Her life was a sermon on meekness. Working and serving, with quiet grace and constant purpose. She remembered every birthday, and attended every important milestone in her children, grandchildren, and great grand children's lives. I had the privilege of sharing some of my memories of her, at her funeral service. I recently found the card in which I recorded my memorial to her. The front image on the card captured so much of her, that it brought a wistful smile to my face. She lived without blinders, but with rose colored lenses to life. She radiated a sweet special warmth. The colors seemed to encapsulate that same soft glow. Inside the card, I had written:
My grandmother recognized the profound impact of developing and dedicating her God given talents to uplift others. Playing the piano, quilting, teaching, and serving. She was constantly abounding in good works. Recognizing that the small and simple efforts of service and support are the very acts, when performed with consistency, which save souls.
For me her aging arthritis crippled hands were a token of her talents and works. She never allowed weakness to hinder or diminish her light. To me, she was a living example to not allow my own mortal deficiencies to prevent me from progressing and serving. Her light shines forth to me in memories of her numerous efforts on my behalf.
-Fresh cut cantelope on summer mornings.
-Packed coolers for picnics up the canyon.
-Shelling peas on the patio.
-Stories, and books, and clothing catalogs.
-The small pocket size hymnal she sent me the summer I left home at 17.
-Her gentle and un-provoking look of exasperation and annoyance. One given without undo passivity, but free from guile. Always soon to be followed by her sweet apologetic smile.
-Tender experiences of touring and weeding her flowerbeds. Listening to the knowledge and care that went into their beauty.
-Countless quilts and blankets always handmade and carefully considered.
-The graceful and eventually purposeful movement of her hands and fingers over the keyboard.
-The loving encircling arms which enveloped her newborn great-grand children
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| Grandma Jensen holding me as a baby |
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| Grandma Jensen holding my son as a 3 month old |
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| Grandma Jensen a couple days before passing, holding her couple day old great-grandson. |
My final memory was the one that inspired the following artwork. I completed it in July of 2012, as a gift to her. My grandparents had recently moved from their home of nearly 40 years to an assisted living center. The vantage point was as if you were stepping out onto their deck and overseeing their backyard, garden, pasture, and barn. I never got the opportunity to present it to her, but I gave it to my grandfather after her funeral. The work is entitled "Apples to the Horses." Every week my cousins Leah, and Rachel would bring their children over to my grandparents home. My first son and I would join them every 3rd week. We enjoyed a morning of playing in the basement with blocks, and dinosaurs, books, puzzles, and Kerplunk. I recall my grandmother reading my son Transformers and jokinly showing him how her crippled arthritic hands resembled the mechanical arm of an Autobot. We would prepare lunch and if the weather was conducive we would all walk out to the field to feed apples to the horses through the fence in the neighboring pasture. I drew a picture of the last time my boys and I enjoyed this simple sentimental excursion. I had both my 5 year old and 1 year old with me. My cousin Leah was there with her two young boys. And then there was my grandma. In the drawing I placed a pink halo around her graying head, even in life she was an angel in pink.
During the completion of my drawing, perhaps in an act of artistic inspiration or premonition, while I was drawing a horse in the field, I changed it to a gunning motorcycle. In the drawing its aerial path barely touches the earth before the rays of light seem to draw it heavenward. As a girl, my father would take us on motorcycle rides in that very field. It wasn't until after her death that I realized that the symbolic representation was likely not that of my girlhood recollections, but that of my late uncle Mark. He was my grandmothers youngest son who had been killed in a tragic motorcycle accident when I was barely two years old. I imagine that he would be the leading candidate for a spiritual escort for her exit from this world. I feel blessed that I had the love and example of such an angelic force for good on this earth.
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| "Apples to the Horses." Janelle Jensen Fritz. 2012. Charcoal, oil pastels, pencil. 11x14. |
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