This is the eulogy I gave for my mother, Judith Ann “Judy” Smith Wessels, at her memorial service on Friday, Jan. 2, 2026, at Spring Grove Cemetery. My mother died unexpectedly on Tuesday, Dec. 2, 2025, at her home in Ross Township, Butler County, a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio. She was 82 years old. You can read her obituary or view the service in its entirety. There was also a slideshow shown that day. Photos from the program are in a gallery at the end of the eulogy. You can also download the prayer card.
I’m going to start in a direct and honest place, because that feels right.
Losing my mom has torn me apart. There’s no neat way to talk about this, and I don’t think there should be. What I do know is that standing here, surrounded by people who loved her, feels like exactly where she would want us to be.
If I had to describe my mom in just a few words, they would be: caring, intelligent and funny.
She was genuinely kind, but had a snark to her that told us she wasn’t messing around. It could get brutal, and harsh and over the top. That wasn’t something she turned on for show. It was sometimes borne out of trauma, but it was rooted in concern for others, the world. It was who she was at her core. And that kindness showed up everywhere — in her work, in her friendships and in the way she took care of people in her life, the way she stuck up for those who were mistreated, oppressed and tossed aside. She did this often quietly and without expecting recognition.
She’d hate me saying this, but this was always — to me, anyway — the most fascinating part of her background: She was a nun at the Mount. Those stories always fascinated me. And all the parties at our house with the former nuns. Wild times. And such good, good people.
My mom’s care for people wasn’t abstract. It was practical and lived out every day. She began her nursing career in pathology at Good Samaritan Hospital and later moved to the emergency room, where she treated the worst injuries and most complex cases that came through the doors. As a result of our experience, Shelly and I, long before it was fashionable, we wore seatbelts. Safety mattered. People mattered.
Her memorial donations are being directed to support Parents of Murdered Children. That was her very intentional choice, made some 20 years ago. If you knew her during some of the darkest days of her life, you know why. It says more about her heart than any explanation ever could.
A few experiences from her life profoundly shaped her. One, the May 28, 1977 Beverly Hills Supper Club fire, my mom volunteered when the call went out over the media for nurses. She and a few other Good Sam nurses chose to go.
She was sent to the Fort Thomas Armory, where a makeshift morgue had been set up. One hundred sixty-five (165) people died in that horrible tragedy. Her role became walking family members inside and helping them identify the bodies of their loved ones. It was horrific. There’s no softer word for it. People were seeing the worst possible outcome of a typical night out, and my mom was there with them, over and over again.
That experience deeply, deeply affected her. You don’t witness that kind of loss and come away unchanged. It stayed with her. And I think it helps explain so much about who she evolved into — her fierce concern for safety, her intolerance for institutional indifference, and her lifelong commitment to standing with people at their most vulnerable moments. She didn’t look away. She stepped toward the pain, so others wouldn’t have to face it alone.
She later moved into adolescent psychology as a registered nurse, working with young people who were struggling with mental health challenges. This truly became her life’s work. Later, she earned her master’s in social work, along with her LISW and CCDC III. That combination — nurse and social worker — was incredibly rare and made her especially effective in the mental health field. She understood both the medical and human sides of care, and people trusted her because of it.
She met people at some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives and treated them with dignity, patience and respect. I’ve heard from many people over the past few weeks about how much her presence mattered during moments of crisis. One cousin, Phil, told me they didn’t know what they would have done without her when an unspeakable tragedy hit their (and really our) family in the mid-1980s. That kind of impact doesn’t happen by chance. And he shared with me that they have never, ever forgotten it. I know it meant so much to her, too.
She stuck up for me. So many times. Even in recent months. When I was a kid, when an adult didn’t understand little, unique Joey Wessels, she was there to help them figure it out. Tough as nails, firm — but with dignity and strength and love.
She was also incredibly principled. And I know this was a gift she gave me. Recently, I discovered a resignation letter she wrote when she was a nursing supervisor at Emerson A. North Hospital, a place I know she — most of the time — loved and was very proud to work. In it, she carefully but forcefully dismantled management decisions she believed put patient safety and nurses at risk. It wasn’t dramatic. It was clear, evidence-based, and entirely grounded in concern for others. She couldn’t take it anymore, and it showed. That letter reminded me exactly where I get my own sense of justice and unwillingness to look the other way. And the letter was to a supervisor whose name I immediately recognized. She loved this person.
And she was funny.
Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes without trying at all.
Lately, she had a habit of falling asleep at family functions. Mid-event — or sometimes just right after she got there. You’d glance over, smile (or maybe roll your eyes) and just let her be. It became part of the rhythm of being together. It feels strange now not to look over and see that familiar sight.
Her grandchildren were incredibly important to her. She loved them fiercely and wanted the world to be better for them. She showed up for them, attending concerts, Girl Scout crossover ceremonies and athletic competitions — often obnoxiously bashing her grandchildren’s opponents, much to our embarrassment.
She loved having fun and wanted to do more of it. She loved the outdoors, which brought back some unforgettable memories. Like the time my sister, Shelly, my mom’s good friend, Pat Huber and I were camping at Hocking Hills in this enormous tent — truly a monster — when a skunk somehow ended up in the “room” section of this two-room efficiency apartment-sized tent made of heavy canvas that I believed weighed around 500 pounds and smelled like a musty basement. We were camping when a noise awoke us in the middle of the night, and all four of us found ourselves very carefully convincing the skunk to leave without spraying us. It was wild animal terror, coupled with family and friend chaos, mixed with laughter and the shared understanding that this could go very wrong at any moment. It’s one of my favorite funny childhood memories.
There were also the trips to Nashville with Sharon Rogers so they could go to the Grand Ole Opry. My mom and Sharon loved every minute of it. They even bought my sister and me extra seats so we could sleep through the performances — which, honestly, was generous. During the day, though, we went to Opryland, the amusement park next door that no longer exists. Those daytime adventures mattered just as much to her as the music. I think I can speak for Shelly; those are some fabulous childhood memories.
Her friends have shared stories that feel so perfectly her. Thanksgiving and Christmas are filled with laughter. My mom and her beloved older sister Kathy — who died in 1996 and forever changed the way Christmas made my Mom feel for the rest of her life — making dirty jokes in the kitchen while others laughed — sometimes without fully getting it — and her laugh made it all even funnier. Games of Sorry played in cozy basements.
I have to say, I am so, so happy that those two finally got to spend Christmas together after 29 years.
She rode roller coasters at Kings Island, talked friends into rides they swore they’d never do and laughed through it all — even when things didn’t go exactly as planned. She played racquetball at the YMCA and came home bruised but laughing. She once rushed out the door for work only to realize, after seeing her reflection in the glass at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Colerain Avenue, that she’d forgotten to put on her pants. That happened. And she told the story on herself.
She went to concerts, explored places, snuck cigarettes (my dad disapproved big time), got into shenanigans and somehow balanced being a former nun with being wonderfully irreverent. Those two things coexisted beautifully in her. She had a strong moral compass but didn’t take herself too seriously. She had opinions — strong ones — and she lived comfortably with being both deeply principled and fully human.
She was also fiercely loyal. When friends went through loss, she stayed. When families were broken open by tragedy, she showed up. She walked, talked, planned, laughed, sometimes napped and sometimes pushed people — always toward caring more deeply. She pushed me. She pushed my sister. But only just enough to help guide us to being ourselves.
When she doubted herself — which happened a lot the past several years — I would remind her of what she accomplished with her two kids. As I told her, “Mom, it stops with us.” She started something new; she hit the reset button. She made our family, she made ME, better and healthier for us, our family, HER grandchildren, and really, the world.
What I keep coming back to is this: my mom wanted people, no matter who they were — if they were good and working for the good — to matter. She wanted her kids to matter, her grandkids to matter. She wanted the maligned, minorities, those struggling with mental health and the underprivileged to matter. She wanted care for others and the common good to matter. Safety to matter. Justice to matter. Joy to matter. And she lived that out — not perfectly, but honestly — in the way she showed up for others in her personal and her professional life.
If she were here today, she might be uncomfortable with all this attention. She might crack a joke. She would definitely tell me, “That’s enough, Joey.” She might fall asleep.
But she would love seeing all of you here. She loved her family and she loved her friends. She would love the stories, the laughter mixed with tears and the reminder that the way we live ripples outward in ways we don’t always see.
Mom, thank you — for your kindness, your care, your principles and your love. I miss you more than I can say. I promise to carry forward the best of what you gave us.
Thank you all for being here and for helping us remember her — honestly, fully and with love.
