My brother used to say to himself in times of stress, or not, "Deep breath, JT. You've gotta breathe some." So, for my sake, and in honor of Jay, let's all breath together, shall we? In true Jay Turnbull fashion, I will count it off: a one, a two, a one two three...
(Breathe)
Thank you.
On behalf of my parents and my sister, I want to thank you all for being here with us. I want to thank those friends and family who have traveled from far and wide to honor my brother, those old house-mates, job coaches, Beach Center employees, and all of you who are here today. I know I can speak for my entire family when I say that the outpouring of love over the last couple of days has been, like JT himself, truly extraordinary. We also must thank Tom and Laura and the entire Riffel family for the love and care that you have given Jay for the last seven plus years. He was indeed a member of your family too.
The last time I saw Jay was over Thanksgiving break. He and I drove out to Wendy Parent's house to visit the animals. Wendy offered him a choice of four different pies and Jay had a slice of three of them. He cleaned up after himself. He pet the cats. He gave Wendy a soft-five and we were off. But the party, I'm sorry to say, Wendy, really started when we got in the car. I was blasting the soundtrack to Hair, which was always one of Jay's favorites, and we were singing—shouting more like it. He was doing his bounce and flapping his fingers and his eyes were crossing a little like they did when he was really having a good time. But I looked over at one point (it's hard to keep your eyes on the road when you are jamming out with Jay Turnbull) and he looked at me right in the eyes and he had this little smile of joy, of contentment, of love. And I thought, "There is God." There is God. There is God.
Jay had a rather special relationship with the divine. I always imagined that angels talked to him throughout the day. You have all seen him, sitting quietly in his chair and he would suddenly, and without any outside prompting, giggle. "What's so funny, Jay Turnbull?" "Smiling," he would say. Who was he talking to? And what plans were they shaping up together for the rest of us?
He talked to God every night. These prayer sessions would vary in length and many of you were often included along with a few other special mentions. "God bless Mom and Dad. God bless Tom and Laura. God bless Aunt T and Uncle Will. God bless pancakes. God bless Grandma Dot and Mr. Jim. God bless Muncher's Bakery. God bless Brandon and Sarah. God bless cereal. And milk."
Cereal and milk. This is what mattered to him.
Getting a piece of chocolate from Michelle Longhurst after she lovingly trimmed behind his ears and washed his hair.
Pouring a package of M&Ms into a bowl and eating them one at a time. Mom and Dad would joke that that must be what paradise sounded like to him. And please, indulge me, for Jay. (pour M&Ms)
Paradise sounds like a package of M&Ms being poured into a bowl.
Paradise is a soft five.
Paradise is a place for everything and everything in its place.
Paradise is a chicken sandwich and a sprite.
How much we mortals have to learn from the likes of Jay Turnbull.
My parents always said he was their greatest teacher but they just wished that sometimes he had given them the course before the final exam.
He was embraced by the Lawrence community in ways I know my parents did not dream possible when they first moved here in 1980. (Chip was saying that it seems so eerily perfect that they landed here, of all places. Jay's middle name was Lawrence. Our mascot is the Jayhawk.) But how could we not embrace him? How could we not strive to reach our highest potential as human beings when he was around? He was the best of the best. He knew no judgment, no race, no class, no sexual orientation. None of the things that we mortals see in one another, that we size up about each other.
He had no concept of shame. He would pick that nose if it needed picking, he would roll over to one side if feeling a little gassy, and when we were in a crowd of people, he would always remind me of that time-tested rule, in his very, very loud voice: "Never touch your penis in public."
How did he not see the stares around him? How did he just not care? I certainly did, especially as a child and young adult when embarrassment was the currency we all traded in.
I remember the phase when Jay Turnbull started, as my parents called it, getting a life. When he attended fraternity parties at the SAE house where, of course, a little picking and rolling would go completely unnoticed. When he moved into his own home. (It was never, ever, a house! It was always a home! How could somebody who didn't even know how to read understand that distinction?!) When Alex at Free State came to his rescue when some drunk guy was giving him a hard time in the restroom. "Don't you know who this is?" Alex said. "This is Jay Turnbull."
He never really belonged to us. He was here on borrowed time. He was an angel walking the streets of Lawrence, Kansas.
And what in the world do we do now that he is gone?
He had many songs in his life, my brother did. But one that was always a favorite was "This little light of mine." This little of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
His light shone on you. His light changed you. Indeed, after the incredible outpouring to my family these last couple of days and seeing you all here today, I cannot help but wonder if he was in fact closer to the divine than we all thought. Let it shine, those angels whispered in his ear. Let it shine.
And, today, this song means something even more to me. Since Jay truly knew no judgment, since he truly saw the brightest and most glorious lights in all of us, what will it take for us to live up to his example? To love ourselves with his encompassing love. To walk through life as he did, blissfully unafraid of death. To give a soft-five of friendship to every one we meet. This is the final exam. Are we willing to be the people that Jay Turnbull had the faith that we were? Are we willing to let our light shine?
I was not done having Jay in my life. I can see him now as I did so many times over the years as I dropped him off at Haworth Hall or his home, walking away from the car, the slowest walk in the history of mankind with his feet splayed out to the sides, his shirt tucked in and, possibly, the bright, white rim of his underwear out for all to see (for what in the world did he care?). He would walk away from me and, without ever looking back, he would raise a hand in the hair and do a backwards wave. As if to say, "I've got it from here." I would often drive away at that point, knowing that as a man, and not a boy, JT didn't like his little sister watching over him. But sometimes I would watch him and just sit in gratitude, profound gratitude for the blessing he was in my life.
He never really belonged to us. And how lucky we were to have him.
He would close his marathon prayer sessions each night by saying "God bless all the good people."
God bless you, Jay Turnbull, for showing us the way. For gracing us with your presence. For shedding your light on us.
We will continue to work to be worthy of it.
I would now like to invite Sarah back to lead us and, as JT would say, "You've gotta sing loud."
(sing "This Little Light of Mine.")