in memoriam of Derfre

I didn’t even know that was his name.


“Derfre” was a name derived from Alexander Freeman by a friend in school when he was twelve years old. Perhaps I had heard it before, and even the explanation. It had a ring of familiarity to it, but if so I had forgotten.

The things you can learn about someone at their funeral. I’ve always been struck by the insights into another’s heart, the wider perspective you gain about someone no longer here, just by listening to people share about them. Out of those shared perspectives, sometimes by people unknown to others in the room who knew (or thought they knew) that person so well, there emerges a portrait that is both familiar but yet foreign at the same time. And what a mixture of joy and enhanced sorrow that can bring.

That’s how it was for me yesterday at my nephew’s funeral. Listening to four young friends get up in turn and share about Alex – Derfre to several of them – I was struck by the portrait, even as I was by the physcial portrait of Alex beside them as they shared. The physical picture on display at the service was an unposed, unpolished picture taken spontaneously by friends that captured him in a way that I had never seen him on those handful of occasions I saw him in life.

I last saw Alex when we made our Make-a-Wish trip to LA to meet Johnny Depp last February. My brother and sister-in-law came with him to meet us for dinner at the Hard Rock Café near Universal Studios. It was a lovely reunion, as we caught up with each other, shared pictures of our recent encounter with Mr. Depp and enjoyed a fine meal on the house. But Alex sat quietly for the most part. Withdrawn into his own thoughts, and no doubt wishing he were elsewhere – it’s a look I frequently have seen on the faces of my own teens when we bring them along to a dinner with family or friends. They’re teens, after all. I remember my brother and sister-in-law being somewhat miffed at his distance and lack of engagement at the table – to which we smiled and simply remarked, “Hello, Teen!” And as I hugged Alex and we parted that evening, I not only had no idea that was the last time I would see him, but also little inkling into the heart of the young man who was Derfre.

The four friends who described Alex revealed a friend passionate about life, and who loved to discuss the deeper things – philosophy and politics, the merits and demerits of capitilism versus socialism, issues of racial equality in modern society. They described a young man who didn’t run with one pack, but freely mingled among them. A friend who could sit with you in the park for hours with no more agenda than to talk and share and take in the world about them. An enthusiast for music and for freestyle “white” rapping. Would loved to have heard some of that. An unending fascination with the stars and constellations and planets overhead. An intense passion for Burger King fries – and a willingness to explore all the deep reasons why Burger King fries are superior to MacDonald’s fries. A lover of orange chicken and chow mein at Panda Express. And he loved to drive fast.

Alex’s parents even seem surprised at the emerging portrait – that the young man so often quiet at home was so vibrant in these other circles of sometimes rough-edged friends. Joy and enhanced sorrow.

And so, as I walk on, thankful for the protrait yet sorrowful for my lack of direct experience of it from the vantage point of these friends – but nevertheless profoundly grateful for the glimpse – what’s my own takeaway? What lessons from my encounter with Derfre?

Perhaps most essentially it’s a reinforcement of the crack in my own enclosed façade – the crack that has been widening over the past few years, especially. A crack through which to really see others, to listen with more than ears but with eyes. To see more clearly those that I see most often – my own wife and teens still at home, as well as grown children and spouses and the budding reality of their own children. What conscious effort it takes to really see one another. How easily we can pass by what is seemingly familiar “turf” and only invest casual glances reflecting now approval, now disappointment or disdain, or, perhaps worst of all – only a blank stare.

It is the ministry and blessing of presence. Often of little value in the marketplace, but precious to God, and the key calling of all saints, and particularly of those who would lead them. Henri Nouwen sums up the lesson nicely (just happened to run into the quote while reading this morning):

More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, throw water and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence. Still, it is not as simple as it seems.

My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up in meetings, conferences, study groups and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress.

But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn’t be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own and to let them know with words, handshakes and hugs that you do not simply like them – but truly love them.