Myra’s Memorial Service took place last Thursday (17th April) in the church where she had been christened, confirmed, married and where, as head mistress of the local school, she had often taken groups of children for concerts, carol services, award ceremonies etc.

This was her final visit to her old parish church and she would have been pleased to have seen it so full of her friends and relatives.  She must have been well-loved.  Actions speak louder than words.  I should be glad to get close family and the odd passer-by to my funeral.

Her old school choir sang and did actions for “We are climbing Jesus’ (sic) Ladder” since it was one of Myra’s favourites. (Why do young boys always look so bashful when they sing?  I suppose they always prefer to be off kicking a ball somewhere.) I read the Gospel about the death of Lazarus, brother-in-law Hayden gave the eulogy and grandson Luke read the poem “Do not stand at my grave and weep”, reputedly by Mary Elizabeth Frye (Dayton, Ohio) and based on dubioue theology, but none the less moving for that.

The mood was celebratory and not at all gloomy. Whoever had arranged the flowers by laying the long stalked irises next to Myra’s urn was, no doubt, setting a booby trap.  I fell into it, of course, and sent them flying to the floor.  The next victim, Haydn, did the same.  Myra would have laughed.

While we took tea and biscuits in the meeting room afterwards, we looked around, playing the game “can I recognise old friends and relatives?”  They had all grown so old.  Did I look as haggard and ancient as they did?  I had to assume so.  Oh, the ravages of time!

“Remember me? I’m your cousin Maureen.” A woman, who moments ago I would have denied ever having seen before in my entire life, no matter how many cocks crowed, and would have walked past her in the street without a second glance, stood before me.  “Of course you are” I lied, though as I stared at her I did see a kind of family resemblance.  Was it the mad look in her eyes?

I stood, sipping my tea, surrounded by old age and infirmity.  My other sister, Pat, who  had defied diabetes and made the supreme effort to be there, was sitting at the side chatting to two old admirers. ( I wondered if she felt 18 again?)  I pondered the wrinkles and white hair that surrounded me.  “Should I get in early and book my funeral now?” I asked the vicar (an old friend from choirboy days).  He thought I was joking and chuckled.  By now the Brownies wanted the room so we had to leave.

As we headed home up the motorway I couldn’t help feeling what a pleasantly warm, life affirming service it had been and that Myra, now at peace, would have been pleased.