Eulogy for Peggy Jane Pruden

July 16, 2026

Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel

The only person who would be surprised by today’s turnout would be … Mom.

My grandmother, Mary Byrnes, shared the wisest advice for how to live: “Spread your arms a little wider.” We are all here because her daughter took those words to heart.

Peggy opened her arms to us as a teacher, friend, sister, cousin, and neighbor; as Aunt Peg, Mom, Granny.

Trying to capture her fully is impossible. How do you start? Where’s the right place in a eulogy to tell the story of how she’d surprise her grandkids every summer vacation by stealthily opening the gate and cannonballing into the pool — fully dressed?

I wonder if this was how Mom felt when she conceived a quilt. Those of you who saw her in action know what I mean: there was seldom what you’d call a … plan.

She’d think about the person it was for, then start cutting a bunch of random strips that would somehow take shape as she went. Key to her “process” was that all the fabric she owned had to be out, just in case she spied that one scrap that tied it all together.

So I’ll just lay out some squares and see what they become.

* * *

In April, a neighbor came over to bring Mom lilacs and said: “I wanted to thank you for standing up for my kid in a parent-teacher conference, years ago, when I felt ambushed.”

A teacher Mom once mentored texted her recently to say: “I’ll always be grateful for your reminders that the student in front of me is someone’s beloved child.”

One September, one of her brightest students began visiting Mom’s room during lunch for extra help. Mom could sense the girl didn’t need instruction, she needed nourishment. From that day on, she quietly stocked a cabinet full of snacks and supplies for kids who needed a different kind of extra help.

The cabinets in her sewing room were also bulging with “necessities.” Mom and her sister Mary Ann would often “take a quick ride” … to Pennsylvania … then sneak home hours later with literal trash bags full of fabric they might need someday.

Yes: Sonic the Hedgehog fabric is a thing that exists. And yes, someone needed it. Vindicated again, Mama!

Mom could track down fabric to match any grandchild’s current interest. Garbage trucks. Curious George. Harry Potter. Books, butterflies, bears. Surfboards, Scrabble, snakes. Fairies. Pirates. Pirate fairies.

Many of us sleep under her quilts and on her pillowcases. And hundreds of children around the country have arrived in a cheerless shelter or hospital room to find a colorful quilt with a label that said, “Stitched with love by Peggy.” Mom found a quilt like this when Aidan spent nearly a year in the NICU and felt called to bring the same comfort and hope to other families. She taught her grandchildren to sew, so the work of their hands became part of her mission.

Mom was animated by charity in the truest sense: to know Peggy was to be a student in a school of love.

She taught us to invest in longtime friendships and delight in new ones.

She taught us to cherish and care for our spouses for better and worse, in sickness and in health.

She taught us to welcome anyone and everyone that our children love.

She taught us to count our blessings, to intercede faithfully for others, and to give thanks always.

And she taught us to bear our crosses with trust and dignity. And Mom did suffer: much more than she wanted anyone to know.

The day her oncologist confirmed her diagnosis, she did what the Irish do: she put on the kettle. She said to me, “I really don’t like how everyone keeps using the word aggressive to describe this cancer. I just don’t think that description fits me.” And she was right: the most aggressive she ever got was elbowing her way past dad to be the first to hold a newborn grandchild.

And then she said, “Whatever lies ahead, I want to be brave, like Dad.”

Brave doesn’t even begin to describe it. She was heroic.

As children, we hope our parents see us striving to grow in virtue. What a searing grace it was to witness our mother do the same in her final days.

She didn’t dwell on the weight of her cross, but looked for ways to carry even a corner of someone else’s.

She didn’t fight too hard or fold too easily. She bore unbearable pain with grit and grace — even with gratitude.

She didn’t seek the cup of suffering, but she accepted it.

* * *

Mom always reminded us that everyone has a story. It’s easy to focus on the parts of others — or ourselves — that we’d rather change, or hide, or rip out.

To our eyes, the stitches may be uneven or the colors may clash. The pattern may not make sense yet, or the seams may not feel strong enough.

But Peggy looked at everyone through Christ’s eyes. She believed every scrap had value and purpose.

She didn’t wait until we were perfect and presentable to love us. She saw who we could be — who we are striving to be — but accepted us as we are, right now. She saw each of us as wonderfully made.

She lavished her love on all of us without reservation or regret. Today, we all reflect that love back to her.

There’s a line in an Auden poem that has always stayed with me: “The choice to love is open until we die.”

Mom made the choice to love, as a disciple and daughter of God, until her final breath. And we believe — as she believed — that death is not the end of love. It is the beginning of a far greater love.

And there it is: Love is the fabric that binds us all together and comforts us in our sorrow.

May we, like Mama, spread our arms a little wider. May we always remain students in the school of Love.

# # #

Margaret (Peg) Pruden of Parsippany was called to eternal life on July 6, 2026, just one day shy of her 79th birthday. She died peacefully at her daughter Shannon’s home in Boonton, surrounded by her beloved family. She was a model of grit and grace, of humor and heroic virtue until her final breath.

Peg was born July 7, 1947 in Montclair, NJ to Mary and Bob Byrnes and grew up on Brunswick Road in Cedar Grove. The youngest of four, she graduated from Newark State College with a BA in English in 1969, and began her teaching career at Montville High School. Not long after, she transferred to the Parsippany school district, where she met the love of her life, Jack Pruden.

She spent most of her career teaching English and Language Arts at Brooklawn Middle School, where she was a revered mentor and teacher. The highlight for Peg was counting her son Brian and daughter-in-law Katie as colleagues. Her students relished her whimsical lessons and her colleagues relied on her wise counsel.

Peg was as gifted in her sewing room as she was in her classroom. She crafted hundreds of stunning quilts, pillowcases, table runners and more for family, friends, and strangers. She taught her grandchildren to stitch alongside her. She handmade and donated at least 100 unique quilts for children coping with trauma, illness, or displacement.

Yet her true vocation lay not in teaching or stitching, but in mothering and grandmothering. Her children and grandchildren were her whole world: she loved and delighted in the individual gifts of each. She logged thousands of miles to be in the front row for every milestone possible, from Grandparents Day to graduation. She could converse enthusiastically about baseball, softball, horses, cheerleading, hockey, pinball, literature, superheroes, and AI — what mattered to someone she loved mattered to her.

Peg loved to travel, but hated to fly. She possessed the gift of the gab, but was a human vault when it came to confidences. She was demanding about the ratio of cream and sugar in her morning coffee, and the impermissibility of interrupting during Jeopardy — and almost nothing else.

Unable to bear the thought of being late, she was often unfashionably early. She was renowned for her Thanksgiving spread, whose crowning glory was her sweet potato muffins. She savored corner brownies and made every drawer a junk drawer. Her kitchen “organization” was madness but her pastina was unrivaled. Locating the glasses on her head or the keys in the ignition was a daily mystery she solved by “keeping St. Anthony on speed dial.” She could humiliate Webster himself at Scrabble but could never remember how to play Hearts. (“UNO!”)

Peg couldn’t ride a train, check out at a grocery store, or answer a call from a telemarketer without making a new friend. She saw something in every soul that most would overlook.

She was a silent prayer, a welcoming hug, a strong cup of Tetley, an exuberant cheer from the sidelines.

Peg is survived by five children, Brian (Katie) James, Shannon (Jonathan) Last, Kelly (Mark) Grassi, Juli Pruden, and John (Kimberly) Pruden and ten dearly loved grandchildren: Cody, Campbell, Cordelia, Aidan, Emma, Andrew, Emmett, Fiona, Gabriel, and Brigid. She also leaves behind her best friend and big sister Mary Ann (Fred) Temple, brother Terry (Dianne) Byrnes, sister-in-law Cheryl Byrnes, grown stepchildren Katherine (Paul) Wisniewski and Bob James, a clan of devoted cousins, dozens of dear nieces and nephews, and countless close friends and colleagues. She entered her final days firm in the hope of reuniting with those who preceded her in death: her parents, her beloved husband Jack, and her brother Bob Byrnes.

Visitation will take place on Wednesday, July 15, 2026 from 4:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.at Par-Troy Funeral Home, 95 Parsippany Road. The Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated on Thursday, July 16, 2026 at 10:30 a.m. at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, 910 Birch Street, Boonton. The Mass will be livestreamed at the following link: https://www.olmc.church/funeral. Interment will follow at Gate of Heaven Cemetery, 225 Ridgedale Avenue, East Hanover.

In remembrance of Peg, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to Quilts for Kids or the Visiting Nurse Association of Northern New Jersey.

John (Jack) Pruden, 78, of Parsippany, was called to eternal life on November 15, 2023 after a long and incredibly courageous battle with cancer. He died peacefully at home, surrounded by his beloved family.

Jack was born January 5, 1945 in Jersey City, NJ to John Pruden and Helen Rea, and grew up in Parsippany. He was a Parsippany Little League legend and then a varsity pitcher for Parsippany High School. Six decades later, he had the joy of watching his oldest grandson take the mound on his home field as the starting pitcher against his alma mater. Jack earned his bachelor’s degree and master’s in school counseling from Montclair State University, where he became the university’s first-ever All-American baseball player. In 1978, he was inducted into MSU’s Athletics Hall of Fame. A southpaw and ace pitcher, Jack held the record for most victories in one season, with an ERA of 1.13, and was named MVP in 1966.

After graduating, he served as a teacher of physical education, health, and driver education for the Parsippany Board of Education, primarily at Central Middle School and then Parsippany High School. He coached basketball, softball, baseball, and soccer at the varsity level, and led the varsity boys’ soccer team to victory in the state championships in 1993—a significantly more successful season than his tenure as head coach of his daughter Kelly’s five-year-old girls rec soccer team. In 2005, Jack was inducted into the PHS Hall of Fame as the rare trifecta of teacher, coach, and student athlete.

He was up for every teaching challenge, and was equally unfazed by the bad drives of his adult golf students and the even worse driving of his children, as he sat “patiently” in the passenger seat reminding them of the ideal following distance. He also worked every summer as a house painter, and had the pleasure of having all but one of his kids work on his painting crew throughout the years—and later helped all of them paint their own homes.

Jack loved to golf and play guitar, hobbies he shared with son John. He was a wonderful dancer, a joy he shared with his daughter Juli. He taught his sons and grandsons the intricacies of baseball, and drove hundreds of miles in the wee hours to see his children and grandchildren in countless concerts and performances, from toddler tap dancing to Carnegie Hall. He reveled in body-boarding with his children and grandchildren on summer vacations in Emerald Isle, subjecting any captive audience to the musical and comedy stylings of the ‘50s and ‘60s, and cooking delicious meals for family occasions—then adding more salt. His pancakes and lasagna will remain unrivaled.

He was a ferocious and creative Scrabble competitor. He was also an inexplicably passionate Duke basketball fan who “graciously” conceded defeat in the March Madness pool to his wife almost every year. Jack loved to make his surroundings beautiful, whether painting the interiors of his children’s closets, cutting the lawn in a perfect diagonal, or stealthily washing and vacuuming the cars of anyone who parked in the driveway.

Jack was a man of stoic temperament and steady routines, beginning each day with terrible—but scalding—coffee and the crossword, and closing it out by watching Jeopardy with a bowl of ice cream, unabashedly shushing anyone who talked. And in the end, he was a man of faith. He grew tougher and more tender as he fought and endured illness. He never complained, and never missed an opportunity for an encouraging word or a terrible pun.

Jack is survived by Margaret (Peggy), his cherished wife of nearly 38 years; five children, Juli Pruden, John (Kimberly) Pruden, Brian (Katie) James, Shannon (Jonathan) Last, and Kelly (Mark) Grassi; and ten dearly loved grandchildren: Cody, Campbell, Cordelia, Aidan, Emma, Andrew, Emmett, Fiona, Gabriel, and Brigid. His children and grandchildren were his world, and he was immensely proud of each of them. He also leaves behind his younger brother Robert (Dolly) Pruden, many nieces and nephews, and a host of colleagues and dear friends.

Visitation will take place at Par-Troy Funeral Home, 95 Parsippany Road, from 1:00 - 5:00 p.m. on Sunday, November 19. The Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated on Monday, November 20 at 9:30 a.m. at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, 910 Birch St., Boonton, where Peggy and Jack are parishioners. Interment will follow at Gate of Heaven Cemetery, 225 Ridgedale Avenue, East Hanover.

In remembrance of Jack, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to the Parsippany Volunteer Ambulance Squad or Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church

I can just see Dad shaking his head in disbelief that so many people would come to celebrate his life. Then with a twinkle in his eye, he’d remind us of the words of that greatest of philosophers, Yogi Berra: 

“You should always go to other people's funerals; otherwise, they won't come to yours.”

One of the best things about Dad is that what you saw was what you got. Whether we knew him as dad, uncle, Pop Pop, teacher, coach, friend, teammate, or husband … he was the same guy. 

Stoic. Self-giving. Systematic.

And maybe a little bit stubborn. 

* * *

He loved beauty — a well-manicured golf course, a glorious harmony, a curveball that breaks perfectly. 

He loved structure — the doo-wop chord progression, the crossword puzzle, the windup and delivery of a well-executed joke. 

I’m not saying a good joke. But even the Henny Youngman one-liners burned into my brain are amusing because he took such delight in telling them. Over and over. 

Beauty and structure went hand in hand for Dad — and he wasn’t shy about supervising to make sure you got it right. Any of us who’ve ever helped him know that you cut in at the corners before you roll out the walls. You mow the lawn horizontally one week, and diagonally the next. You maintain a following distance of 2.5 seconds on the road.  

Two years ago, Cody and I were in Israel, climbing the steep switchbacks of the Mount of Transfiguration in dubious shuttle vans. As we careened around another corner, Cody grinned and said, “Pop Pop would be really pleased with the turning radius on this vehicle.” 

Dad could also take a joke. Not long ago, when we were ragging on him for “forgetting” his hearing aids, he quipped, “Hey — I may be deaf, but at least I’m stubborn!” 

And man, was he stubborn. You could not make that man do anything he didn’t want to do. 

But carrying the cross of cancer required true tenacity. He would argue with us for saying this — in fact he did argue with us — but he was incredibly courageous. Not once did he give in to resentment or self-pity. 

The game was out of his control, but it wasn’t over. So he kept moving forward, with grit and grace, even as his steps slowed. 

He tended his corner of creation as long as he was physically able: cutting the lawn, feeding the birds, even finding a way to slide Mom’s morning coffee through the banister when he wasn’t supposed to be climbing stairs. 

He loved his home, he loved his children and grandchildren, and above all, he loved Mom. 

But for most of his life it was easier for Dad to give love than to receive it. 

He told me last year how, after his father died, he put up “blackout curtains” over his heart. That worked pretty well for shielding him from pain. But he realized that they also blocked a lot of joy. He figured it was probably too late to tear them down. 

I agreed that seemed like a lot of work, but that maybe all he needed to do was part the curtains, just a little, and let God do the rest. 

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in. 

Dad came here to Mass with us for Gabriel’s first Holy Communion last December, on Gaudete Sunday. And then … he kept coming, week after week. 

He went to see Father Daniel and invited Father to come visit. And in his own time, he received all of the sacraments, some right here, and some at his own kitchen table. 

When his limp left him unbalanced, he used the walker to come here. When standing became too difficult, he asked if Father would mind bringing the Eucharist to our pew. When leaving the house became impossible, he asked Father to bring the Eucharist to him in bed. 

He didn’t say much about it. He didn’t need to. We all witnessed him grow lighter, more tender, more accepting, more peaceful. We watched him welcome the light of Christ. 

* * *

There’s a reason people say that baseball is a microcosm of life. On one level, there is beauty and structure: Nine men, nine innings. Four bases, four balls. Three strikes, three outs. 

But beneath the appearance of symmetry and predictability, it’s really an exercise in managing the chaos of people and events that are outside your control. 

No two games are the same. The length of each depends on how it’s played. There are infinite variables. And any single interaction can change the trajectory of the game. 

What makes baseball beautiful — what makes it alive — is the interplay of human skill, human frailty, and providence. 

We try to impose order on the game, but we are always deeply aware that anything could change — right up until the final out. 

As Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over til it’s over.” 

For Dad, it is just beginning. 

* * *

He leaves us a legacy of warmth and wit, compassion and courage. Our lives are brighter for having loved him, and having been loved by him. 

Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone,

His being working in mine own,

The footsteps of his life in mine.

* * *

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