Open Writing

The first coffin I ever saw was from a fourpenny seat at our local cinema. I was about seven. Three extra large ones were being carried from a building in the moonlight.

‘Where are they taking all those sideboards,’ I asked naively. The answer was smothered in giggles. ‘They are not sideboards stupid, they are coffins!’ Not quite sure what this meant, I presumed there was a touch of humour somewhere and joined in the chuckles.

During the last couple of years I have attended nine funerals. I have seen the bewilderment and shock that relatives have to wrestle with. I have experienced the dull ache of inadequacy, when struggling to find appropriate words to convey my sympathy.

But, worst of all, I have stood around helpless – barely able to conceal my anger and frustration while certain members of the clergy have repeated meaningless jargon in a supremely detached voice, gleaned from an open book held throughout the ceremony.

At one service the only personal note came when the name of the deceased was substituted for the word ‘Brother’ printed in italics. There was no handshake afterwards – no personal message for the bereaved.

‘Anyone could have done what he did,’ someone remarked bitterly afterwards. ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted,’ says the fourth beatitude. Sadly, in my experience at some funerals, very little of this comfort passes from pulpit to public.

What message there is becomes obscure when recited from the pages. Christ himself, the greatest communicator of all, knew the value of simple language. His simply worded family prayer ‘Our Father’ is one of the most beloved and popular prayers today. Reading from the scriptures is an integral part of any religious service, but the most impact surely comes when reading from the heart.

On this grief-stricken day sufferers want to hear a message of hope not an indecipherable ‘piece’ which passeth all understanding. I have seen the difference a little preparation and an eye-to-eye confrontation makes when a representative of God performs the job he chose, with love and concern, realising that to reach people you have to come down to earth occasionally.

At my aunt’s cremation we were deeply comforted to be told in plain language that our dear one is now ‘Free from pain and care.’ The minister spoke to us with his arms folded comfortably across his prayer book. We deemed it a privilege to shake his hand in thankfulness afterwards.

I have seen other preachers bridge the void of grief equally inadequately. But this gift unfortunately eludes many Church advocates who imagine repet-itious chants are all that is required.

It could be argued that there is a difficulty where the deceased has not been a Church member. Certainly this must entail more preparation – but surely the need is the same, if not greater?

Death’s mysteries will be solved by us all one day. In the meantime we do look to religious teachers for comprehensive inspiration. Author Roald Dahl and his wife, film star Patricia Neal, have had their share of tragedy. Besides the long illness of Miss Neal, they also suffered the death of a child, closely followed by the death of the child’s favourite dog.

Granted an audience with a High Church official the writer discussed his problems. At the end of the discussion he mentioned something which greatly troubled him. Could he hope that animals went to heaven too? He liked to think of the dog and its youthful mistress together. He was answered by a cold look of disapproval and a signal that the interview was ended.

Although some of us plan our lives to the last detail, we shy away from arranging our farewell. Unhappily we cannot plan the way we leave. I would like to slip away peacefully, surrounded by friends and family, perhaps a shade mellow, but not yet, you understand. Call me morose, but I have already planned my funeral.

In my drawer is a sealed envelope, containing the plans for my last exit, which I hope will lie there for another forty years. I have picked my spot in the cemetery up the road.

The envelope has been sealed and re-sealed. I change my mind a lot – usually when I’ve been to someone else’s funeral. But I fancy my mourners having a last sing-song to my memory with plenty of flowers – by request.

I like the idea of the chap who left instructions for his cortege to stop outside his favourite pub, while everyone popped in for a last drink on him. Perhaps a touch of humour can be introduced, after all. In the meantime let’s all get on with some living.

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Enid's husband William Blackburn writes:

It’s rather ironic that Enid should have written an article on this subject. Following her untimely death we found several notebooks containing what we, as a family had to do in the case of her death. These included hymns to be sung, prayers to be said and a certain CD to be played at the funeral service.
Unfortunately she didn’t manage to live the forty years she referred to but a mere 26.