I have been to many many funerals in my time.
family.....family friends.....friends....colleagues........neighbours and patients.....
They are all generally hard work on the emotions, especially when the grief present is raw and each service I have experienced always seems to possess it's own unique sense of sadness and occasionally joy. Joy at the celebration of a life most extraordinary .
Over the past few decades, it is more acceptable for the service to be led by a minister 'supported' by family and friends who often read a personalised eulogy of sorts.
In my experience, if is often these intimate glimpses of the deceased that provide the most "joy" at a funeral for they always seem to underline the real love that is felt and the real affection that is often shared.
I have seen my fair share of piss poor funerals where it was obvious that the vicar hardly knew the deceased in question. it was either that or the fact that they couldn't really be bothered.
my mother's funeral had a sense of this...a fact that made my blood boil......I was just grateful that I pushed myself forward to read a home spun eulogy...a eulogy that perhaps tried to capture the sense of the woman. A woman that was as complicated as a Rubix cube in a dark room.
As you might have guessed it was the RFWF's funeral today.
In the packed marble Church at Bodelwyddan, the Rector did indeed capture a little of the " exuberance " of the man as did one of his oldest friends who told a perfect story of how the RFWF whilst on a mobile carol service around the local farms bellowed lustily "SING YOU BUGGERS SING!" from the back of his trailer which housed, of all things, a strapped on piano!
Personal eulogys always bring the stiffness out of a funeral day.....especially when you look and sound like an old pirate!
John, for that was the RFWFs name, was buried in our churchyard here in Trelawnyd. I stood stiffy in the field holding the thumb stick he had made me, and waved gently at his wife and sons as they walked slowly into the graveyard with the congregation. After all of the help he had given me, rounding the pigs up, providing a never ending supply of bedding and hay, and putting down fences and the like....I thought it was fitting I paid my respects right here with the turkey gobbling noisily in the background and with mud on my shoes
family.....family friends.....friends....colleagues........neighbours and patients.....
They are all generally hard work on the emotions, especially when the grief present is raw and each service I have experienced always seems to possess it's own unique sense of sadness and occasionally joy. Joy at the celebration of a life most extraordinary .
Over the past few decades, it is more acceptable for the service to be led by a minister 'supported' by family and friends who often read a personalised eulogy of sorts.
In my experience, if is often these intimate glimpses of the deceased that provide the most "joy" at a funeral for they always seem to underline the real love that is felt and the real affection that is often shared.
I have seen my fair share of piss poor funerals where it was obvious that the vicar hardly knew the deceased in question. it was either that or the fact that they couldn't really be bothered.
my mother's funeral had a sense of this...a fact that made my blood boil......I was just grateful that I pushed myself forward to read a home spun eulogy...a eulogy that perhaps tried to capture the sense of the woman. A woman that was as complicated as a Rubix cube in a dark room.
As you might have guessed it was the RFWF's funeral today.
In the packed marble Church at Bodelwyddan, the Rector did indeed capture a little of the " exuberance " of the man as did one of his oldest friends who told a perfect story of how the RFWF whilst on a mobile carol service around the local farms bellowed lustily "SING YOU BUGGERS SING!" from the back of his trailer which housed, of all things, a strapped on piano!
Personal eulogys always bring the stiffness out of a funeral day.....especially when you look and sound like an old pirate!
John, for that was the RFWFs name, was buried in our churchyard here in Trelawnyd. I stood stiffy in the field holding the thumb stick he had made me, and waved gently at his wife and sons as they walked slowly into the graveyard with the congregation. After all of the help he had given me, rounding the pigs up, providing a never ending supply of bedding and hay, and putting down fences and the like....I thought it was fitting I paid my respects right here with the turkey gobbling noisily in the background and with mud on my shoes
