The church in the tiny Wisconsin town where my nephew grew up was packed with people who loved him and he loved. Most of them were wearing purple—Adam’s favorite color. After the opening prayer and “Amazing Grace”, his brother-in-law honored Adam with words from Psalms and John. He was eulogized with an outpouring of love from his older brother, his two best friends, and his wife of thirteen years. They spoke of Adam’s enigmatic characteristics, his special smile, and not waiting to act on the love you feel. His twelve year old son shared the Viking Funeral Prayer and his eight year old daughter shared how much they both loved cats. Two of his former Sunday School teachers sang “On Eagle’s Wings.” The minister’s message paled in comparison to what went before him.
My memories of Adam are predominantly from his childhood through to his high school graduation where he was the student speaker sporting an impressive Mohawk. He was a fearless child from the moment he began toddling. He didn’t walk. He ran—usually with something clutched in each hand so he didn’t have to hold yours. He scaled all the furniture to get to a higher place to see what the world looked like from there. I believe they now sell bookshelves with braces to hold them to the wall in honor of Adam.
He was always curious, a constant thoughtful question asker. And he listened carefully to the answers. He pronounced he liked that “Valdi guy” after hearing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. He sent adults scrambling for the dictionary when he correctly identified reptiles as being oviparous. After wandering around Jefferson Davis’s White House of the Confederacy in Montgomery, Alabama, he asked his Uncle Jim if that David guy was a friend of his? Why else could they just wander through his house? He was a voracious reader. Catcher in the Rye was his favorite book. He was a deep at heart Trekkie—like his father was. He had a wicked sense of humor that showed itself even when he was a very small child.
Adam liked to stay in touch with his immediate family. He had text “debates” with his brothers about all kinds of random things including who was the best Starship Enterprise captain although I’m certain Adam’s was James Tiberius Kirk since he named his younger son after him. He would challenge his brothers, Luke and Matthew, to online video game contests even while he was hospitalized. The Wenzel boys were an unstoppable trio of mischief makers who loved each other dearly.
He was good about checking in with his mom, Lisa, and regularly updating her on his family’s activities every week or ten days. While Adam was hospitalized, she practically lived at his bedside, but even then he would text her ‘good morning’ before she arrived. They maintained the affectionate mother-son bond throughout his life.
I learned from his celebration speakers that while alcohol may have stolen Adam from us much too soon—he was so much more than a party guy. If you met him and were quick to judge him by his Star Trek tattoos, shaved head, beard with Salvador Dali-esque mustache, and piercings you would have missed the opportunity to know a fascinating man who loved his family and his friends with steadfast loyalty. He had amazing personal fortitude and drew from a well of strength deep within him. Adam had unsuspected compassion and empathy beneath his rough exterior. He wasn’t concerned about what people thought of how he looked. He wanted to connect on a deeper level. If you did make that connection, he didn’t hesitate to tell his friends how much he loved them and would stand by their side if they were in peril. Ever supportive.
Adam was blessed to marry the love of his life, Lawrell, a soul mate who always knew she was loved. His children were his treasures. He loved being a father. His children knew he loved and believed in them. Early during his hospitalization, his wife wrote that he loved playing games with his kids, arbitrating their arguments over Monopoly, fixing their boo-boos, introducing them to Star Trek, was their favorite chef, the fixer of all broken things, and he acted as primary caregiver for their younger son with special needs.
He was a competitive, skilled video gamer who played even in the hospital ICU to the amazement of the medical staff who had believed only a week earlier that he was in his last day of life. He recognized when medical interventions on his weaken body were finally exhausted and wrote on his communication board “Game Over.”
I hope Adam has joined his father, Michael, and they are exploring strange new worlds, seeking out new life, and new civilizations boldly going where no man has gone on a journey not limited by Playstation programming or the boundaries of this universe. I believe that would fit Adam’s definition of heavenly bliss. Rest in peace. Love Aunt Kim.
