Do not stand at my grave and weep

The sun shone out from the clouds, making me sweat in my black clothes, the race to place flowers on his grave before the service had left me feeling rushed. We took our seats near the front as the last of the first hymn petered out, kissing the others hello.

The Irish priest voiced platitudes about eternal life and returning to Christ. In one voice the congregation obediently answered ‘amen’ and stood as instructed, beginning the next hymn. Shade touched the garden as I looked around me at the pliant faces, wondering at the comfort derived from these services, long after their loved ones had passed.

The melodies were unfamiliar; I supposed I seemed hard, standing silent with lips tightly closed. The hymn finished and another priest beckoned us to sit, reminding me of the long aerobic services I had attended as a child.

I was surprised by the elderly lady who took her turn at the podium, almost too short to see over the lectern. Her voice rose clearly out over the crowd, acknowledging the loss of all those sat before her. Offering no promises of golden streets in heaven, yet providing comfort with her encouragement to continue on, remembering, loving, living. I thought of those I’d lost, not unhappy that they’d moved on, knowing they were fine wherever they may be, but sad for my loss. Grief is a selfish thing.

The next song passed by and the first priest returned, thanking us for attending, talking on until I didn’t hear anymore and sat wondering about the elderly woman’s wisdom. She didn’t seem like a priest, although I wouldn’t know what one looked like – the religion of my upbringing would never allow a woman to preach – and the programme provided little help either. I wondered who she grieved for and was grateful for her words, when all the others seemed just noise.