Archive for February 2008
words at a funeral
This last Monday I buried my mother. She died on Valentine’s Day, aged 64, having been diagnosed with liver cancer 20 months previously.
There are too may things to say right now that there’s little chance of conveying the tremendous sense of pride I felt as hundreds of people pressed up against the walls of the church where she became a Christian three decades ago to give thanks for her remarkable life.
For what it’s worth, here’s what I said:
I think this has been one of the hardest things I have ever had to write. It’s not for lack of words – there are too many that come to mind for this to be considered a drought. And it’s not because I’m struggling to find the memories to share – for many years it was me and mum against the world, a perfect-sized team made up of just two. What’s hard is getting it all down to just a handful of minutes. Somehow it just doesn’t seem enough to do her justice.
That’s why I’m glad to be welcoming you here today. Together, let’s tell the stories we have about her, let’s reflect on a life that shared its gentle warmth with so many, a life that leaves so great a gap.
I’d like to thank you for coming, but I’d like to start by noting that there are two men who are not here today, two men who last saw her decades ago but who both played significant parts in my mum’s life. I was wondering what they would make of all this – all these people, all these words we’re about to feast on, all these stories of a remarkable woman who leaves such a remarkable legacy. For both of these two men – my father and mum’s first husband – I think today would be a bit of a surprise. I’m at all not sure that they’d recognise all this as being due to the same woman they knew back then. I’m not at all sure they’d be able to join the dots between their Janet Harris or their Janet Borlase and our Janet Hosier that so many of us here knew and loved. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she deserves every second of what’s to come here today.
The truth about mum is that she achieved in her life what so many marathon runners aim for when they race; it’s called the negative split. It means running the first half slower than the second, giving yourself time to find a pace and then improve on it, leaving enough in the tank so that you can cross the finish line knowing that you gave everything you had in those final miles. That’s what my mum did – the negative split – the glorious finish as her final decades saw her touch an ever-increasing army of people with the tools of the quiet revolutionary: kindness, love and respect.
Mum’s race was not easy, but these are my words, not hers. She faced trials with her own blend of faith, optimism and sheer bloody-minded determination. After being diagnosed with breast cancer twenty years ago, she went on to co-found what is today a hugely successful, life-changing charity for Watford’s homeless. When she was diagnosed with liver cancer 20 months ago, she made bold but difficult choices that meant her final months were spent doing what she did best – being generous, investing in new friendships as well as old ones and being fully prepared – even excited – at the thought of what was to come after death.
You will hear many stories today of mum’s work with New Hope Trust. You will hear from those that worked alongside her, and it was her wish that you also hear from those the trust has helped directly. In fact, her directions about this thanksgiving service were clear: she wanted anyone and everyone who wanted to have the chance to speak… and she didn’t want her sister and sister in law to take charge of the catering (not because they can’t cook, but because she wanted her family to do precisely what she would have done here and talk to people at the end). And she wanted this service to be long. So feel free to leave when you need to, but if you can stay with us, please do. You’ll hear some things that will make you smile.
For me, mum’s death leaves a hole that I know will always be with me. She was a single mother, I was her only child; that make for a very special bond. Words can’t do justice to the pride and gratitude that I feel for my mum today. She was my mother and my friend, for many years, my only true confidant. I would take her wisest words on board without question, and could make her swear within just a minute of my driving. Her unshakable belief in me kept me safe from much that would have harmed me.
So I hope you will get out of this thanksgiving service some of what my mum intended: a sense of gratitude for what God has done, an encouragement to keep going in spite of difficulty, a desire to ask more questions about this faith, a challenge to tackle poverty and injustice where we see it, no matter how ordinary or unprepared we might be.
And so I’ll end, as the rest of you begin… but with this one final thought. Mum dedicated the last two decades of her life to meeting the needs of the homeless. The night before she died she said that she was ready to let go of life and go somewhere new – she called that place ‘home’.
