The inkwell

I gave the following homily, or sermon, at the memorial for Jay Westerman—July 31, 1970 to July 11, 2023.

There is an ancient Prophet named Job who cried out to his God:

“Oh, that my words were written!

Oh, that they were inscribed in a book!

That they were engraved on a rock

With an iron pen and lead, forever!

For I know that my Redeemer lives,

And He shall stand at last on the earth;

And after my skin is destroyed, this I know, That in my flesh I shall see,

Whom I shall see for myself,

And my eyes shall behold, and not another.”

Louis Jason Westerman did not always realize his purpose, but he expressed it with the pens, the many pens he held, inscriptions, engravings on sheathes of paper using well-worn nubs drenched in ink.

I imagined this big hulk of a man hunched over that paper, sketching, drawing out his visions, expressing much of his soul, memorialized in the art he made.

I stared at a couple pieces he drew recently. They are not from a dull mind—but from over 52 years of a mind brightened by lightning storms of genius.

I saw in each stroke, with each heavy-handed line etched deep into the pulp of paper, with the finer lines of a gentler hand cascading over them, shades of black on white illuminate from deep within him the many passions he lived.

And he lived them.

His passions were always there, but he did not always have the ink to express them.

The inkwell of his life was as dry as the heat of his Texas birthplace. Jay faced adversities not much different from many creatives like him.

There was a dearth he so desperately felt within. One might say it is not entirely unique when you are the youngest of seven siblings.

But it was made more desolate, made lonelier by the failures of others to meet him where he was. In some cases, abandoned.

What do you do with such feelings?

As one does when there is want, where there is absence, one goes searching.

Jay took his empty inkwell elsewhere.

And everywhere he went, just a little bit of ink was added.

For each new friend he met, just a little bit of ink was added.

For every pup and dog that came into his life, a little bit of ink was added.

For every validation he got about how much worth he had, a little bit of ink was added.

For every moment the love of his life, Conor McCarthy, leaned into him, more ink was added.

And a little more.

And a little more.

And a little more.

When he arrived in Chicago over five years ago to make this place home, his inkwell was already overflowing.

He was drawing from that ink with a pen of insatiable thirst—ready to mark on paper, on pads, even on flesh.

I can list many of those passions, and you are about to share them, too— passions of every shade and color.

Quite literally if you ever saw the pups he kept at home by his side over the years (actual pups—like the animal): Refnar, Febus, Crock, Miss Raven. Their own vibrant shades of fur colored his heart in the warmest of ways.

He knew his way around the kitchen and his art carried him through it. Cajun, especially.

For a man so humble about everything else, there was just a little more pride in his ability to plate up food for those whom he cared and loved and invited to his table.

And everyone—everyone—was invited to his table.

He loved working with his hands—so it was no surprise to me as I held in my hands these laser-cut acrylic totems and sculptures that he brought into existence from within his mind.

He was a giving man. He believed what was gifted to him should be shared with others. So he gave:

The Howard Area Community Center. The Rogers Park food pantries. The Greater Chicago Food Depository. The 1510 Organization. Shiba Rescue. TPAN. The Brown Elephant. NPR.

He gave.

He gave.

He gave.

As I sat in his living room, looking at the art pieces around—the plaster carnival masks (which are kinda creepy), the carousel horse (which is kinda even more creepy), the human-sized robot that no one dares to plug in because it might just electrocute you by accident—one other deep passion was revealed:

Because at that moment, I was listening to Conor’s sister.

And I realized.

What would a man like Jay find so deeply fulfilling considering the desert he left behind?

The sense of belonging.

The sense of family.

The sense of “I am welcome here.

“I have dignity here.

“I have pride here.

“I am respected here.”

His inkwell was overflowing because of people like Conor—but not just Conor. But his whole family—his sister, his mother, his father.

It is through them, with them, and within them—in the unity of spirit and love—he found what he had long searched for.

He found what I believe God intended him to find—after all that.

He found fulfilment.

His heart was fulfilled.

He left us with a fulfilled heart.

He could depart because he had that fulfilled heart.

Jay’s inkwell is a reflection of the vibrant spirit that dwelled within.

As Jay wielded his pen to express the vividness of his life experiences, he did so with the colors of resilience, creativity, and yearning to belong.

Through every stroke, he channeled the challenges he faced into art, embodying the very essence of triumph over adversity.

In the end his pages were the world, and each day he lived was a chance to create something beautiful out of what he thought he did not have.

In the pursuit of a full inkwell to draw from, he found solace and purpose, a sanctuary where he could express his own narrative.

He transformed pain into beauty, hardship into strength, and longing into belonging.

Jay’s artistry was a mirror reflecting his own journey of self-discovery, proving that even in the face of adversity, he could force an identity and leave an indelible mark on your hearts, on Conor’s heart, and the hearts of many others.

Just as Jay was searching for an inkwell of belonging, he found it here, among beloved friends and family. Each of you, yourselves, even the ones who caused a little bit of pain, a little bit of anxiety, each of you became a stroke of color in the masterpiece that is Jay’s life.

Conor, you had in your arms a testament to the power of love and connection. While his physical presence may be gone, the colors of his memory will forever illuminate your heart.