Eleria Elena “Alice” Lucero-Trujillo

December 26, 1938 – September 7, 2026

In Loving Memory of Alice Lucero Trujillo

Alice Lucero Trujillo was born on December 26, 1938, to Elias Trujillo and Sarah

Sanchez Trujillo. She was the eldest of four children and a lifelong native of Corrales,

New Mexico.

Alice was born into a family whose roots in Corrales ran deep. On her mother’s side, her

family history reaches back several generations, making Alice part of a long and

cherished story that has been woven into the Corrales community for many years.

Corrales was more than the place where Alice lived. It was home—the place where her

family had deep roots, where memories were made, and where so much of the life she

loved unfolded.

Alice is survived by her loving husband, Bernie “Jr.” Lucero; her three daughters, Lydia

Montes de Oca (Al), Anna Maria Cordova (Leroy), and Ellen Franco (Armando); six

grandchildren; 18 great-grandchildren; and one great-great-grandchild. She is also

survived by her brother and sister, Joe and Dorothy Trujillo, sisters-in-law, Erlinda Salas

and Martha “Chanita” Garcia, along with many nieces, nephews, and extended family

members who were blessed to know and love her.

But to simply say Alice is survived by these people does not tell the story of how deeply

she was connected to them. Alice gave her family her heart.

She was a stay-at-home mom, and she poured herself into that calling. Her family was

her work, her joy, and one of the greatest expressions of her love. She gave her time

and energy freely, always looking for ways to keep her daughters close and to make

sure they had opportunities to be together. She understood that family memories don't

happen by accident. Someone has to make the plans, prepare the food, gather

everyone together, and sometimes simply insist that everyone come along.

Alice did all of that.

She created a home where her family could gather, eat, laugh, love, work, worship, and

simply be together. The things that may have seemed ordinary at the time became the

things her children and grandchildren would treasure most.

Alice loved the Lord, and her faith was not separate from her life—it was woven into

everything she did.

In her younger years, she joyfully served in her church’s children’s ministry. She loved

the children, loved serving them, and loved her church family. Alice first attended the

Rio Grande Spanish Seventh-day Adventist Church. She later became a founding

member of the Three Angels Seventh-day Adventist Church and eventually returned to

attend the Corrales Seventh-day Adventist Church. She remained a faithful church

attendee until dementia eventually made it difficult for her to attend.

But even when dementia took away her ability to participate in church as she once had,

it could not take away the faith that had been part of her for so many years.

Alice's faith was something people could see. It was in the way she loved. It was in the

way she welcomed people into her home. It was in the way she served others. It was in

the way she cared for her parents and her family. Her faith was not merely something

she talked about; it was something she lived.

Alice also had a deep appreciation for the beauty and simple joys of God’s creation.

She loved to garden and make beautiful flower arrangements. She loved fishing. She

loved to sing and could play the piano by ear. She enjoyed going with her family and her

parents to gather wood. She loved collecting rocks. She was a wonderful cook and

baker and believed that good nutrition was an important part of keeping her family

healthy.

And then there was Alice's sense of adventure.

Her mother-in-law once said that Alice was the only one who could please Jr. Here is a

story that says so much about her. Sometimes on a Friday, Bernie would call and tell

Alice that he wanted to go fishing or camping.

Alice didn't hesitate.

The moment she heard the plan, she was ready. The kids needed to be gathered, food

needed to be prepared, supplies needed to be packed, and everyone needed to get

moving.

She didn't need a long notice or a detailed itinerary. If Jr. wanted to go fishing or

camping, then they were going fishing or camping.

That was Alice.

She was dependable and hardworking, but she was also fun. She was good-humored,

sometimes mischievous, and always willing to turn an ordinary day into an adventure.

She knew how to make life special—not necessarily through grand gestures, but

through the simple decision to say, “Let's go,” and then make it happen. While these

were the wonderful characteristics Alice had, she also believed in discipline, and her

children knew when she meant business. Everyone had a chore and was expected to

perform it because they belonged to a family that worked together and played together.

Perhaps one of the greatest testimonies to the life Alice lived is what happens when

someone simply says her name.

Someone will say, “I remember when your mom…”

And then comes a story.

There is always a story.

A funny story. A sweet story. A story about something Alice said or did. A story about

her kindness, her humor, her generosity, her faith, or one of the countless little things

that made Alice who she was.

And those stories belong to the people who lived them with her.

That may be one of the greatest gifts Alice left behind. She gave people memories.

A moment she shared with someone became part of that person's life. Something she

did years ago could still bring laughter today. Something she said could still be

repeated. A simple afternoon, a fishing trip, a meal around the table, a family outing, a

song, a garden, a birthday party at home, or some little adventure became a memory

that would outlive the moment itself.

That is how Alice will continue to live among those who loved her.

In the last years of Alice's life, dementia slowly took away many of the things she once

knew and the ability to actively participate in the life she had spent so many years

building. It was difficult to watch someone so capable, so loving, and so full of life

become confused by a world that had once been so familiar.

And yet, even then, pieces of Alice remained.

Sometimes, in the midst of confused words, she would try to sing. Sometimes she

would dance like a ballerina. Somehow, even when so much had been taken from her,

there were still glimpses of the woman her family knew.

Her laughter could still come through.

Her silliness could still come through.

Her fierce love for her family could still come through.

And perhaps that is another gift Alice gave them: the reminder that a person's deepest

self cannot always be taken away, even when memories disappear.

The family prays that Alice's influence will remain in the hearts of everyone who knew

her. They pray that her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and future

generations will continue to tell her stories—to remember her laughter, her love, her

faith, her adventures, her cooking, her music, her flowers, and all the little things that

made her uniquely Alice.

Most of all, her family holds tightly to the promises of God.

They do not say goodbye believing that this is the end.

They rest in the promises of Scripture:

“For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the

archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first.”

— 1 Thessalonians 4:16

Alice has left an empty space that cannot be filled. Her husband has lost his companion.

Her daughters have lost their mother. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren have

lost a beloved grandmother and great-grandmother. Her siblings have lost a sister. Her

friends and church family have lost someone whose presence was woven into their

lives.

She is deeply missed because she was deeply loved.

But her family also knows that Alice loved the Lord. And when she closed her eyes for

the last time, she did so in the hope that the day will come when she will awaken—not

to confusion, not to sickness, and not to the limitations of dementia, but to the presence

of Jesus.

The family looks forward to that day.

They look forward to the moment when Alice will see the face of Jesus first, and then,

they pray, the faces of all those she loved and who loved her.

They hold onto another promise from Jesus:

“I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

— John 14:3

And so, although today there is an empty chair, a quiet place where her voice once was,

and a space in the hearts of those who loved her, there is also hope.

Alice’s story does not end here.

It continues in the lives of her daughters, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, her

family, her friends, and everyone who carries a memory of her.

It continues every time one of her recipes is made, one of her songs is sung, flowers are

planted, a fishing story is told, rocks are collected, or a family adventure begins with

someone saying, “Let’s go.”

It continues in the faith she lived and the love she gave.

Alice will not fade away as long as her family remembers her, tells her stories, and

passes those stories on to the generations who will come after her.

And one day, by God’s grace, the stories will no longer be memories of the past.

They will be stories they are telling Alice again.

Until that day, Alice is loved.

She is missed.

She is remembered.

And she is held in the blessed hope of the resurrection and the promise that Jesus will

come again, but until that time, when someone says, “I remember when Alice…”

The family looks forward to that day.

They look forward to the moment when Alice will see the face of Jesus first, and then,

they pray, the faces of all those she loved and who loved her.

They hold onto another promise from Jesus:

“I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

— John 14:3

And so, although today there is an empty chair, a quiet place where her voice once was,

and a space in the hearts of those who loved her, there is also hope.

Alice’s story does not end here.

It continues in the lives of her daughters, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, her

family, her friends, and everyone who carries a memory of her.

It continues every time someone says, “I remember when Alice…”

It continues every time one of her recipes is made, one of her songs is sung, flowers are

planted, a fishing story is told, rocks are collected, or a family adventure begins with

someone saying, “Let’s go.”

It continues in the faith she lived and the love she gave.

Alice will not fade away as long as her family remembers her, tells her stories, and

passes those stories on to the generations who will come after her.

And one day, by God’s grace, the stories will no longer be memories of the past.

They will be stories they are telling Alice again.

Until that day, Alice is loved.

She is missed.

She is remembered.

And she is held in the blessed hope of the resurrection and the promise that Jesus will

come again.