Three years ago Jes and I resigned ourselves to no longer having local friends. It was a sad, sort of pathetic realization. But it wasn’t unreasonable. We live in a college town, and in a college town, people get degreed and get out. Friends leave. It’s part of the rhythm of being a grad student. And if that rhythm gets exhausting after a while—if saying goodbye to friends, year after year, starts to wear—well, at least there’s comfort in knowing that sooner or later your ticket gets called too.
So in the thick of COVID, when everything seemed to be ending anyway, Jes and I waved goodbye to yet another close friend and braced ourselves. We’d arrived, it seemed, at our own long wind-down. Better, we thought, to wait out the clock than go looking for new friends.
Not until later did we realize that what we’d actually arrived at was the germ for this post.
In a pattern that would repeat itself over the next three years, the first wave of new friends showed up during the summer and fall of 2020 at Hessel Park, the tiny but much-loved church Jes and I attend. One of these was a freshly minted PhD who rolled into town with a smiling disposition, a trunkful of instruments, and a loaf of a cat named Sparky. (He also enjoys pickleball, but having played with him, I can confirm that he takes the sport exactly as seriously as it should be—which is not seriously at all.) Another was a recent Calvin grad. An avid book reviewer and Costco-evangelist who really ought to get paid for her proselytizing, she’s the sort of person who, to my delight, can spiral into giggling fits at the slightest provocation.
Others would arrive at HPC in the years that followed. These included
- a pair of engineers, married, also Calvin grads, her with a good sense of humor and charmingly idiosyncratic definition of “cool,” him with a passion for tabletop RPGs and for sharing the contents of his liquor shelf;
- a meteorologist, who will insist to this day that Twister’s status as her favorite movie is mostly incidental;
- a medievalist, who, on top of being funny and kind, moonlights as the resident memelord for the group WhatsApp (titled “HPC Hipsters,” courtesy of an older member of the congregation);
- a political scientist, who’s got an astoundingly creative knack for “if you were a _____, which one would you be” games; and
- a lighting designer, who ranks among the friendliest people I know…and who, while playing “if you were an unusual kitchen appliance, which one would you be,” was widely agreed to be a “banana saver.”
Nor were they the only additions. For a variety of reason, several people Jes and I already knew well also began attending HPC around this time, and they got folded into the group. Among them were Jes’s coworker (brilliant, deeply caring, superb cook), the coworker’s spouse (goofy, great with kids, also tall), and friends of a since-matriculated friend (wife: razor sharp, funny, shoo-in for chillest mom I know; husband: quiet, talented musician, speedy runner; toddler: awesome).
Together these folks have—happily, deservedly—commanded most of our social energy these past few years. Jes and I have shared meals with them. We’ve crowded into living rooms to watch movies with them. We’ve played D&D with them. We’ve celebrated Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters with them. Jes and I have come to love and deeply value their company, their perspectives, and their personalities. And while I don’t expect this post, with all its little in-jokes and weirdly specific parentheticals, to signify widely, I do hope it signifies for them. More than anything, I wrote it for them—a tribute to these generous, good-hearted twenty- and thirtysomethings who, whether by providence or cosmic joke, showed up at our church exactly when Jes and I least expected them, but maybe most needed them.
Two weeks ago a few of us met at a local bar. We’d expected it to be a small affair. The bar’s a bit of a dive, but one of our number, the political scientist, is leaving toward the end of summer, and she wanted to perform at the open mic. So a handful of us joined her. In time, however, word got around that we were there, and schemes for a group photo were hatched. Soon people were trickling in, stepping away in some cases from more urgent demands on their time like grading and studying. But they came anyway, and we went outside to get our picture. Then we went back in, all of us. We sat. We talked. We listened.
I say this post is for our friends, and it is. But in a smaller way, it’s also for Jes and me. I want to make sure we’ve got something from this period in our lives. While everything’s still fresh, I want to pin down even a few recollections before they slip too far into memory’s murk. After all, we live in a college town. And not long now our ticket’s going to get called too.

Ben DeVries (’15) graduated with degrees in literature and writing. He and his wife Jes, a fellow Calvin grad, live in Champaign, Illinois, where Ben is looking to add some letters behind his name. On the academic off-seasons, he reads fantasy and works as a glorified “go-fer” at the Champaign Park District. He’s been known to make a mean deep-dish pizza.
“Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.” ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
A celebration of all lasting friendships. Thank you, Ben.