"The Joy Spot Rock, Hopi Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks
The Eulogy of Mary & Pamela Jenks
June 1st, 1949 - June 21st, 2011;
October 31st, 1926 - July 7th, 2011
[Spoken today at Grace St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Tucson, Arizona]
I’m Stu Jenks and I’m the only son of Stuart & Mary Jenks.
I’m also Pamela Jenks’ only sibling.
Before I praise Mary who died on the 7th of July, I’d like to say a few words of kindness regarding my sister Pamela, who died on June 21st of this year.
Pamela suffered much of her life, some by her own hand, and some by the hands of others. I was with her in her final hours. She was glad that I was there as was I. We hugged each hard, that Tuesday afternoon, not letting go. I love my sister and she loved me. She support my art and the family supported her. I truly miss her. Think of her when you watch a Harry Potter film.
Pamela, may you suffer no more, and may you bathe in the Light of God, forever.
Now, Mary.
It’s kind of like Christmas in July today, isn’t it?
We have sung a few Christmas carols today. I like these hymns and so did Mary. In Mom’s final days and hours, I sang some of what we are singing today to her. She sang along as best she could. It was one of the more touching times I ever spent with my mother. Ever.
Mary had a difficult upbringing. Let’s just put it that way. Her early troubles echoed throughout her entire life. She sometimes tried too hard to gain the love and affection of her family and friends, and inadvertently she pushed people away. She just wanted to be loved for who she was, just like we all do.
She met and married my father Stuart Jenks Sr. in the late 1940’s and they were married 52 years until his death in 2001. She never really recovered from his death. Stuart was her rock, as she often said. When the rock crumbled, she began to break apart as well.
Her dementia hit suddenly and profoundly. In less than six months in 2008, she went from living independently in an apartment in The Foothills to living at Crossroads Adult Care Center, wheelchair-bound and very frightened. Thank you, Marlee, for finding Crossroads for us. And thank you to all who work at Crossroads. You took such wonderful care of my mother.
Mary faded away these last three years. But as Mom slowly went away, she was still very much Mary Jenks. She could still turn a phrase. She was still the daughter of Southern landed gentry. She was still my Mom.
And if Mary has a legacy, it’s with the Episcopal Church. She was active in the church all of her life. She was choir director at St. Mary’s Whitechapel in Lively, Virginia, a vestry member numerous times, a church historian for The Virginia Episcopal Women, served on many Diocesen Executive Boards and she was a member of The Standing Committee of The Diocese of Virginia. And even though Mary was anything but a shrinking violet, she was modest about her achievements on The Standing Committee. Here’s just one.
When many in the Diocese of Virginia abandoned Bishop Peter Lee as he fought for the rights of gays to be bishops in the Church, my mother Mary Jenks stood beside him, publicly proclaiming that gays and lesbians were children of God and should be allowed all the rights and privileges in the Church. I was very proud of my mother and I told her so.
Mary also taught me three important religious ideas: 1) There is no Hell outside of the Hell on Earth that Man creates for himself, 2) that it isn’t money that is the root of all evil but rather the love of money that is the root of all evil, and 3) that through Grace, God loves you and you and everyone and everything on the Planet and in the Universe. You don’t have to believe in God or in Jesus, or in whatever, for God loves you none matter what, because that’s just how God is. God is love.
But Mom had no truck with overly pious Christians. Granted she liked some of the Baptist, Evangelicals, and Catholic laypeople who visited her at Crossroads, but she loved most of all, those of you from Grace St. Paul’s, who brought her communion every week or who just brought yourselves, to sit and spend some time with her. I, as her son, am truly grateful to you all.
And thank you, Courtney Saum, Mary’s only brother. He called his sister, many times each week, for years, just to say hello and to send his love. Mary really appreciated those calls. Courtney couldn’t be here today, due to his own failing health, but he asked me to read this to you all:
“Mary, I love you dearly” he says. “There is a strong bond between siblings and I know we had one. I know you are in a better place. I know the Good Lord will take a liking to you. You know I love you, Miss Mary.”
Courtney Saum.
But one religious man she didn’t like very much. Let’s call him Paul.
Paul was a Catholic layperson who would come by Crossroads, about once a week. He wore a huge cross around his neck, rivaling the gold jewelry of any hip hop artist. A year ago, he rudely pushed by me when Mary was sick, to say the Lord’s Prayer over her body. I decided not to have words with him that day, but I pledged to myself that Paul would never push by me again without a serious consequence. But that confrontation never happened. Mary, let us say, let her feelings be known.
One afternoon, I was finishing up a visit with Mary, when in walked Paul.
“Hey, honey,” Paul said to Mary. “How are you today?”
She ain’t your honey, pal, I thought.
Mary looked at me, and then up at Paul. Then Mom loudly proclaimed, with as much disdain as she could muster...
“Well, looky here. It’s Mr. Let-Us-Pray.”
The insult went completely over his head.
I kissed my mother goodbye but the moment I shut the front door behind me, I started to laugh and I didn’t stop laughing until I had driven at least a half mile away from the house.
Sadly, Mary suffered a lot in her last couple years of life. Her body betrayed her. Her mind failed her. I’m grateful we had the money to put her up in a nice adult care home. I’m grateful too, that she lived near me, here in Tucson. I would visit her a few times each week and I could keep track of her health and care. And Mom was generous before she became sick, giving me and many others a little money to help as she could. But more than the money, Mom accepted that she had an artist for a son. My father had a tough time with that, but he eventually, kinda, sorta, came around. But Mom just wanted me to succeed in anything I did, whether I was helping others to achieve sobriety in my counseling work, or whether I was making flame spirals in the desert night and selling the images.
“I want you to be famous,” she would say. “Mom,” I would reply “I’m already pretty well known. What we want is for me to be rich and famous.” “Then rich and famous it is,” she’d say and we would laugh.
A night or two before Mary died, before I left her bedside to drive home for the night, I kissed her forehead, careful not to wake her and whispered to her, “Mom, I’ll see you tomorrow or I’ll see in Heaven.”
It’s my version of a favorite Buddhist saying:
“I’ll see you later, unless I die.”
Mom, I won’t see you in the flesh tomorrow, but I hopefully I’ll see you in Heaven.
Or something like Heaven.
Or maybe you’ll be a spot of wind blowing by my ear as I walk in the desert, or a crash of thunder from an Arizona monsoon, echoing off a mountain side .
That would be nice. I’ll take that.
Lastly, I’m doing OK. Granted, I feel a large void where my family used to be. It’s just me now, an uncle and a few cousins. But I know, really know, that the spiritual path is one taken alone, with others.
Alone, with others.
It’s a paradox, that I can’t grow without the help and care of family and friends, but ultimately, it just me and God, late at night, worrying about this and that, and finding relief in the dawn after a dark night.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I feel a very big space, over there somewhere, where the souls and personalities of Mary and Pamela Jenks once were.
Luckily, I have the love of my friends and the light of God to see me through.
I love you, Mom.
Love you too, Pamela.
And if you see Dad, give him my love.
