I went to a funeral on Monday which, in the way of these things, left me with persistent niggling thoughts about death. This time it was about the rituals surrounding death and what they should be like, or how I would like them to be. I’ve always thought they are more for the bereaved than the dead (though opinions on that are divided) so I hope that the people who were expressing their love and grief on Monday were comforted by the gathering, and by the form of remembrance they had themselves created. There was singing by a choir Karin had belonged to and a long eulogy about her life, written by the young women who I believe felt closer to her than to her own mother. This was read by an Interfaith Minister. There had been talk of an open coffin, favoured by some at the Foundation and quite traditional in Scotland in times gone by, but I was rather relieved to hear it hadn’t been appropriate. More touching were the photos of Karin at various stages of her life and as I was in direct line with these I spent most of my time looking at them, admiring her strong intelligent features  and imagining her in her younger days before we met.

I wouldn’t be writing this if the occasion hadn’t left me feeling faintly disappointed. I’m trying to understand why. I hope very much I was the only one.

Death can’t, or perhaps shouldn’t, be made cosy in my opinion. It is huge, whatever one’s beliefs. Even if death is just the end of a complex illusion, or if there is no survival of the essential being who has spent time among us, it is a solemn event and deserves more than tinkly music and sentiment (I’m not saying that was the problem on Monday.) I’ve been to a variety of funerals; one taken by a school chaplain for a man who committed suicide leaving a shocked wife, ex-wife and three children. It must have been a difficult service for the chaplain to face and I thought he did well. He spoke about Richard with a compassion and comforting strength that would have been soothing for the family, and offended no-one, neither theist nor atheist nor any shades in between.  Two other church services I’ve attended have also impressed me. What they had to offer were rituals and ceremonies with all the dignity and power accrued through the ages of use, giving believers the assurance of continuance. Churches in this part of the world are usually small and often very simple but they are still dedicated to levels of thought beyond the mundane. They attempt to bring significance and reverence to life. It’s hard to create those without the backdrop of established religion.

For my mother’s funeral we had a gathering in our house with the people who had known her in Belgium, rather fewer than her friends in the UK. The Salvation Army held a memorial service later in the place where she had worshipped and my father had played in the band for many years. In our house it was informal, impromptu, very warm, and I was grateful for the surprising number of people who spoke up to tell us how she had touched their lives. Our eldest daughter sang a French song she had learned at school. I opted not to have the coffin brought to the house; for me once someone has died their body is irrelevant. At the crematorium I had chosen a piece from Revelations 21, the King James Bible, which my husband read. I chose it because it is full of promise and sonorous, beginning with “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away,” I chose to end the reading with words: “Behold I make all things new!”

Probably because I enjoy the drama of it!

Afterwards we had a feast with a whole poached salmon because my mum prepared great food herself and would have liked to be honoured that way.

Looking back I think we did well by her and if she was still conscious of us all she would have been pleased. It helped us, and that was what mattered.