Janice Marie Henderson remembered in Steamboat Springs

“Jan’s smile conveyed her happiness and zest for life to those around her.”

That line from Janice Marie Henderson’s obituary doesn’t just describe a facial expression; it describes a presence. It’s the kind of warmth you feel when you walk into a room where someone has just been telling a story that made everyone laugh, not because it was funny, but because the teller was so genuinely delighted to be telling it. Janice, known to most as Jan, passed away on April 13, 2026, at her home in Tieton, Washington, leaving behind a life that was less a straight line and more a series of connected valleys and peaks, much like the terrain she came to love.

Born in Loveland, Ohio, on September 19, 1946, she didn’t stay there long. She grew up in Pueblo, Colorado, where she attended Pueblo Catholic Schools, graduating in 1964. That Catholic faith became a backbone for her life, not just in ritual, but in rhythm. She sang in the choir for Holy Family in Yakima, Washington, and for churches in Pueblo and Steamboat Springs. The obituary notes she was a good singer, but the real detail is that singing brought her genuine joy. It wasn’t performance; it was participation. It was the sound of someone finding her place in the world, one note at a time.

Her career was a study in the quiet, essential work that keeps institutions running. She was a secretary, then an Administrative Assistant, moving through financial institutions, engineering firms, medical clinics, and county governments. It’s the kind of work that doesn’t always make the headlines, but it’s the glue. You can feel it in the way she was described: always there if someone needed an ear to listen. That’s a specific kind of reliability. It’s the kind of neighbor who knows your name, who knows your dog’s name, and who knows when you’re having a bad day before you say a word.

But Jan wasn’t just a professional or a parishioner. She was a traveler with a specific taste for the rugged and the exotic. She visited Mesa Verde, Carlsbad, Disneyland, Hawaii, Alaska, and Europe. Yet, her favorite places were here, in Colorado. Steamboat Springs. Denver. Pueblo. It’s interesting how people can see the world and still find their center in the same zip code they’ve known for decades. She lived in an apple orchard for nearly 30 years, where she planted flowers, especially roses, and watched them bloom against a mountain backdrop. There’s a texture to that image — the rough bark of the apple trees, the delicate petals of the roses, the cold air of the high country. It’s a life lived in the soil.

Later, she found a second home in Friday Harbor on the San Juan Islands of Washington, where she and her husband, Roger, spent a lot of time. She loved sailing, watching whales, and shopping in the little shops there. It’s a different kind of beauty than the mountains, softer, wetter, defined by the tide rather than the peak. But the joy was the same.

She is survived by Roger, her son Robert, her grandson Nathan, and her brother Jim. She was predeceased by her son Daniel, her husband Jan, and her parents. The services will be held at Holy Name Catholic Church in Steamboat Springs on June 12th, followed by interment at SS Cemetery. And then, because life, even at its end, needs a little celebration, there will be a casual gathering at Fiesta Jalisco.

If you look closely at the list of places she loved, you see a pattern. It’s not just about seeing things; it’s about belonging to them. Whether it was the choir loft in Yakima or the orchard in Steamboat, she found her joy in the details. The obituary mentions her Lebanese heritage and her love for Lebanese cuisine at family gatherings. It’s a reminder that identity is layered, like the sedimentary rock of the Grand Junction cliffs, built up over time by different forces, different migrations, different loves.

Janice Marie Henderson didn’t just live in these places. She inhabited them. She sang in them. She planted in them. And now, as the service approaches in June, the community is left with the echo of that smile, that zest, that quiet, steady presence that made the Western Slope feel a little less like a coordinate on a map and a little more like a home.