By R.J. Tennyson
The last notes of a hymn escape the organ pipes. The neatly printed eulogy sits on the pulpit. Its double spacing and large font are to ensure it can be read as tears well in the reader’s eyes. A mahogany casket sits between the pulpit and the mourners. Beams of light stream through the stained glass window, bathing it in a kaleidoscope of fractured colour. On top, a wreath of white lilies and a family photo in a gilded frame.
Grant stands at the pulpit taking a moment to look up at the packed pews. Hundreds of unique faces each sharing a unified sadness stare back. The only sound is the creaking and moaning of century old timber as the mourners shift in their seats, and a set of footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. Grant looks down and begins to read.
My father was a vibrant man. When he entered a room it lit up as though a light had been switched on. By being here today, it tells me that each of you had a relationship with him. I don’t pretend to know, or understand, what each of those relationships was, but your presence warms me, and tells me that he mattered to you.
Just like me, you will have your own memories of him. The things he did. The things he said. The things that made him who he was. Although I miss him dearly, I know now that he is at peace and no longer in pain. I would like to share with you some of my memories of my father; your friend.
When I was six I was being bullied at school. The bully was at least 6 inches taller than me. He would stand over me, demanding my lunch money. I remember coming home crying. Dad sat me down on the couch. He took my face in his big rough hands, gently kissed my tears, then asked, “now tell me what’s happened”. Through sobs I told him everything. He listened intently rubbing his chin. Dad took a moment to consider my problem and then said, “you know the good Lord said to turn the other cheek, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, I’m not the good Lord, so I say punch that bastard in the balls!” It was sound advice. After doing exactly as he told me, I was never bullied again!
Smiling for the first time in months, Grant places his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She doesn’t feel it, but she knows he is there – just like he always has been, and always will be. She sobs silently, trying to compose herself. He kisses her on the forehead. It has always been his way of saying goodbye.
He drifts towards the golden light, as she begins, “My father was a vibrant man…”
R.J. Tennyson - Writer 