to the west, a tortoise, turtle and cockatiel weren’t so lucky.

“It was heartbreaking — it wakes me up at night,” said Crawford, who grabbed his two cats before escaping the advancing flames. “To think how utterly dependent they are on us.”

The wind-fueled wildfire that swept through Superior and Louisville, destroying nearly 1,100 homes in a matter of hours, prompted Crawford to start developing an app that will allow neighbors to alert one another during emergencies that they have animals that need rescuing. Hundreds of Boulder County families have been desperate to find out what happened to their pets in the wake of the Dec. 30 fire.

“I was driving by houses that had animals inside that would be dead in 90 minutes and I’m unaware of that,” Crawford said. “I had time to rescue a lot of animals but I didn’t know they needed rescuing.”

The work on the app is being done by the nonprofit organization, , which Crawford founded a decade ago and still leads today as executive director. Animal Help Now puts people across the United States in contact with local wildlife rehabilitation organizations should they come across an injured or orphaned animal, like a bird having flown into a window or a bear cub abandoned after its mother is struck and killed by a car.

The organization also provides contacts to no-kill wildlife handlers who can remove a family of raccoons from an attic or a skunk from under the porch.

“We have the definitive list of humane wildlife control operators,” Crawford said.

While Crawford ran Animal Help Now out of his former Superior home, relying on a group of 30 volunteers to help keep the website going, he said the organization is well backed up on the cloud. Elena Rizzo, research director and wildlife rehabilitator liaison for the organization, said she isn’t surprised by Crawford’s need to jump back into his animal advocacy work so soon after experiencing his own life-altering tragedy.

Since the fire, she said Crawford was busy trying to get information on a moose that someone reported being stuck in a fence in the Colorado mountains (it turned out, upon further investigation, that the moose was fine).

“And immediately he’s trying to help animals in the area,” she said. “I would say Dave goes the extra mile for every animal. He’s one of the most passionate people I know.”

It’s a passion, Crawford said, that stemmed from his work in an Iowa pig slaughterhouse as a teenager. That job opened his eyes to the treatment of animals on factory farms and served as a “catalyst” to making a career working on their behalf.

He started the group Rocky Mountain Animal Defense in the 1990s in Boulder County, and was involved in numerous campaigns to fight animal cruelty and habitat destruction. RMAD took on the company that made Nalgene bottles nearly 20 years ago, highlighting its role in also manufacturing restraint devices for laboratory animals.

Crawford and his group convinced voters in Estes Park to that had been proposed near the entrance of Rocky Mountain National Park, where those same animals roamed freely in their natural habitat. RMAD also fought against the use of animals in Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus productions. In 2017, Ringling Bros. ended operations after nearly a century and a half, in part because of concerns over treatment of its animals.

RMAD later became synonymous with prairie dog preservation and in 1999 took on tea maker Celestial Seasonings after it was discovered that the company on its property in Boulder.

“We were PETA-like,” Crawford said, referring to the group’s more confrontational approach to animal advocacy at the time.

That’s when Dan Hanley knew Crawford best, working alongside him on a campaign to oppose .

“He envisions a world where there is no animal cruelty — where we don’t treat animals as products or the way we treat them today,” said Hanley, who works for a non-profit fundraising firm in California.

He credits Crawford, a vegan for decades, for being “passionate and methodical” and “super smart and super strategic” when it comes to organizing and executing campaigns on behalf of animals. But mostly, he said, it’s about giving animals a few victories in a world that gives them few.

“Dave is just a guy who wants to make the world a better and safer place for animals,” Hanley said.

He earns $17.20 an hour and has published four books.

He inspired other janitors in a movement that led to increased wages.

He spoke outside Congress and met with President Barack Obama in the White House.

“We’re human beings, not animals, and it is hard to live without justice,” Patraca, 57, said recently before riding a bus to his late shift at Coors.

But despite his successes, he’ll return to Mexico because an elderly uncle no longer can manage the farm he left as a boy. And Patraca for two decades hasn’t seen his daughter, now 28, or met his granddaughter, due to his fear that U.S. authorities wouldn’t re-admit him — the plight of millions of immigrant workers who aren’t legal residents.

“It����ap been a huge sacrifice,” he said, “but life is formed with continuous separations and I’ve always maintained the hope that — someday — we’re going to gather together.”

He plans to leave in March 2023, instead of trying to become a legal U.S. resident, and revive the 20-acre farm, at Paso De La Venta, near Veracruz. He’ll grow chilis, tomatoes, lemons, mangoes and tamarinds to sell in local markets, he said. He also plans to produce a new book of poems called, “Without Borders,” about his travels looking for work.

Patraca is “emblematic of a pattern we are seeing with Mexicans choosing to leave the United States,” said Michelle Mittelstadt, spokeswoman for the Migration Policy Institute, a think tank based in Washington, D.C. The institute’s latest analysis of federal data shows that the 10.9 million Mexico-born population in the United States has decreased over the past decade by 780,000 as many voluntarily return to communities they left years ago to earn money.

He had no formal schooling. His father died when he was 5, forcing his mother to leave the farm with him to work in Veracruz. Her friend taught him to read and write, he said, and at 8 he wrote his first poem.

He worked for a blacksmith in Veracruz fanning flames. He shined shoes. He moved to Acapulco where, for seven years, he sold auto parts. He eventually moved north to a factory just south of the U.S. border, where he began to speak up as an activist.

“I love my country,” he said. “But the wages there are nothing.”

Factory colleagues helped him obtain a tourist visa. He entered the United States at Eagle Pass, Texas. “They gave me six months.” That was 2002.

At first in Denver, he hauled materials at a construction site. Then he settled into janitorial work.

He wrote poetry on bus rides from a $550-a-month apartment in Aurora to and from buildings he cleaned. He married, and later separated from his spouse, without securing his U.S. residency status. When landlords raised his rent to $1,200, he moved to the basement of a southwest Denver bungalow owned by a retired Denver Public Schools teacher. This accommodation, for $300 combined with chores such as snow shoveling, shortened his bus commute to 32 minutes.

For the past five years, he’s been cleaning and waxing the floors of the historic Coors brewery, established in 1873 by Adolph Coors — more than 1 million square feet, one of the largest breweries in the world.

It����ap so big that it takes three months for his contractor-run team to clean all the floors before starting again. They scrub using a chemical stripper, vacuum, mop, dry and wax.

He tried to organize fellow janitors at the brewery to join the Service Employees International Union that, representing about 3,000 janitors around Denver, has pressed for higher wages, sick pay and vacation. They voted against unionizing, and Patraca said managers then voluntarily improved working conditions.

He writes in Spanish about workers and migrants. One poem that drew attention, “Justice for Janitors,” appeared in the first of his books, which were published by Icaro Editores in Spanish with translations into English. The poem celebrates the United States as “a beacon of social justice and peace” but with “a suspended dream waiting to be grasped.” It laments how “each time we pause,” owners of companies seemingly “invent new ways to work us harder.”

Other poems address people he met, detained migrants, and civil rights leaders including Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. His books, sold over the internet, have earned about $4,000 in royalties, he said.

Labor union leaders invited him to in Washington, D.C. He remembers how, reading his poems in conference halls, he hoped to awaken workers’ emotions. Instead, when fellow janitors stood up applauding before he had finished, “they triggered emotions in me.”

Those rallies led to a White House visit on the first day of spring 2010. Patraca carries a small photo of himself with Obama. “He put my book in the Library of Congress.”

His labor activist colleagues and workers who attend his periodic ask for guidance.

“He has inspired me to do a good job helping people and be humble,” said Pedro Carillo, 51, a union organizer and friend for 12 years.

Patraca advises education, particularly on the civil rights enshrined in the U.S. Constitution.

“The best labor fight is when workers know their rights before confronting company owners,” he said. “With knowledge, there can be freedom.”

This story is part of The Denver Post’s Faces of the Front Range project, highlighting Coloradans with a unique story to share. Read more from this series here.

“Yes, I got it!” she exclaimed to her friend, who was posing for professional headshots in front of the historic red barn, the snowcapped Rocky Mountains looming in the background. “Look at you! Look at that smile!”

Otaifah, an Iraqi refugee and Aurora resident, fell in love with photography because of her dad. As an engineer, he traveled the world with his vintage camera, coming home with photos that Otaifah still has to this day. Now she photographs as a passion project, shooting everything from headshots and food photos to galleries of her son Al, who has autism, as a way to spread awareness.

“I have a tool to help people, to make people smile,” Otaifah said.

A refugee program counselor by day, Otaifah fled Iraq six years ago after her cousin and other family members were kidnapped and killed by al-Qaeda in Iraq, a precursor to the Islamic State.

Otaifah had witnessed her home country devolving into chaos firsthand when armed men entered the Iraqi-American Chamber of Commerce and Industry, where she worked, in 2006 and .

“I had to hide before fleeing the building,” she recalled.

As Iraq became more and more dangerous, Otaifah had another concern: her son’s education.

“In Iraq, they think autism is contagious,” Otaifah said.

Al was kicked out of three separate kindergartens. After one of them, Otaifah had an “aha” moment.

“The principal told me, ‘You lied about your son’s condition,’ ” Otaifah said. ” ‘We don’t want him here anymore.’ ”

After that, the mother said, she knew she had to fly to the other side of the world so her son could get the care he deserved. Colorado came highly recommended from friends for two reasons, Otaifah said: autism resources and the scenery.

The school experiences in Iraq forged within Otaifah a proud and vocal autism advocate — and she even uses photography to raise awareness for the roughly and countless children with an autism spectrum disorder.

“,” published in 2018 through the Denver Open Media Foundation, showcased Al’s life — playing at the beach, taking baths, enjoying his beloved toy cars. Al rarely looked at the camera, something that initially broke his mother’s heart as she tried to photograph him.

“Parenting a child with autism takes courage and passion!” Otaifah wrote in the photo gallery. “One minute you hate it, and the next time you embrace it.”

As an immigrant, acclimating to the U.S. hasn’t always been easy. Otaifah got her degree in optical engineering and previously worked as a graphic designer, yet when she first came to Colorado, she was waking up before dawn to start her 4 a.m. shift at Panera Bread.

“All arrivals have these stories,” she said. “You have to wipe the table and start all over again.”

There was the time in King Soopers when an older man told her, “We don’t want you here.” Otaifah acknowledged that some people, especially in Colorado’s mountain towns, look at her funny when she speaks in her native Arabic.

But Otaifah also hangs onto the funny memories of her early-America days — such as the time when she rushed, famished, into a Wells Fargo bank, thinking it was a restaurant.

Now, however, Colorado feels like home.

“Home is not rocks and buildings,” she said. “It’s a feeling, a sense of belonging.”

Otaifah made it official in September when she took the oath to become a U.S. citizen — the “best day of my life,” she said.

“The same flag I’m pledging to is the one my cousin was killed over,” Otaifah said. “She always wished to come to America.”

This story is part of The Denver Post’s Faces of the Front Range project, highlighting Coloradans with a unique story to share. Read more from this series here.