I am the Rev. Barbi Click, Deacon and Manager of Trinity Food Ministry.
I had not been Manager of the
Trinity Food Ministry very long when Dennis came up to me with his hand outstretched
for a shake.
“You don’t know me, but I know
you. My name is Dennis and I used to be somebody.”
His statement stunned me,
shaking many preconceived notions. It also humbled me and taught me a valuable
lesson. New to the ministry of working with people who were unhoused, it had never
occurred to me that losing one’s sense of identity was even a possibility.
This incident was simply one
of the many times that I learned from Dennis in the six years that I knew him.
He taught me that being homeless was only one small aspect of who he was as a
child of God. A bigger lesson, I came to understand that love and addiction
will always be at war, but that love will win eventually, no matter how long it
takes. My job was simply to be there and offer my love.
Dennis helped substantiate what
I had already begun to learn. Everyone has a story; some people have many; some
of those stories are tragic. He could not be identified simply as “The homeless”.
He was Dennis Kinealy who was so much more than what his current condition
implied. Through him, I came to understand the profound depth of what community
means. Sharing our stories is vital to building relationships. These stories
lead us past the exterior into the real life, opening a new understanding that
we are all connected, that we are one in the body of Christ.
And Dennis did love
sharing his stories and the pictures he carried with him! Las
Vegas cab driver, farmer, urban mountain man, adventurer, teller of tales, son,
brother, uncle, father, Trinitarian, Episcopalian and a member of our Beloved
Community – these were just a few of the terms that described Dennis.
He loved being called Dennis
the Menace. His grin just got bigger when he heard that term. He loved being
funny, cute, even coy. He loved people loving him. Of course, for many of us,
loving him was easy because it required little of us, we had no expectations of
him and his power to hurt us was very limited. He came and went as he pleased, with
very few demands. We at the Pantry met him where he was and walked with him for
a little while. We were often his audience as he played the stage. Yet love is
complicated. The toll of worry and concern on those who loved him longer was much
heavier, more broken and far more painful to them and for him.
He was a proud man, pleased with
some of the things he had done, proud of his family, of being a part of
Trinity. He was proud to have had the actor Debbie Reynolds as a passenger in
his cab. He had a pride in having owned a bit of land at one time. He was honored
to be the father of his two sons. He almost burst with pride when Debbie, his
sister and her family came with him to the Trinity Art Club.
However, he was a man of many
sorrows. Some of these things that made him the most proud also were the source
of his guilt which brought him such disappointment in himself. He was unable to
forgive himself for not being the son, the brother, the uncle, or the father
that he wanted to be. He knew that he had a lot of grief for people he loved.
He knew that his addiction
drove a wedge between them and himself. But that is what addiction does. It
burns bridges with no regard for love. The addict becomes a passenger in a
runaway vehicle. Being out of control is a very lonely place to be.
I don’t know the back story of
what brought Dennis to this place in life. There were times when his sorrow
rushed out of him in a torrent of tears. His pain and guilt were so evident, so
real. I and others reminded him that we are called to forgive, not only others
but ourselves. He simply could not see, on this side of the veil, that we all
fall short of the glory of God. Yet, that is God’s promise – forgiveness,
regardless of our lack. He did not see himself as worthy. That is the wonder of
all of this – he was and has been and is now forgiven, just as we all have been
for whatever we lack.
Most times, he was happy. He
loved to talk, especially about being an “urban mountain man.” He was one of
the most resourceful people I ever knew. I would introduce him to people new to
the streets so that he could give them pointers on how to survive. He helped a
lot of people.
I teased him that he was like
a cat with nine lives. Something was always happening to him that would have
laid out a lesser man. I cannot
count the number of times that Dennis would burst through the doors and head
straight for me. His hello would always be sidelined by, “You won’t
believe what just happened to me!”
Dennis used a few of those
lives after he was hit by a vehicle in December 2016. I think he coded once at
the scene and twice in the ambulance ride to Barnes. Many broken bones and a
brain injury laid him up in intensive care for a while. He was totally amazed
when Fritzi Baker and I visited him. After his long rehab, St. Patrick’s Center
connected him with a group that got him permanent housing. Fr. Jon offered to
bless his new home so Jon, Debbie Wheeler and I attended the blessing of his
new space. He never forgot that day. He never forgot anything anyone ever did
for him. It always amazed him that someone would do things for him.
Dennis is an example of how
having a house is simply not enough in this world. Home is where community is, and
a place to share our joys and the sorrows. God calls us into community because
we need one another. Dennis was proud of his confirmation as an Episcopalian.
To him, that was proof that he belonged, Trinity was his space, this was his
community.
Dennis looked at small things
as great blessings. Every ask might not be met with a stated thank you;
however, every offering was accepted with a great deal of thanksgiving.
He told me a few weeks ago
that he didn’t know if he could go through another winter like last year, that
maybe Maddie from the City would be able to help him find a place. Dennis had
burned many bridges with help organizations – they wanted to help him, but they
had exhausted their resources for him unless he was willing to make some
dramatic changes. I reminded him of what he had to do to get help – go into
long term rehab. As he turned to walk out, with a wave of his hand, he said,
“yeah, I know.”
Dennis left this world in a
flight of freedom. The prison gates of addiction broke open. He was rid of all
the guilt and all the sorrow. He finally understood that he was forgiven.
I know that Dennis was not
alone at the end. I know that “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth,
and the life.” Take my hand and come with me.
I can hear him saying the same
words he told me when I first met him:
“You don’t know me but I know
you. My name is Dennis and I used to be somebody.”
However, I also know that God immediately
told him, “I do know you. I know every hair on your head, I have known you
since before you were formed in your mother’s womb. You are somebody because
you are mine. I have a perfect place already prepared for you. Come and see.”
John 14:1-6
