This week I drove for an hour or two up the country, to a small Victorian town I know well. An old friend of mine lost her father, far too young, and while her brother gave the eulogy, reflecting on the dates and the achievements, she spoke afterwards and she spoke from the heart.
Emotion strained her voice and there were tears but among friends, with everyone buoying her up, she said what she wanted to share.
These are not her words but I think they gather the emotions shared in that country church.
(She stands at the lectern, her hands gripping the edges, just a little too tightly. Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, sweep across the faces in the hushed church. A fragile smile touches her lips, a counterpoint to the profound sorrow etched on her face. Sunlight, a golden balm, streams through the stained glass, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a silent, beautiful tribute.)
Oh, friends… thank you. Thank you all for being here. Seeing your faces… it’s like a lifeline right now. It truly is. Dad would… he’d be so chuffed. And probably a bit embarrassed by all the fuss.
My Dad. Arthur. Artie. (Her voice cracks just a little, and she pauses, takes a shaky breath). It still doesn’t feel real. Saying his name, knowing he’s… (she gestures gently towards the coffin, a wave of pain crossing her face before she resettles it into that brave smile) …knowing he’s not just going to walk through the door with a cheeky grin and some outlandish new plan.
The last week has been… a blur. A strange, hollow kind of blur. But through it, through the shock that still steals my breath sometimes, there’s this… this overwhelming wave of love. Not just my love for him, which feels big enough to burst out of this church, but the love I’ve felt from all of you. It’s like a warm blanket on a freezing night. And it’s shown me, so clearly, just how much he was loved in return.
He was… my goodness, he was something, wasn’t he? (A small, wet laugh escapes her). So much life crammed into those sixty-odd years. He didn’t just live; he blazed. Remember that boundless energy? That insatiable curiosity? One minute he’d be trying to teach me, a gangly ten-year-old, the finer points of fly-fishing down at the creek – mostly resulting in tangled lines and me falling in – and the next he’d be passionately debating the merits of worm farming with Old Man Fitzwilliam. He just… embraced it all.
And yes, he was flawed. Oh, Dad. (She shakes her head, a fond, teary smile). Remember the Great Emu Egg Fiasco? He was convinced he could hatch them in a homemade incubator in the spare room. Mum nearly had kittens. The smell alone… But even in his wildest, most chaotic schemes, there was this incredible, childlike wonder. This belief that anything was possible. How I’ll miss that. How I’ll miss his booming laugh when things inevitably went a bit sideways.
It’s the little things, isn’t it? The things that creep up on you in the quiet moments. The way he used to hum off-key while he made his breakfast. The smell of sawdust that always clung to his clothes. The way his eyes would light up when he talked about his latest discovery in one of his beloved history books. Those are the moments that ambush you, that bring the tears stinging to your eyes when you least expect it.
But alongside the aching void, there’s this… this deep, deep gratitude. Gratitude that he was my Dad. That I got to bask in the light of his extraordinary spirit for all these years. He taught me so much. Not always intentionally, mind you. Sometimes it was by learning what not to do – like never try to repair a toaster with a butter knife. (A soft chuckle ripples through the congregation). But he taught me to be curious, to be kind, to not be afraid to try, even if you might fall flat on your face.
And this town, Stonehaven. (She looks around, her gaze lingering on familiar faces). You were his extended family. He loved this place with a fierce, protective passion. He loved its rhythms, its people. He’d spend hours in the town gardens, not just tending the roses – though he fussed over them like they were his children – but talking. Connecting. He believed in the power of those small connections, those everyday kindnesses. He used to say this town was like a well-tended garden – each person a vital part, contributing to the whole, making it beautiful.
And you know, this past week, I’ve truly seen that. The arms that have held me up, the quiet words of comfort, the shared tears, the endless cups of tea… it’s been like feeling the strength of those roots he helped to nurture. He sowed so much love here, so much goodwill, and now, in our darkest time, we’re feeling its warmth. It’s like he’s still here, in a way, through all of you.
Funerals are a test, aren’t they? They strip away the trivial, the everyday distractions, and they force you to look at what’s real, what truly matters. And standing here, my heart feeling both shattered and incredibly full, I know what matters. It’s love. It’s connection. It’s the legacy we leave in the hearts of others. It’s squeezing every drop of joy out of the time we’re given, just like Dad did.
He wouldn’t want us to be sad. He’d be telling us to crack a smile, to share a story. Remember when he tried to learn the bagpipes? (She mimics a pained, screeching sound, and genuine laughter rings out this time). He sounded like a flock of angry geese, but the sheer determination on his face… Bless him. He just wanted to fill the world with… well, with sound, if not always music.
So, as we say our earthly goodbyes to my wonderful, infuriating, magnificent father, let’s not just mourn what we’ve lost. Let’s celebrate what we had. Let’s hold onto that bright love he gave so freely. And maybe, just maybe, let’s try to live a little more like he did. With a little more laughter, a little more curiosity, a little more kindness. Let’s keep his garden growing.
(Her voice is thick with emotion now, but her smile, though watery, is genuine. She looks towards the coffin, then back at the congregation, her heart in her eyes.)
I’ll miss you, Dad. More than words can ever, ever say. But thank you. Thank you for everything.
(She takes one last, deep, shaky breath, a single tear finally tracing a path down her cheek, a testament to the love and grief so beautifully intertwined.)
I don’t live in a small town and my local community is hardly as cohesive and coherent with young professionals taking out eye-watering mortgages to live alongside pensioners in a long-empty family home.
But the long-term residents know each other and I’ve attended a few funerals in this church or that.
Although the dear departed does not take an active part, they are there in the hearts of those attending. We all know how they looked, how they spoke, how they would react. We know the ways to recognise them and in a way, those signs are the person themselves: the resonance, the echo, the ripples of an individual. A harmony in our heart.
We can’t have a conversation with the unmoving body in the wooden coffin with flowers on top, but we can ask a question and know how they would respond, what they would say,
”Don’t be sad. The sun is shining, the flowers are bright, the leaves may be gold and red but they will be replaced in fresh green in a few months. Take joy in each other and if you think of me, think of me smiling and enjoying the moment.”
Britni
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