{A time of reflection and perhaps contemplation}

[different from the questioning &/or pondering epistles]

Today’s Theme: What should I say at a funeral?

Last week I attended the funeral for a respected individual I had called a friend for fifty [50] years. It was not an informal celebration of life, but a real, honest-to-goodness funeral conducted in an Anglican church, in the Anglican way.

Although I am not Anglican, I have always had respect for the discipline and formality of the Anglican form of worship. Perhaps that was reinforced by my travel to the Sinclair established Rosslyn Chapel which, to this day, is a functioning Church of England sanctuary (despite the desecration by Dan Brown – I will say no more at the moment on this). Moreover, along with my father in 1986, I attended Evensong in that very chapel on a cold January Sunday. But I digress.

My question today deals more with what one says to the bereaved at a funeral. During the service itself, there is no need to say anything other than what is required in the Order of Service. The eulogy has been designated, as has any special music and/or readings. Take your seat, pay attention, be respectfully quiet, and reflect on the life well lived.

Afterwards, as I am so often accustomed even in the Presbyterian Church, there was a luncheon in the Church Hall. The food, although quite usual for such events, was remarkably good. The room was large enough to allow people to move about, get their food &/or refreshments and then even sit at a table should they desire. The widow and extended family were there but were surrounded by people either from the city or the corporation he had been a large part of throughout his life. I had met very few of them and then not any more than once or twice over the five decades; I wasn’t sure I really could recognize any but the nephew who had delivered the eulogy and I had only met him once – ironically at his own father’s funeral twenty years previously and then very fleetingly. The widow I had met and had gotten to know a little bit, though usually through correspondence or by comments he had made about her. What do I say to any of them?

I had written my In Memoriam. They could read it if they wished (they had been forwarded the reference). But I did think it was almost necessary to say something to the widow. I didn’t want her to only have my written thoughts – I wished for her to hear my voice one last time. I waited while myriads of women in particular, crowded around and said words of condolence or shared hugs or cried together. Suddenly she saw me and motioned me into the circle while by her looks simultaneously questioning me as to who I might be. I realized I was drawing a blank while being asked to speak. I mumbled some condolences and then introduced myself. I tried to express not so much my sorrow but my deep appreciation for what he had meant in my life. I also wanted to thank her for the renewal she brought to his life. And then I realized that perhaps I was intruding or at least preventing others from access. As I began to withdraw I wished her well and asked to stay in touch.

But I wished I had more time. I almost wanted to speak more loudy so others would know I had just lost a very special friend. Yet, I wondered if I had not already said more than enough. On the drive back to Edmonton, many more thoughts came to mind; many more erudite expressions of respect, of honour, of sadness raced through my mind. Why hadn’t I said any of them? Should I now write them? Or did I do enough to properly say goodbye? I really wished I had been better prepared – but then again, maybe my presence was all that was needed to show my love, respect and sense of loss. Perhaps I do need to be better prepared at the next funeral, let alone celebration of life, because there will, in all likelihood, be another…

In reflection,
g.w.