A tale of two funerals

On Saturday night Cathy and I watched a livestreamed memorial service for Cathy's first cousin once removed, Andrew. Personally, I had never met Andrew as he moved to another continent before I ever met Cathy. However, through the service streamed from Vancouver, I felt I got to know him. 

The tributes from Andrew's daughter, his friends and colleagues in Christian ministries, were warm and moving and shared some of the character and keen interests of Andrew as a person. 

Today we watched the state funeral of Queen Elizabeth II. There was a contrast. Not just in the scale, but in the content.

In the Archbishop of Canterbury's tribute, he quoted some of the statements the Queen made in various public speeches. But, as in life, so also in death, it was very much repeating what was already known publicly. There were no anecdotes or accounts of how people asked for advice. It was strangely impersonal, following the identikit pattern of the funeral service book. Her name was said in the commissioning at the end, and that was about it. 

In some ways I feel sorry for the Queen's family, with their personal loss and grief being co-opted by so many people and made inescapable. The expectations of a State Funeral outweighing any wish to express their own loss and their own love. I hope for them they get some sort of space for that at the interment or in a private memorial.

The contrast between the two services has made me think that tributes from those who knew us and loved us are more valuable than any level of pageantry. I know which one felt more meaningful. 

Grief recedes as the new shape of the world becomes normal

I recently read this article by Mary-Frances O'Connor on the website Behavioural Scientist: Walking in the Dark: Creating a New Virtual Map in Your Brain After Loss. In the article, she explains how our brains create heuristic short cuts that allow us to navigate the world. We mentally construct routes through physical space, and experiences, based on what occupies that space. 

When something is removed from the physical environment, it takes a while for our brains to catch up. We still 'expect' the thing to be there for some time after it has gone. That's why we can often miss landmarks when they are demolished, or feel a little bit lost when a favourite shop closes. 

Mary-Frances O'Connor applies that to grief as well. In addition to mapping the physical environment, our brains also 'map' our social and emotional landscapes. So when someone is removed from that landscape it takes a while for our brains to adjust to their absence. Depending how big a role they play in our lives, it takes longer for our brains to fill in the 'hole' they leave when they die. 

So we experience a dissonance between the world we 'know' in our minds and the world as it really is - we are walking through two different worlds for a while. 

It's not quite as poetic as the description of grief being "love, persevering" that surprised me in the Marvel TV series Wandavision, but I found it a very helpful explanation for the process of grief. More importantly, it helps me rationalise the recession of grief with the passing of time. My brain is learning the new shape of the world without the people I love in it. I'm not a bad person for not missing them so much. I'm re-mapping the world.

There are still moments when I am reminded of the way the world was. During our recent week holidaying in Shropshire, I had an opportunity to visit my Dad's grave, and also the Shrewsbury Town Memorial Garden. 

I find the garden, with the little plaque saying 'Promoted to Glory' (an old Salvation Army phrase that my Dad would have liked) stirs the emotion of loss more than visiting the grave. 

It's not hard to explain why I find the memorial at the football ground more meaningful than the cemetery. I never went to the cemetery with my Dad. I didn't even know it was there until after he died. But I went to the Meadow with him several times. It was one of the places I saw him on the last day I saw him alive.

With a lump in my throat I said 'Well. Dad, here we go again. First home game of the season. I'll give them a cheer for you.' (That was something he used to say, if I was going to a game and he wasn't.)

It proved to be a nostalgic week really. Seeing the Llangollen Railway in reduced circumstances was sad for two reasons - I remember going there with Dad. Even going to the flower show brought back memories of us all going as a family. Dad would have had an opinion on the various problems the organisers were dealing with like having to cancel the evening fireworks display.

Relearning the way the world works takes time. There are still moments when I see something that makes me think of him. Back in May I saw a tote bag in the Ashmolean Museum gift shop that said "History Buff" on the side, and it would have been a perfect gift for him. 

And that made me sad, because I would have bought it back when he was alive and he would have thought it was funny. He always loved the t-shirt we got him with a picture of a trilobite on it saying 'Shropshire fossil'. My brain recognised it as being a good potential present, and still hadn't learned that I don't need to buy funny gifts for my Dad any more. 

My brain is catching up, though. Every time I get caught out by something that triggers an unexpected pang of grief, that's a learning point for my brain. The new world slowly gets mapped and the empty space is slowly filled. 

In memorium: Marie Pearce (Granny P)

In remembrance Marion Pearce 1921-2006

I shared a birthday with 'Granny P' as she came to be known in our family. True she was already 55 when I appeared on the scene, but we still shared a birthday. This year on 2 April, we jointly celebrated the milestone of 30(me) and 85(her).

I liked sharing a birthday with her - it gave us a link that no one else had. It's amazing really how quickly I became a second grandson to her, included in the list "Abby, Cathy and Jon". (Her other grandson, Rhys, was a source of great pride to her too.)

The first time I met Granny P, she was in hospital for some reason. Cathy announced one Friday afternoon towards the end of term that, because one of our lectures was cancelled, she was going over to Gloucester on the train, and would I like to come. I said 'yes', even though I was having a particularly scruffy day and was quite stubbly - not the best look to meet your girlfriend's family. I remember Granny, a bit groggy in bed, but sharp enough to say "and this must be Jon!" It's hard to believe that was 12 years ago now.

Today, at the thanksgiving service I read Psalm 100 - eight years, less one day, since Granny had read it at our wedding. It was truly an occasion of giving thanks, including tributes from longstanding friends (70 years in one case!), and hymns selected from the two lists Gran had left behind.

We had the burial before the service, in a shady spot in St Katharine's churchyard in Matson. I was a pallbearer, but being a bit short and in the middle, I don't think I really carried my fair share of the weight until we lowered the casket into the ground. Kevin, the minister of Matson Baptist where Granny had worshipped since becoming a founder member of the church, spoke about the perishable seed which goes into the ground, to be raised imperishable.

Some of my favourite Granny P stories
Gran was notoriously impatient in restaurants - often complaining that we hadn't had any food yet before we'd even ordered.

She spent a number of Christmases (with Ab and Cath too) up in Shrewsbury where she tag-teamed up with my Grandma as partners in crime. One Christmas, when me and Dave were exiled to the dining room downstairs to sleep due to a shortage of beds, the two Grans decided that 7AM would be a good time to start hoovering the living room. They then opened the dining room door and announced loudly (they're both a bit deaf) "Oh, there's people sleeping in here." At which point Dave said "There's people TRYING to sleep in here!"

Granny was a compulsive tidy-er. So if you left her unattended when she visited, there was every chance she'd end up rooting through your cupboards hiding stuff to make it look neater.

Once (at Christmas) Dave went to pick up the two Grans from the cinema, only to find Grandma had somehow lost Granny P, who had exited the ladies and proceeded to walk in and out of every auditorium hunting for the exit! Poor old Dave had to go and ask a member of staff and admit that "I've lost a Granny" before they eventually found her.

Despite Abby's protestations, Granny would insist on Windolene-ing her windscreen if it was dirty, resulting in a smeary mess. Once, after Abby had firmly told her not to do it, we found her sneaking out to surreptitiously give it a squirt of Windolene. After that Abby always made sure the car was tidy before arriving at Gran's, although that still meant Granny would try to pick up all the rubbish INSIDE her car!

A Granny P quote:
Scene: we've just got back from a meal out, or sat down in the lounge after tea, or whatever: "So, when are you leaving?"

Her testimony
The key thing, in all seriousness, that stood out from the many tributes at the service today was Granny's Christian witness. I remember she always used to pray for us as we left (which was especially needed if Abby was driving us home!). She'd always finish with one of her favourite Bible passages - from Romans: "for we know that all things work together for good, for those that love God."

It's tempting to be sentimental when someone you love dies, but that phrase, which I will ever associate with her, was her testimony. She had known difficult times, family tragedies, and towards the end struggled with both her physical health and her deteriorating mental state, but I know she clung to that promise: that all things would work together for good. Eventually.

She was a saint and she stands with the rest of the saints now.