Denny the Doorkeeper

The words you’re about to read are a spin off of sorts from a hand-written card I sent to a family member of Denny DeVries, who passed away suddenly last week. I would like to have the memories to keep for myself, and I don’t think the family would mind me composing a weblog of my thoughts and feelings about their dad, grandpa, husband, friend, and family patriarch.

In many ways, he was also the patriarch of our church family. Because he was so active (physically and spiritually), I’ve struggled to come to terms with the reality of his home going. How does one come to terms with the death of someone who was so constant, so faithful, so … there? Denny was rarely in the limelight, but always “at your service.” He was “Denny the Doorkeeper”, meaning his main ministry at church was meeting and greeting. But more than that, he was often “grandpa” to more than one of my kids, a steady support for Shaun during ministry prep, and often an odd mixture of my pal, my buddy, and a father/grandfather figure when I got out of line or just needed a hug. He seemed to know when I needed each, though he never knew why I needed either.

I know men aren’t typically thought of as hospitable, but Denny was. For I-don’t-even-know-how-long, the small group that Shaun led met in Denny and Michele’s home. Michele is the one who has the true gift of hospitality, but she must have rubbed off on him after fifty-some years of marriage, because he made small group seem like home to all of us. He’d get you an extra chair, generate conversation, ask you how life was going, offer you peanut butter for your banana bread, and tell of his recent golfing experiences.

I have no idea why God called him home when He did (terrible timing, in my book!), nor do I know how the family will go on living with such a large void. And yet, the grief I feel is familiar. I’ve done this before, and each time, God has been faithful to show how to go on, how to keep pouring our lives into others. In fact, that is often a cathartic remedy for grief – to lean into the pain while continuing to minister to others in their pain.

In our weaknesses, He helps us. In our grief, He comforts us. In our loneliness, He never leaves or forsakes us.

Andrew always tells the story of how Denny would walk up to him and his group of friends at church, roll those big eyes of his, and yell “Buncha losers!” And like all teenage boys, they loved the blunt, rough and tumble talk … and the hugs and laughter that came afterward to convey he loved them in spite of their loser-ness.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints, the Psalmist says. But losing Denny doesn’t feel precious. It doesn’t feel precious at all. It actually feels pretty crappy. But grief is a process. Everyone’s going to deal with this their own way, in their own timing. One day we’ll understand. One day, we’ll share the Lord’s thoughts.

In the meantime, whether our hearts feel it or not, we say with Job ….

The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Thank you, Lord, for the life of Denny DeVries. I hope when I get to Heaven, I’ll find him there, doorkeeping, inviting folks to come into the presence of our Lord and Savior, just like he did on earth every Sunday.

Of course, knowing him, when it’s my turn to enter in, he’ll pretend it’s locked, just to scare the bajeebers outta me. So I will scold him. Then he will hug me … and all the grief I felt on earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace.