In memory of...

I didn’t think they’d let me inside the church but they did.

I was early, as usual. I could never be fashionably late like some people.

I sat in one of the pews at the back. I recognised some faces.

Covid meant that some pews were cordoned off to make sure people sat apart but I was grateful I was allowed to sit inside.

A soft music was playing in the background. The altar was huge and impressive.

Hushed voices offered condolences to others. People tip-toed around quietly.

I hadn’t expected the tears to come so quickly but they did.

When I had gotten the phone-call to tell me your news, I hadn’t cried. After all, we had expected it for a long time. 

But as soon as I sat there, in that sacred space, with that beautiful music, the tears came.

I was embarrassed and tried to hold myself together.

People I knew came to talk to me. I brushed away my tears but they were sympathetic. They said that maybe it was time to let the tears out.

At ten o’clock, I swivelled my head around to look outside the church. I saw the hearse. And I saw the coffin. I knew you had arrived. I prepared myself to say goodbye.

Four men in black suits began to carry you up the aisle. We all stood to mark your arrival.

I saw you going past. The coffin seemed so small. My face crumpled with tears as I imagined you in there.

They took you to the front and set you in the middle. It was your party. We were all here for you.

The music was beautiful. You always did have good taste. I remember so many times you gave me lifts and we’d have a singalong in the car. You’d turn the volume up high and we’d belt the tunes out, raising our voices, letting go. You had made a playlist for your car and every song was fantastic.

I could imagine you sitting down and planning what songs you wanted played today.

“Here I am Lord,” the lady sang and I knew why you had chosen that. I remember you told me about the time that you made that decision. The decision that you were going to try to serve God and help others. That you would dedicate your life to trying to be of service.

And serve you did. You were always trying to be of help. Always trying to have a kind word and a listening ear.

The number of times you gave me lifts; helped me move house and took mum and I to hospital when Dad was was sick with cancer. The number of times you took me to Tesco late at night where we’d do our food shop. You always produced a little gift for me – chocolate or some other treat. And I’d have always bought something for you too. It was a pointless exercise – we could have just bought something for ourselves, but it became a tradition.

Your brother gets up to say a few words about you. I could tell it was your brother before anyone even introduced him. He’s your absolute double.

He said about how much you helped others, how the last twenty years of your life were dedicated to being of service. He talked about all your travels and how much you loved life. And he talked about the cancer, and how you fought it head on, never indulging in self-pity.

And then they played it. “Make me a channel of your peace”. And again, my face crumpled inwards with tears. I suddenly remembered the time that this song had come on. Years and years ago. And you announced “I want this song played at my funeral”. It wasn’t a morbid statement, just a casual observation and I had said, “Oh really? Nice song. I want Ave Maria played at mine.” And that was that, the subject was dropped and we went on to talk about something else. But now here I was, listening to this song at your funeral, knowing it was what you had picked.

I looked at you sitting up there in front of us. I could almost see your cheeky grin. I could almost imagine your pride that all the great music you had picked was being played. That you were getting the proper send-off that you deserved. That the church was packed despite Covid.

Afterwards when we were all standing outside, I got to speak to your brother. “That was lovely, what you said about Colin,” I said.

He immediately broke into stories about you, regaling me of funny incidents, telling me tales of your escapades together. He even told me dirty jokes that he said he couldn’t tell from the pulpit. It was like looking at a carbon copy of you. You look the same, you have the same sense of humour; it was as though you were there.

After some time of chatting to people and of getting to hug Jude, who had nursed you so well in the last few years, I stepped aside to phone a taxi. I was over on my own and I happened to be standing right next to the hearse, in which you were inside. I felt your presence very strongly beside me. I noticed the car tyres of the hearse said “Mercedes Benz” along them. It seemed like you were standing there beside me with your cheeky grin, saying, “Look Rose, I’m going out in style. Look what they’re driving me off in.”

Thank you, Colin, for being such a good friend, for adding to my life and never expecting anything in return. May you rest in peace. And may I try to have an ounce of the compassion and kindness you had.

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~ In memory of Colin Murray ~