Below is a transcript of Hannah's eulogy:

Anyone who knew my grandpa knew that he loved being a grandpa. I mean that man was just

born to be Grandpa. Countless pictures show him basking in the adoration of a gaggle of

granddaughters—sometimes we’d be gathered around him as he strummed on his guitar songs

like “All God’s Creatures Got a Place in the Choir” (in which he would enthusiastically make the

accompanying animal voices), or tucked all together on my Aunt Valerie’s couch at Christmas

and Easter time. Many of the pictures are from pretty much any moment when Grandpa would

sit down and be immediately set upon by at least one granddaughter hoping for a cuddle. We all

as kids secretly suspected he might be the real Santa Claus—all love and jolliness and just pure

grandpa magic.

As I grew up, I learned that beyond all of his magic and infectious joy was also one of the

kindest, most unfailingly compassionate people I have known. He felt others’ suffering and pain

keenly as if it were his own, and likewise celebrated others’ gifts with an unfettered, rapturous

joy. I knew and recognized these qualities in him even as a child—I wrote him notes saying how

I wanted to be like him when I grew up—but it wasn’t until I grew up a bit that I came to really

understand the true depth of these qualities.

During the COVID pandemic, I found myself doing college remotely from home. At the same

time, I was experiencing an onslaught of health issues that compounded my sense of isolation

and being apart—both physically and otherwise—from my friends and peers. Worried about my

people-loving Grandpa also feeling isolated, I suggested we set up a weekly Zoom call (this, of

course, as you can imagine, took some begging and arm-twisting, but I finally got him to agree...).

For the next several years, my Grandpa became an anchor for me. Some weeks our calls—which

he always liked to term our “Hour of Power”—were filled with philosophical conversations and

our reflections about the world. We’d swap stories, share things we’d learned or read, talk about

people we’d spent time with. Each week when he popped up on my Zoom screen, his eyes would

light up just from seeing me (isn’t that an incredible gift, to have someone unabashedly glow just

from the sight of you?), and he would get giddier and giddier as we talked and thought aloud to

each other.

He also gave me a safe space to talk about anything on my heart. In the sanctity of our Zoom

room, I’d often tearfully share about friendship woes, heartbreak, fatigue and frustration over 

my health—anything. He would listen for as long as I needed, without judgement. Sometimes he

would give me advice, while other times he simply held the space for me, let me know my

feelings were valid, and reminded me that I was unconditionally and wholly loved.

He reminded me to always, always remain compassionate, especially towards the people who

hurt us. He helped me, in some of my hardest moments, to loosen my grip on anger and hurt, 

and remember to extend a forgiving hand. He let me feel my grief, while also helping me not to 

get lost in it. He reminded me, perhaps above all else, how unfathomably lucky I have always 

been to have the support, love, and strength to overcome life’s challenges.

Almost all of our calls included him repeating the Kairos mantra: “Listen, listen, love, love.”

He’d always say that that’s all we need to do, listen and love. That simple but powerful tenet

underpinned much of how he lived his life. I know he taught many of us here how to listen

deeply and openly, and how to love people well and wholeheartedly. I know we can all honor

him most by listening kindly and loving well, by giving people the gift of our presence. I’m sure

he would also be tickled if we all tried to be a little more goofy and take ourselves a little less

seriously—make those silly animal voices, those corny jokes. Know that cuddling has no age

limit and should be done as often as possible.

My Grandpa might not have actually been Santa Claus, but he was certainly love incarnate. And

if we can all embody a little James Bayne in our lives, we can keep spreading that love and keep

him with us always. Thank you so much for being here. Grandpa, we love you.

I should have done this weeks ago.  Somehow looking at this website was just a bridge too far for me.  Jim was the big brother I didn't get through birth.  I met him when I was 9.  He and my sister Diane were dating at the time.  So for most of my life Jim was my second safety net after my mom and dad.  When I had any catastrophe that happened when Jim was at home, he was there. 

 I crashed my Toyota on the Beltway on a freezing January day in 1973 or 1974.  It was a spectacular accident.  I hit a nail from Beltway construction and veered into the construction, mowing down 6 or 7  barriers to the construction.  Of course it was rush hour.  The entire passenger side of my car was accordioned to the hand brake in the middle of the car.  Who came to get me after the police were done with me?  My brother Jim.   When I finished my graduate work at Penn State University, who came to drive me home?  Jim and Diane.  When I was in the hospital at NIH doing a breast cancer protocol.  Who looked stricken when he saw me.  Poor Jim.  He was so honest with his facial grimace.  He just couldn't hide how bad he felt for me.  When I bought a new used car in my early twenties.  Who drove it home for me, as the old Volvo station wagon died on 95?  Thank God it was Jim and not my father who was driving behind him.  Jim, with his nerves of steel, guided the car to a safe road shoulder. Then called for the tow truck to take it to a car repair. 

 I remember, when my mom died feeling, untethered.  Then when my dad died again I felt untethered.  When my sister died I felt regrets for unfinished business.  But when Jim died any remaining safety net went with him. 

 I will miss visiting with him, something we didn't get around to doing until about 4 months before he passed. We had lovely visits.  He was easy to be with, to talk to, to laugh with.   And that's why it took me so long to get to this page.  

Of course, it's a beautiful tribute page.  That's because my niece, Marybeth, is an amazing person, intelligent, sensitive, strong and so kind.  Thank you, Marybeth, for giving me the space to go on and on.  It's really true.  He's really gone.  I'm going to borrow a phrase from some writer more eloquent than I.  "Yes, mourn his passing, but celebrate that he was here at all." 

I am so looking forward to the celebration of this rare person, I have been so lucky to have known,  my big brother, Jim.      +++++++++++++++++++