Merry Lee Devlin, an Englewood nurse of 35 years, died on June 26, 2026, leaving behind a legacy of care for her family and the community.

"Her family was always a priority and while she loved her children, she adored her grandchildren and great grandchildren."
That simple declaration from Merry Lee Devlin’s obituary captures the essence of a life lived not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, persistent accumulation of care. Devlin passed away on June 26, 2026, at her home in Englewood, Colorado, surrounded by the very love and laughter that defined her decades. Born on December 21, 1952, in Englewood to Peter M. Klismet and Loraine E. (Steffenson) Klismet, she didn’t just live in Colorado; she rooted herself there. After brief stints in Kansas, Arkansas, and California, she returned to the state in 1980 and never left, choosing the high desert air and the mountain shadows over the rest of the world.
If you look closely at the timeline of her life, you see a woman who understood the value of service. As a Registered Nurse, she spent more than 35 years caring for others, a profession that demanded compassion, kindness, and respect. She didn’t just work in the sterile halls of Swedish Medical Center in Englewood or Valley View Hospital in Glenwood Springs; she worked in the Rifle and Delta Correctional Centers, bringing that same bedside manner to the incarcerated. That’s a specific kind of empathy — treating the marginalized with the same dignity as the celebrated. She retired from the State of Colorado in 2015, but the rhythm of her days likely remained tied to the needs of others, a habit ingrained over three and a half decades.
There’s a warmth to the way her family describes her, particularly regarding her love for the outdoors and the American West. She and her husband, Ted, whom she married in 1982, enjoyed fishing, exploring Colorado towns, and getting lost on dirt roads. The obituary notes that roadblocks were merely opportunities to climb higher and get a better view, a philosophy that feels less like a cliché and more like a survival skill for anyone who’s driven US-6 through a winter storm. She loved nature, she loved animals, and she never met a rescue dog she didn’t love. It’s easy to imagine her sitting on her front porch, watching the world go by, a cup of coffee in hand, listening to the wind move through the pines.
Her hobbies were tactile, grounding things. Sewing, knitting, cross-stitch — these weren’t just pastimes; they were meditations. And then there was the collecting. A large display cabinet filled with colorful wind-up toys, once "off limits" to the grandchildren, only to be opened up in her later years. It’s a small detail, but it speaks to a life that evolved from preservation to sharing. She was a great cook, known for making the best breakfasts, a skill that turned her kitchen into a busy, noisy hub of family life.
Devlin is survived by her six children: David Smith of Fontana, California; Angela Kistler of Englewood; Aleeca Dinkel of Agra, Kansas; William Allen Dinkel of Grand Junction; Andrea Madden of Manassas, Virginia; and fifteen grandchildren. She is also survived by her siblings, Peter Klismet Jr., James Klismet, and Cheryl Embrey, along with many nieces and nephews who share memories of family celebrations at her home. She was preceded in death by her parents, her husband Ted in 2021, and her sister Kathy Gibson in 2023.
The story of Merry Lee Devlin isn’t about fame or fortune. It’s about the steady, unglamorous work of being present. It’s about the smell of homemade breakfasts drifting through a house in Englewood, the sound of wind-up toys clicking and whirring in a glass cabinet, and the quiet dignity of a nurse who stayed. When you think of the Western Slope, you might think of the grandeur of the Rockies, but you should also think of the people who tend to the valleys between them, who fix what’s broken, who cook what’s needed, and who stay.
The light hits the dust motes in that display cabinet differently now, still and quiet, waiting for the next generation to reach in and turn the key.





