Good afternoon, everyone.

Thank you all for being here today to honor and remember someone truly special—Joanne Lovin.

It’s not easy to put into words what Joanne meant to me. When someone becomes such a constant in your life, their presence isn’t just something you remember—it’s something you carry.

Joanne wasn’t just Jesse and Lena’s mom. She was my second mom. And over the years, the Lovin household became my second home.

Now, I don’t remember the very first time I met Joanne—and that’s not because it wasn’t memorable, but because I was only about a week old.
I’ve heard the story many times though. She came over to our house in Escondido on Meadowlark Lane, baby gift in hand, and asked my mom if she’d be open to watching her newborn who was arriving soon.

That moment was the beginning of a lifelong bond—a connection that would intertwine our families forever.

From there, I basically never left.

There’s a story—one I’ve heard from both my mom and Joanne—about when... Read more I was three years old, climbing a tree and somehow ending up over the fence, probably trying to talk to Jesse.
Joanne called my mom out of concern, afraid I’d fall.

That memory is so symbolic of how she watched out for me—Joanne always there, steady, with her voice of care.

One of the first, very clear, memories I do have is walking into their house and seeing this giant, dramatic cat picture hanging above their couch.

You couldn’t miss it. If you knew Joanne, you definitely knew that picture. It was larger than life, a little surreal, and completely unforgettable—just like Joanne.

And yes, I’ve confirmed with Lena: it still exists.
That picture could probably survive a natural disaster. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it outlives all of us.

Joanne had this quiet, steady way of showing she cared. She didn’t make a big fuss, but she noticed everything.

Take, for example, my obsession with the mini chocolate chip muffins.
Every time I came over, I would go straight to the snack pantry and eat every single one.

At some point, I realized—no one else in the house even liked them. Joanne was buying them just for me.
She never said a word about it—never called me out for being the muffin thief of Escondido.
She just made sure they were always there.

If muffins were a love language, Joanne was fluent.

There were the sleepovers, too—endless negotiations and strategic planning between Jesse and I.

Whenever Joanne came to pick him up in that classic 1984 beige Volvo, we’d have a new scheme ready.
Maybe if we looked extra pitiful or made it sound educational—“We’re going to read tonight!”—we could squeeze a night.

And more often than not, she let us.
Maybe she saw right through our act—or maybe she just knew those nights meant everything to us.

Those nights often included a trip to Blockbuster, renting a PlayStation, a couple games, and of course, pizza.
It felt like winning the lottery.

I’m not saying Joanne was the original UberEats/Netflix combo—but she was close.

There were bigger adventures, too.

Trips to the Salton Sea, where I first learned to drive stick in Grandpap’s Manx.
I stalled it about 73 times, and I’m pretty sure Joanne aged a decade watching me lurch around in the sand—but she never lost her patience.

Then the ski trips to Brian Head…
Trick-or-treating at the Jesmond Dene house...
Jesse and I dumping all our candy out on the table, and Joanne doing the candy inspection like a forensic scientist.

No razor blade or suspicious-looking Snickers stood a chance under her watch.

Lena was Jesse’s younger sister, but to me, she was the little sister I never had.

She had this warm, bright energy—a mix of sweetness, humor, and quiet wisdom.
Often watching Jesse and me doing dumb stuff, just shaking her head like she knew better—and she probably did.

One of my favorite memories of Lena is catching her and her friends in the living room, fully committed to a Spice Girls dance routine.
We’re talking choreography, matching energy, all-out girl power.

I don’t remember who was which Spice Girl—but I remember Lena’s joy.
Her confidence, the laughter with her friends, the childhood magic of it all.

And Joanne?
She’d just stand nearby with that knowing smile, letting them go wild.

I really wish someone had been recording it—it was perfect.

Joanne gave Lena the space to be fully herself—and it showed.

But beyond the jokes and memories, what really made Joanne special was how deeply she loved.
She raised Jesse and Lena with care, strength, and quiet joy.

She didn’t need to be the center of attention—she was the center:
of the home, of the heart, of the everyday moments that mattered most.

Lena—thank you for being the best little sister anyone could hope to “adopt.”
You carry your mom’s warmth, kindness, and quiet strength, and I see her in you more and more each time we talk.

I see her in your eyes—that spark of compassion and calm.
I hear her in your laughter—the same lightness that could fill a room.
And your smile—it’s your mom’s smile. The one that made you feel safe, understood, and loved.

Your presence brings light into a room, and the way you carry yourself—gracefully, thoughtfully, and with love—is a lasting reflection of the amazing woman who raised you.

Jesse—thank you for being my brother.
For the adventures, the chaos, the sleepover negotiations, and all the years of friendship.

I see so much of your mom in you.
In the way you care deeply, in your sense of humor, your quiet strength, and especially in the way you show up for people—without needing recognition.

Joanne’s kindness, her steadiness, her big heart—they all live on in you.

And the truth is, she didn’t just raise her own children.
She helped raise the rest of us too.

She created a space that felt safe, welcoming, and real.
Her love didn’t draw lines or set limits.
It expanded.

Joanne, thank you for everything—
for the muffins, the memories, the unconditional love,
and the way you made me feel like one of your own.

You gave me a second home and a second family.
You gave me a childhood full of joy.

You may be gone from this world,
but your spirit, your humor, your kindness—they live on in all of us.

Joanne was a rare soul—gentle but strong, quiet but fierce in her love.
She didn’t just raise her own children—she raised a village.

Her legacy isn’t just in Jesse and Lena—though they are such beautiful reflections of her spirit.

Her legacy is in all of us who were lucky enough to know her,
to be loved by her,
to sit on her couch under the giant cat picture and feel completely at home.

I love you. I’ll never forget you.

And if there are muffins in heaven…

I hope you saved me a few. Read less

Good afternoon, everyone.

Thank you all for being here today to honor and remember someone truly special—Joanne Lovin.

It’s not easy to put into words what Joanne meant to me. When someone becomes such a constant in your life, their presence isn’t just something you remember—it’s something you carry.

Joanne wasn’t just Jesse and Lena’s mom. She was my second mom. And over the years, the Lovin household became my second home.

Now, I don’t remember the very first time I met Joanne—and... Read more that’s not because it wasn’t memorable, but because I was only about a week old.
I’ve heard the story many times though. She came over to our house in Escondido on Meadowlark Lane, baby gift in hand, and asked my mom if she’d be open to watching her newborn who was arriving soon.

That moment was the beginning of a lifelong bond—a connection that would intertwine our families forever.

From there, I basically never left.

There’s a story—one I’ve heard from both my mom and Joanne—about when I was three years old, climbing a tree and somehow ending up over the fence, probably trying to talk to Jesse.
Joanne called my mom out of concern, afraid I’d fall.

That memory is so symbolic of how she watched out for me—Joanne always there, steady, with her voice of care.

One of the first, very clear, memories I do have is walking into their house and seeing this giant, dramatic cat picture hanging above their couch.

You couldn’t miss it. If you knew Joanne, you definitely knew that picture. It was larger than life, a little surreal, and completely unforgettable—just like Joanne.

And yes, I’ve confirmed with Lena: it still exists.
That picture could probably survive a natural disaster. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it outlives all of us.

Joanne had this quiet, steady way of showing she cared. She didn’t make a big fuss, but she noticed everything.

Take, for example, my obsession with the mini chocolate chip muffins.
Every time I came over, I would go straight to the snack pantry and eat every single one.

At some point, I realized—no one else in the house even liked them. Joanne was buying them just for me.
She never said a word about it—never called me out for being the muffin thief of Escondido.
She just made sure they were always there.

If muffins were a love language, Joanne was fluent.

There were the sleepovers, too—endless negotiations and strategic planning between Jesse and I.

Whenever Joanne came to pick him up in that classic 1984 beige Volvo, we’d have a new scheme ready.
Maybe if we looked extra pitiful or made it sound educational—“We’re going to read tonight!”—we could squeeze a night.

And more often than not, she let us.
Maybe she saw right through our act—or maybe she just knew those nights meant everything to us.

Those nights often included a trip to Blockbuster, renting a PlayStation, a couple games, and of course, pizza.
It felt like winning the lottery.

I’m not saying Joanne was the original UberEats/Netflix combo—but she was close.

There were bigger adventures, too.

Trips to the Salton Sea, where I first learned to drive stick in Grandpap’s Manx.
I stalled it about 73 times, and I’m pretty sure Joanne aged a decade watching me lurch around in the sand—but she never lost her patience.

Then the ski trips to Brian Head…
Trick-or-treating at the Jesmond Dene house...
Jesse and I dumping all our candy out on the table, and Joanne doing the candy inspection like a forensic scientist.

No razor blade or suspicious-looking Snickers stood a chance under her watch.

Lena was Jesse’s younger sister, but to me, she was the little sister I never had.

She had this warm, bright energy—a mix of sweetness, humor, and quiet wisdom.
Often watching Jesse and me doing dumb stuff, just shaking her head like she knew better—and she probably did.

One of my favorite memories of Lena is catching her and her friends in the living room, fully committed to a Spice Girls dance routine.
We’re talking choreography, matching energy, all-out girl power.

I don’t remember who was which Spice Girl—but I remember Lena’s joy.
Her confidence, the laughter with her friends, the childhood magic of it all.

And Joanne?
She’d just stand nearby with that knowing smile, letting them go wild.

I really wish someone had been recording it—it was perfect.

Joanne gave Lena the space to be fully herself—and it showed.

But beyond the jokes and memories, what really made Joanne special was how deeply she loved.
She raised Jesse and Lena with care, strength, and quiet joy.

She didn’t need to be the center of attention—she was the center:
of the home, of the heart, of the everyday moments that mattered most.

Lena—thank you for being the best little sister anyone could hope to “adopt.”
You carry your mom’s warmth, kindness, and quiet strength, and I see her in you more and more each time we talk.

I see her in your eyes—that spark of compassion and calm.
I hear her in your laughter—the same lightness that could fill a room.
And your smile—it’s your mom’s smile. The one that made you feel safe, understood, and loved.

Your presence brings light into a room, and the way you carry yourself—gracefully, thoughtfully, and with love—is a lasting reflection of the amazing woman who raised you.

Jesse—thank you for being my brother.
For the adventures, the chaos, the sleepover negotiations, and all the years of friendship.

I see so much of your mom in you.
In the way you care deeply, in your sense of humor, your quiet strength, and especially in the way you show up for people—without needing recognition.

Joanne’s kindness, her steadiness, her big heart—they all live on in you.

And the truth is, she didn’t just raise her own children.
She helped raise the rest of us too.

She created a space that felt safe, welcoming, and real.
Her love didn’t draw lines or set limits.
It expanded.

Joanne, thank you for everything—
for the muffins, the memories, the unconditional love,
and the way you made me feel like one of your own.

You gave me a second home and a second family.
You gave me a childhood full of joy.

You may be gone from this world,
but your spirit, your humor, your kindness—they live on in all of us.

Joanne was a rare soul—gentle but strong, quiet but fierce in her love.
She didn’t just raise her own children—she raised a village.

Her legacy isn’t just in Jesse and Lena—though they are such beautiful reflections of her spirit.

Her legacy is in all of us who were lucky enough to know her,
to be loved by her,
to sit on her couch under the giant cat picture and feel completely at home.

I love you. I’ll never forget you.

And if there are muffins in heaven…

I hope you saved me a few. Read less