Eric's Eulogy, delivered by Lt Col Heath Wharton, a student of his at USAFA in 1993...and an officer he mentored for nearly 30 years.
Dear friends and family of Eric Didomenico, thank you for coming today. My name is Heath Wharton. I have the honor of sharing my story about Eric and the impact he made on my life. I hope and pray that those who knew him in his final years can find closure and peace and some sense of meaning in it all. In the end, it is the story of our faith and the difference we make in the lives of others that matters. I pray that in these few minutes, I can deliver a small part of Eric Didomenico’s story and illuminate a part of the arc of his life that you may be completely unaware of. My prayer is that we can all find hope, peace, strengthened faith, meaning, and a sense of closure after these difficult last years.

What a tapestry our creator weaves, when we open our eyes to His grand designs. I spend a lot of time talking to veterans about their eyesight—not... Read more their physical eyesight, but their spiritual eyesight…how they see themselves and how they see the world. There is a story in the book of John where Jesus spits on the ground to make mud for the blind man’s eyes. This man is healed after he washes in the pool of Siloam, which in the Hebrew was derived from ‘shalah’ which means to “send or sending forth.” We all want to see things clearly, and sometimes its only the grace of God that can make sense of it all. But we need to have spiritual eyes to see it in His way… to heal, to forgive, to let go, and to be free… to join those who are no longer blind, but are “sent” to do His work. In the end, I believe every one of us is living out a tapestry of interwoven miracles with meaning stacked upon meaning, and there’s a deeper message and bigger picture in this life if we’ll only look for it. We have to zoom out though…and we have to step into the pool of Siloam and be willing to rinse off the mud. This life is full of storms and clouds that impair our vision, obscure our purpose, and disguise things…it’s tempting to focus on Eric’s struggles in his final years. But I hope I can help sweep some of those clouds away today. I’m here to tell you the victorious story of the man I knew—the man who gave me new eyes—and the deep friendship, purpose, and meaning that was woven into my life because of him.

It’s bizarre to be a history student standing before this crowd of intellectuals. Most of you are probably smart engineers, rocket scientists, mathematicians, computer gurus and brainiac phDs. You should all be amazed that I can even use the words, “Trajectory, Directional Thrust, Molniya orbits, and Rotational gravity” in a sentence. Eric not only taught me these—he gifted them to me as a mentor. He gave me a new trajectory. He shifted my own orbit through his example. He imparted an escape velocity to my life and changed my center of gravity. In the 90’s, He and Debbie, (Rachel), Nathan and Sarah, showed me the power of a committed homeschooling family. They showed me the power of a God-honoring faith. And he showed me what a true, modern day warrior was.

My path as a young cadet in the 90s at the Air Force Academy was a big question mark. I was a knucklehead kid from a tiny oilfield town in western Oklahoma, and all I knew was that I wanted to be a pilot…and I had chased this dream from the farm fields all the way to USAFA, singularly focused on my selection for pilot training. My identity was wrapped up entirely in becoming a pilot—it was my destination and I knew nothing else. Inevitably though, we run into the realities of gravity, physics, genetics, and other inconvenient facts. You see, I was the first kid to even attempt Pre-calculus at Cheyenne High School, and I was no “mathlete”, as Eric would routinely point out over the years. I had 20/400 vision in the time before Lasik was allowed by the Air Force. I was average at sports in the eyes of college baseball recruiters, and my mother had divorced 6 times by this point. I had given up on men in my life, and although I had made a profession of faith in Jesus Christ, I had no idea how to live that out. I wasn’t immersed in the church. I sought refuge in a thousand sources of identity, other than God—alcohol, earthly relationships, reputation, achievement—all hollow pursuits. I was selected for USAFA because I had done well in the military aspects of ROTC in my first year, but still, I was an unanchored young man, searching for anything and everything of this world to help define and explain my purpose.

And then a rocket came sweeping in over that dark horizon, lighting up the night sky. And his name was Eric Didomenico. Eric was my Astronautics professor at USAFA and on the very first day of class, he was at war with his Astro 410 students. (I still never understood why a history student has to take Astro at the academy—but let’s just call it another example of divine intervention because its the only way I met Eric). I still remember him, red-faced and angry at one of the upperclassmen, but his dispute had nothing to do with Astronautical Engineering. It was an issue of character. This cadet had let him down and Eric fearlessly abraided him in class over it. The rest of us watched in a state of shock, wondering if this was the nature of all Astro instructors. And this class was affectionately called, “Astro for poets.” But Eric was always at war. And it was rarely over academic material, but rather issues of faith, character, truth, justice, and righteousness. It was as if we were expected to learn Astro principles on our own, while he taught about life, leadership and morality in class. So much so, that I asked for a meeting with him and wanted to understand why he was teaching character and not Astro. I looked around his cubicle on the 6th floor of Fairchild Hall and I saw a drawing of the cross and how it was the bridge between God and sinful man. I saw a placard that quoted Proverbs 27:17 “As iron sharpens Iron, so one man sharpens another.” For some reason, this guy was always talking about concepts in terms of metallurgy, jousting and swordplay…and an old favorite was “if sparks are flyin’ then the good work is getting done.” He loved sharpening people. Warfare and conflict was just in his DNA. He was always at war…with himself, with those around him, with his bench press performance, with beating his personal best on the bike…I remember him comparing himself to other athletes he considered ‘cyborgs’ and was constantly measuring his performance against theirs. He challenged everyone around him to be better, and he accepted every challenge ever made to him. It was inspiring to be a part of the culture he created in his orbit.

He was even at war with the Colorado Springs Municipal Permit office. I remember Eric being intensely frustrated by the fact that he could help design aircraft and spacecraft for the Air Force but couldn’t stamp his own engineering drawings for a wooden deck he wanted to build on his Colorado Springs home. He was so irate about that. But… Eric was always at war, always ready to stand at Hell’s gate, rally anyone who would listen, and do battle with a thousand Persians. He really was the Spartan King Leonidas in Air Force blues…laughing, under the rain of arrows.

As for me, In our talks, he presented the gospel. We prayed together on the terrazzo and I accepted Jesus Christ…again…but this time with a committed mentor who could show me a better way to live. He showed me conviction, determination, and how we are to do battle with chaos in this world. He often quoted Ephesians 6:12 - "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” And he showed me a Christian leader could be strong and vulnerable at the same time.

And thus began the shift in my own trajectory. And what a shift it was. We studied the bible together. He gave me the definition of manhood that I had been missing. God had always kept faithful friends and godly men in my life, but Eric was my Polaris—he pointed the way for a young man lost in the fog of a challenging family upbringing fraught with drugs and alcohol, suicide attempts, abuse and divorce. He became a “seventh” father to me and was the first committed Dad and husband I’d ever met. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But for someone with my experience, he got points for just “being there.” for his wife and kids. He constantly raved about (Rachel), Nathan and Sarah and lamented every hour he was away from them. One of his main talking points was how important work-life balance was as an officer. What a great man — the perfect man, even with all his imperfections— to enter my life at precisely the time when I needed him most. He shaped my image of what it meant to be a father, a husband, and an officer.

He was at my commissioning. He prayed over my marriage. He was present at my pin-on ceremonies as I progressed in rank. And we joked, laughed, and conversed over email and phone calls throughout the course of 20 years of my career. He was a powerful force for good in my life. And yet, I knew he was always at war.

Still, Eric was a pretty funny guy…

—Some may recall…the man was a machine on the road bike and especially on the Raquetball courts. On the courts at USAFA, he taught me that looks and age in Racquetball really don’t matter. He wore this stupid 1980’s headband and goofy wrist bands, channelling Olivia Newton John or Richard Simmons, and still mercillessly destroyed me everytime I set foot on that court. It was a constant and deep humiliation that he thoroughly enjoyed.

—He used to joke often about a close military friend of his being called out by a General officer on what was apparently a questionable decision…and this officer replied, “Well General, I’m here on an Athletic Scholarship.” Being not much of an academic, Eric suggested I use that often if my back was ever up against the wall…

—If you knew Eric, you knew he loved his Tesla Model S. He raved about this car. And eventually, I too found myself going about 160 mph for a few moments in ‘ole “Silver” out in western Colorado. I tried to knock his ego down when I told him this wasn’t even the stall speed of a B-52, but he was not impressed. I looked over at him and saw a teenager at the wheel. What a great memory. He loved that car.

Flash forward 27 years. As I look back, with honest reflection, I am the result of Eric’s committed work, so much so that I cannot imagine my path in life separate from his influence. I have a wife and 7 children. We have homeschooled for 20 years—purely because of His and Debbie’s example—and are sending kids to college this summer. I graduated with honors at the USAF Weapons School because Eric taught me how important it is to smash ideas and concepts together in the crucible, and how fulfilling it is to sharpen men and women in their faith and their families. I led in combat over Iraq and Afghanistan. I became a squadron commander and counseled multiple young officers in their faith, life balance, and profession. The concept of balance that Eric espoused became an integral part of my own message to hundreds of Air Force officers and enlisted. In 2015, I retired as a Lieutenant Colonel and began a life in ministry. And in 2020, we launched a faith-based non-profit called Mountains Move in Nathrop Colorado. We use horses, wild mustangs, and faith-based backcountry journeys to push veterans who struggle with purpose, suicidal ideation, and depression towards a closer walk with God. We just adopted our first Colorado mustang. His name is Carbon…a chemical catalyst used in metallurgy to sharpen and strengthen steel. We chose that name because of Eric’s influence and because we want to strengthen the faith and resiliency of struggling men and women. In three years of operation, we have growing partnerships, multiple saves, one guest’s profession of faith in Jesus Christ, and 10 on-going faith-centered relationships with our attendees. These guests are USMC snipers who cannot forget the things they saw and did. Amputees from roadside bombs. Victims of home invasion and rape. 50 year olds still suffering with the effects of military sexual trauma. Military families with suicidal and depressed children. It isn’t easy. We’re trying to shift trajectories and orbits here…and doing war with this kind of brokeness demands a special kind of warfare…and it was Eric who prepared me for this good work. But It’s not lost on me that I couldn’t save him, with the very non-profit that his struggles inspired me to create. I could never convince him to come to Colorado during the time of his depression and it breaks my heart that I am only in Tacoma now, after his passing.

I have learned that the loss of purpose is one of the most underestimated and debilitating diseases for veterans who are accustomed to doing galactically important work for their nation. In Eric’s case, it may appear that depression, or Lyme’s disease, or a mental disorder took everything. That’s certainly the narrative when we stop looking. But with clear eyes, we are told that our God redeems all things for the good of those who love Him and are called to His purpose… and clearly, Eric’s legacy continues… in the lives of his family, in the lives of the many men and women he inspired both civilian and military, and certainly in the ministry of Mountains Move. His character, his passion, and his faith are still changing the world. Sparks are still flyin’ Eric.

He was a great man. My mentor. My friend. My seventh father. I saw him at his Apogee—the peak of his orbital arc where he moved so rapidly and with such conviction that those around him were pulled Heavenward in his wake. And I sat by his bedside during his Perigee—some of his lowest points, when he lamented every minute but WOULD NOT give up. I know I’ll never fully understand everything he went through in the final years, nor does my story account for the strife and hardship that his local family and friends endured. But I refuse to let those years of pain define, obscure, or steal the man that I knew and experienced Eric to be. I defy those headwinds. I choose to see the Leonidas that he was…the great man of faith, and the Spartan King who laughed in the face of the enemy and sought battle daily.

Before he sank into depression, Eric wrote a note to me: It said, “I think of you and pray for you far more often than I write . . . . I suspect the same could be true for you, and would recommend that you continue to go outside and fix bikes, chase kids, or whatever the moment demands vice keeping up with those in Washington DC.  If we don't get to catch up on this side of eternity, there will be pllllleeennty of time to catch up on the other side . . . In His Service, Love Eric.” He never stopped encouraging me to maintain balance in faith, family, and profession.

And in the final days of our time together in Washington DC, he pointed out how our life’s effort in the military could be dismissed with the stroke of a congressman’s pen or could vanish in the fallout of a Presidential election…and how much better it would be to work on building faith, expanding God’s kingdom, and saving souls…doing work with eternal weight. I retired shortly after that conversation, served in ministry for four years and launched Mountains Move in 2020 as a result. And I have never felt more fulfilled or in the deep water of my gifting than I am today. All because of a man named Eric Didomenico….and God’s decision to have our orbits intersect—as a history student in an Astro class.

What a story our father weaves, when we open our eyes to His purposes. Every one of us is living out an amazing tapestry of interwoven miracles with meaning stacked upon meaning, and a deeper message in it all. But we have to have clear eyes for it…and the mud that gets rubbed in our eyes is sometimes the very thing that we need to heal, to forgive, to be free…and with faith, to finally see things clearly. I hope this story fills in some spaces for you in the life of Eric Didomenico…and that we can all look past the storms and the clouds and clearly see the night sky…and the hundreds—maybe thousands—of constellations of faithful leaders, warriors, and families that he inspired. I am blessed to be…but one.

I know God is saying, “Well done, my good and faithful servant. It is finished. You made a powerful difference in the lives of many.” Rest in peace…mentor, father, friend. Read less

Eric's Eulogy, delivered by Lt Col Heath Wharton, a student of his at USAFA in 1993...and an officer he mentored for nearly 30 years.
Dear friends and family of Eric Didomenico, thank you for coming today. My name is Heath Wharton. I have the honor of sharing my story about Eric and the impact he made on my life. I hope and pray that those who knew him in his final years can find closure and peace and some sense of meaning in it all. In the end, it is the story of our faith and the difference... Read more we make in the lives of others that matters. I pray that in these few minutes, I can deliver a small part of Eric Didomenico’s story and illuminate a part of the arc of his life that you may be completely unaware of. My prayer is that we can all find hope, peace, strengthened faith, meaning, and a sense of closure after these difficult last years.

What a tapestry our creator weaves, when we open our eyes to His grand designs. I spend a lot of time talking to veterans about their eyesight—not their physical eyesight, but their spiritual eyesight…how they see themselves and how they see the world. There is a story in the book of John where Jesus spits on the ground to make mud for the blind man’s eyes. This man is healed after he washes in the pool of Siloam, which in the Hebrew was derived from ‘shalah’ which means to “send or sending forth.” We all want to see things clearly, and sometimes its only the grace of God that can make sense of it all. But we need to have spiritual eyes to see it in His way… to heal, to forgive, to let go, and to be free… to join those who are no longer blind, but are “sent” to do His work. In the end, I believe every one of us is living out a tapestry of interwoven miracles with meaning stacked upon meaning, and there’s a deeper message and bigger picture in this life if we’ll only look for it. We have to zoom out though…and we have to step into the pool of Siloam and be willing to rinse off the mud. This life is full of storms and clouds that impair our vision, obscure our purpose, and disguise things…it’s tempting to focus on Eric’s struggles in his final years. But I hope I can help sweep some of those clouds away today. I’m here to tell you the victorious story of the man I knew—the man who gave me new eyes—and the deep friendship, purpose, and meaning that was woven into my life because of him.

It’s bizarre to be a history student standing before this crowd of intellectuals. Most of you are probably smart engineers, rocket scientists, mathematicians, computer gurus and brainiac phDs. You should all be amazed that I can even use the words, “Trajectory, Directional Thrust, Molniya orbits, and Rotational gravity” in a sentence. Eric not only taught me these—he gifted them to me as a mentor. He gave me a new trajectory. He shifted my own orbit through his example. He imparted an escape velocity to my life and changed my center of gravity. In the 90’s, He and Debbie, (Rachel), Nathan and Sarah, showed me the power of a committed homeschooling family. They showed me the power of a God-honoring faith. And he showed me what a true, modern day warrior was.

My path as a young cadet in the 90s at the Air Force Academy was a big question mark. I was a knucklehead kid from a tiny oilfield town in western Oklahoma, and all I knew was that I wanted to be a pilot…and I had chased this dream from the farm fields all the way to USAFA, singularly focused on my selection for pilot training. My identity was wrapped up entirely in becoming a pilot—it was my destination and I knew nothing else. Inevitably though, we run into the realities of gravity, physics, genetics, and other inconvenient facts. You see, I was the first kid to even attempt Pre-calculus at Cheyenne High School, and I was no “mathlete”, as Eric would routinely point out over the years. I had 20/400 vision in the time before Lasik was allowed by the Air Force. I was average at sports in the eyes of college baseball recruiters, and my mother had divorced 6 times by this point. I had given up on men in my life, and although I had made a profession of faith in Jesus Christ, I had no idea how to live that out. I wasn’t immersed in the church. I sought refuge in a thousand sources of identity, other than God—alcohol, earthly relationships, reputation, achievement—all hollow pursuits. I was selected for USAFA because I had done well in the military aspects of ROTC in my first year, but still, I was an unanchored young man, searching for anything and everything of this world to help define and explain my purpose.

And then a rocket came sweeping in over that dark horizon, lighting up the night sky. And his name was Eric Didomenico. Eric was my Astronautics professor at USAFA and on the very first day of class, he was at war with his Astro 410 students. (I still never understood why a history student has to take Astro at the academy—but let’s just call it another example of divine intervention because its the only way I met Eric). I still remember him, red-faced and angry at one of the upperclassmen, but his dispute had nothing to do with Astronautical Engineering. It was an issue of character. This cadet had let him down and Eric fearlessly abraided him in class over it. The rest of us watched in a state of shock, wondering if this was the nature of all Astro instructors. And this class was affectionately called, “Astro for poets.” But Eric was always at war. And it was rarely over academic material, but rather issues of faith, character, truth, justice, and righteousness. It was as if we were expected to learn Astro principles on our own, while he taught about life, leadership and morality in class. So much so, that I asked for a meeting with him and wanted to understand why he was teaching character and not Astro. I looked around his cubicle on the 6th floor of Fairchild Hall and I saw a drawing of the cross and how it was the bridge between God and sinful man. I saw a placard that quoted Proverbs 27:17 “As iron sharpens Iron, so one man sharpens another.” For some reason, this guy was always talking about concepts in terms of metallurgy, jousting and swordplay…and an old favorite was “if sparks are flyin’ then the good work is getting done.” He loved sharpening people. Warfare and conflict was just in his DNA. He was always at war…with himself, with those around him, with his bench press performance, with beating his personal best on the bike…I remember him comparing himself to other athletes he considered ‘cyborgs’ and was constantly measuring his performance against theirs. He challenged everyone around him to be better, and he accepted every challenge ever made to him. It was inspiring to be a part of the culture he created in his orbit.

He was even at war with the Colorado Springs Municipal Permit office. I remember Eric being intensely frustrated by the fact that he could help design aircraft and spacecraft for the Air Force but couldn’t stamp his own engineering drawings for a wooden deck he wanted to build on his Colorado Springs home. He was so irate about that. But… Eric was always at war, always ready to stand at Hell’s gate, rally anyone who would listen, and do battle with a thousand Persians. He really was the Spartan King Leonidas in Air Force blues…laughing, under the rain of arrows.

As for me, In our talks, he presented the gospel. We prayed together on the terrazzo and I accepted Jesus Christ…again…but this time with a committed mentor who could show me a better way to live. He showed me conviction, determination, and how we are to do battle with chaos in this world. He often quoted Ephesians 6:12 - "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” And he showed me a Christian leader could be strong and vulnerable at the same time.

And thus began the shift in my own trajectory. And what a shift it was. We studied the bible together. He gave me the definition of manhood that I had been missing. God had always kept faithful friends and godly men in my life, but Eric was my Polaris—he pointed the way for a young man lost in the fog of a challenging family upbringing fraught with drugs and alcohol, suicide attempts, abuse and divorce. He became a “seventh” father to me and was the first committed Dad and husband I’d ever met. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But for someone with my experience, he got points for just “being there.” for his wife and kids. He constantly raved about (Rachel), Nathan and Sarah and lamented every hour he was away from them. One of his main talking points was how important work-life balance was as an officer. What a great man — the perfect man, even with all his imperfections— to enter my life at precisely the time when I needed him most. He shaped my image of what it meant to be a father, a husband, and an officer.

He was at my commissioning. He prayed over my marriage. He was present at my pin-on ceremonies as I progressed in rank. And we joked, laughed, and conversed over email and phone calls throughout the course of 20 years of my career. He was a powerful force for good in my life. And yet, I knew he was always at war.

Still, Eric was a pretty funny guy…

—Some may recall…the man was a machine on the road bike and especially on the Raquetball courts. On the courts at USAFA, he taught me that looks and age in Racquetball really don’t matter. He wore this stupid 1980’s headband and goofy wrist bands, channelling Olivia Newton John or Richard Simmons, and still mercillessly destroyed me everytime I set foot on that court. It was a constant and deep humiliation that he thoroughly enjoyed.

—He used to joke often about a close military friend of his being called out by a General officer on what was apparently a questionable decision…and this officer replied, “Well General, I’m here on an Athletic Scholarship.” Being not much of an academic, Eric suggested I use that often if my back was ever up against the wall…

—If you knew Eric, you knew he loved his Tesla Model S. He raved about this car. And eventually, I too found myself going about 160 mph for a few moments in ‘ole “Silver” out in western Colorado. I tried to knock his ego down when I told him this wasn’t even the stall speed of a B-52, but he was not impressed. I looked over at him and saw a teenager at the wheel. What a great memory. He loved that car.

Flash forward 27 years. As I look back, with honest reflection, I am the result of Eric’s committed work, so much so that I cannot imagine my path in life separate from his influence. I have a wife and 7 children. We have homeschooled for 20 years—purely because of His and Debbie’s example—and are sending kids to college this summer. I graduated with honors at the USAF Weapons School because Eric taught me how important it is to smash ideas and concepts together in the crucible, and how fulfilling it is to sharpen men and women in their faith and their families. I led in combat over Iraq and Afghanistan. I became a squadron commander and counseled multiple young officers in their faith, life balance, and profession. The concept of balance that Eric espoused became an integral part of my own message to hundreds of Air Force officers and enlisted. In 2015, I retired as a Lieutenant Colonel and began a life in ministry. And in 2020, we launched a faith-based non-profit called Mountains Move in Nathrop Colorado. We use horses, wild mustangs, and faith-based backcountry journeys to push veterans who struggle with purpose, suicidal ideation, and depression towards a closer walk with God. We just adopted our first Colorado mustang. His name is Carbon…a chemical catalyst used in metallurgy to sharpen and strengthen steel. We chose that name because of Eric’s influence and because we want to strengthen the faith and resiliency of struggling men and women. In three years of operation, we have growing partnerships, multiple saves, one guest’s profession of faith in Jesus Christ, and 10 on-going faith-centered relationships with our attendees. These guests are USMC snipers who cannot forget the things they saw and did. Amputees from roadside bombs. Victims of home invasion and rape. 50 year olds still suffering with the effects of military sexual trauma. Military families with suicidal and depressed children. It isn’t easy. We’re trying to shift trajectories and orbits here…and doing war with this kind of brokeness demands a special kind of warfare…and it was Eric who prepared me for this good work. But It’s not lost on me that I couldn’t save him, with the very non-profit that his struggles inspired me to create. I could never convince him to come to Colorado during the time of his depression and it breaks my heart that I am only in Tacoma now, after his passing.

I have learned that the loss of purpose is one of the most underestimated and debilitating diseases for veterans who are accustomed to doing galactically important work for their nation. In Eric’s case, it may appear that depression, or Lyme’s disease, or a mental disorder took everything. That’s certainly the narrative when we stop looking. But with clear eyes, we are told that our God redeems all things for the good of those who love Him and are called to His purpose… and clearly, Eric’s legacy continues… in the lives of his family, in the lives of the many men and women he inspired both civilian and military, and certainly in the ministry of Mountains Move. His character, his passion, and his faith are still changing the world. Sparks are still flyin’ Eric.

He was a great man. My mentor. My friend. My seventh father. I saw him at his Apogee—the peak of his orbital arc where he moved so rapidly and with such conviction that those around him were pulled Heavenward in his wake. And I sat by his bedside during his Perigee—some of his lowest points, when he lamented every minute but WOULD NOT give up. I know I’ll never fully understand everything he went through in the final years, nor does my story account for the strife and hardship that his local family and friends endured. But I refuse to let those years of pain define, obscure, or steal the man that I knew and experienced Eric to be. I defy those headwinds. I choose to see the Leonidas that he was…the great man of faith, and the Spartan King who laughed in the face of the enemy and sought battle daily.

Before he sank into depression, Eric wrote a note to me: It said, “I think of you and pray for you far more often than I write . . . . I suspect the same could be true for you, and would recommend that you continue to go outside and fix bikes, chase kids, or whatever the moment demands vice keeping up with those in Washington DC.  If we don't get to catch up on this side of eternity, there will be pllllleeennty of time to catch up on the other side . . . In His Service, Love Eric.” He never stopped encouraging me to maintain balance in faith, family, and profession.

And in the final days of our time together in Washington DC, he pointed out how our life’s effort in the military could be dismissed with the stroke of a congressman’s pen or could vanish in the fallout of a Presidential election…and how much better it would be to work on building faith, expanding God’s kingdom, and saving souls…doing work with eternal weight. I retired shortly after that conversation, served in ministry for four years and launched Mountains Move in 2020 as a result. And I have never felt more fulfilled or in the deep water of my gifting than I am today. All because of a man named Eric Didomenico….and God’s decision to have our orbits intersect—as a history student in an Astro class.

What a story our father weaves, when we open our eyes to His purposes. Every one of us is living out an amazing tapestry of interwoven miracles with meaning stacked upon meaning, and a deeper message in it all. But we have to have clear eyes for it…and the mud that gets rubbed in our eyes is sometimes the very thing that we need to heal, to forgive, to be free…and with faith, to finally see things clearly. I hope this story fills in some spaces for you in the life of Eric Didomenico…and that we can all look past the storms and the clouds and clearly see the night sky…and the hundreds—maybe thousands—of constellations of faithful leaders, warriors, and families that he inspired. I am blessed to be…but one.

I know God is saying, “Well done, my good and faithful servant. It is finished. You made a powerful difference in the lives of many.” Rest in peace…mentor, father, friend. Read less

Thank you all for being here to honor my dad.

Remembering my dad is complicated for me.

The pride that I feel for him but the pain he has caused is a difficult thing to capture.

When looking through old family photos, I am grateful to remember the vibrant, intentional person he used to be.

When my siblings and I were kids, he would turn himself into a human gymnasium every Friday night: artfully hanging, flipping, and catapulting us through the air.

To our delight, he would often transform himself into made up characters with quirky personalities.

To our dismay, he kept these characters for our high school parking lot.

As we grew, he would try to capture critical moments to teach us life lessons and commend us when he noticed demonstrations of virtue.

Dad and I often bonded over our general level of intensity and the joy we both found in things slightly dangerous.

I am grateful to remember a man who was able to love.
Who enjoyed playing hard as much... Read more as he liked working hard.
Who would do anything to protect the weak and honor the sacred.

A man who would have been infuriated by the person he would become.

While what was left of my dad passed from a heart attack, those who had loved him know that the cause of his death was mental illness.

Social scientists coined the term “disenfranchised grief” to describe the lonely experience of grieving something that is not socially acceptable to speak openly about. In our experience, this involved having a loved one stolen from you by their own mind. My family and I have been grieving the loss of my dad for over 20 years.

In final third of his life, my dad became so unspeakably cruel to us, that we each were forced to withdraw protectively from him in our own way.

For years, he chose to blame us for his unhappiness instead of
the more difficult path of humble curiosity. Resting in the insidious comfort of resentment, he surprised himself when his sadness didn’t abandon him when he abandoned us.

I fully understand the significant role that mental health played in my dad’s behavior. I am grateful to be able to separate the person that he intended to be from the person he became.

Still, I want to honor him today with the gift of responsibility. His downfall was a result of his pride, resistance to accountability and unwillingness to value perspectives different from his own.

On behalf of my dad’s life, I encourage us all towards the journey of being kind, gentle and honest with ourselves.

In closing, I want to read you a letter that years ago when I was grieving the death of my dad.



To the Father Who is Not Yet Gone
Sarah DiDomenico
5/4/21

I miss you.
I miss what could have been more.
I know that you would too if you could.

But that is the problem.
Your heart is fully broken.
It became brittle and cracked by the pressure of pretending to be strong.
Pushing the limits that were never yours to push.

Mine is slowly breaking too.

You lived your whole life dreaming, planning, wishing for the other side.
Either unable or unwilling to find heaven on earth.

I hope that you can find what you’re looking for.

I will always thank you for pushing me to be stronger, smarter, faster, better.
I hope that one day I can show a child to be kinder, calmer, slower, gentler.

You taught me to work hard.
To think deeply.
To follow the rules and color within the lines.
Neither of us would dream that those things would be the death of you.

When you leave, I don’t imagine that I will feel much differently than I feel now.
Deep sorrow, but knowledge that my life is no longer tethered by yours.

Maybe we both needed that.

You taught me to keep my joy and sorrow to myself.
To hold my fears and triumphs until they had a safe place to land.
To be fiercely independent.
I hope that by the time you leave, I can forgive you for that.

You gave me life.

Because I know you, I will fight
To heal and protect my mind.
To find safe people and love them back.
To be calm and thoughtful with no agenda.

You were the first to break my heart and in so many ways I am grateful.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad.

Thank you for doing the best you could with what you had.

I always have and always will both love and miss you. Read less

Thank you all for being here to honor my dad.

Remembering my dad is complicated for me.

The pride that I feel for him but the pain he has caused is a difficult thing to capture.

When looking through old family photos, I am grateful to remember the vibrant, intentional person he used to be.

When my siblings and I were kids, he would turn himself into a human gymnasium every Friday night: artfully hanging, flipping, and catapulting us through the air.

To our delight, he would... Read more often transform himself into made up characters with quirky personalities.

To our dismay, he kept these characters for our high school parking lot.

As we grew, he would try to capture critical moments to teach us life lessons and commend us when he noticed demonstrations of virtue.

Dad and I often bonded over our general level of intensity and the joy we both found in things slightly dangerous.

I am grateful to remember a man who was able to love.
Who enjoyed playing hard as much as he liked working hard.
Who would do anything to protect the weak and honor the sacred.

A man who would have been infuriated by the person he would become.

While what was left of my dad passed from a heart attack, those who had loved him know that the cause of his death was mental illness.

Social scientists coined the term “disenfranchised grief” to describe the lonely experience of grieving something that is not socially acceptable to speak openly about. In our experience, this involved having a loved one stolen from you by their own mind. My family and I have been grieving the loss of my dad for over 20 years.

In final third of his life, my dad became so unspeakably cruel to us, that we each were forced to withdraw protectively from him in our own way.

For years, he chose to blame us for his unhappiness instead of
the more difficult path of humble curiosity. Resting in the insidious comfort of resentment, he surprised himself when his sadness didn’t abandon him when he abandoned us.

I fully understand the significant role that mental health played in my dad’s behavior. I am grateful to be able to separate the person that he intended to be from the person he became.

Still, I want to honor him today with the gift of responsibility. His downfall was a result of his pride, resistance to accountability and unwillingness to value perspectives different from his own.

On behalf of my dad’s life, I encourage us all towards the journey of being kind, gentle and honest with ourselves.

In closing, I want to read you a letter that years ago when I was grieving the death of my dad.



To the Father Who is Not Yet Gone
Sarah DiDomenico
5/4/21

I miss you.
I miss what could have been more.
I know that you would too if you could.

But that is the problem.
Your heart is fully broken.
It became brittle and cracked by the pressure of pretending to be strong.
Pushing the limits that were never yours to push.

Mine is slowly breaking too.

You lived your whole life dreaming, planning, wishing for the other side.
Either unable or unwilling to find heaven on earth.

I hope that you can find what you’re looking for.

I will always thank you for pushing me to be stronger, smarter, faster, better.
I hope that one day I can show a child to be kinder, calmer, slower, gentler.

You taught me to work hard.
To think deeply.
To follow the rules and color within the lines.
Neither of us would dream that those things would be the death of you.

When you leave, I don’t imagine that I will feel much differently than I feel now.
Deep sorrow, but knowledge that my life is no longer tethered by yours.

Maybe we both needed that.

You taught me to keep my joy and sorrow to myself.
To hold my fears and triumphs until they had a safe place to land.
To be fiercely independent.
I hope that by the time you leave, I can forgive you for that.

You gave me life.

Because I know you, I will fight
To heal and protect my mind.
To find safe people and love them back.
To be calm and thoughtful with no agenda.

You were the first to break my heart and in so many ways I am grateful.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad.

Thank you for doing the best you could with what you had.

I always have and always will both love and miss you. Read less