Stand by me
Today my cousin Paul asked if I would help carry his dad’s coffin into the chapel. I’d never done that before. ‘It will be a privilege,’ I said. I was overwhelmed with a sense of honour and responsibility.
What happened next is all recorded in my mind in brief cinematic frames. It’s as if the ‘camera’ focused solely on the hands of the pallbearers. One of the funeral directors showed me how to lift the coffin. I heard his voice, but all I could see was a big, authoritative hand gripping one of the handles. I was concentrating totally on this visual aid. I really mustn’t get this wrong.
‘Place your right hand like this,’ he said.
Of course, I tried to grip the wrong handle of the coffin. So I had to be guided again. But suddenly I got it right. We lifted Uncle Ken out of the hearse and onto the little trolley. Then we took him on his last journey on earth, down the aisle and onto the table at the front of the hall.
WITTY UNCLE
The chapel became packed with a mixture of family, work colleagues and friends from the Welsh village where Uncle Ken and Aunty Sheila had lived. A bold yet caring preacher led prayers in rich Celtic tones. Paul and his wife Vicki gave a talk and shared a poem. It was incredibly moving. They both did extremely well. I felt so proud of them.
Everything they said was important. But a few things stay in my mind from Paul’s speech. He spoke of how he had pictured himself and his dad as ‘brothers in arms’ in their fight against pancreatic cancer, particularly as they prepared for each hospital visit.
‘We won a few battles, but we lost the war,’ said Paul, as he paid tribute to his ‘father, mentor and hero.’
I can’t believe Uncle Ken has passed away. He and Aunty Sheila were like the ‘rock stars’ of our extended family – the ever-youthful couple, fans of Elvis who were fond of a good night out. Ken wasn’t just a caring, witty uncle. He was a key link with my own past. He would tell me highly entertaining stories about my biological father, who died when I was very young.
For me, it was significant that we said goodbye to Uncle Ken at the crematorium in Colwyn Bay. That was the hometown of my old friend – the late, great Stuart Bellamy. It’s also nextdoor to Llandudno, from where my mum and dad used to catch the ferry to the Isle of Man for a dreamy, romantic day’s sailing. So much of my own history is concentrated in that one place. So many heroes, inhabiting that coastal mist.
HEALS WOUNDS
We attended the wake at the village pub down the road from Uncle Ken and Aunty Sheila’s house. The classic soul hit Stand By Me was playing in the background: ‘When the night has come and the land is dark/And the moon is the only light we see/No, I won’t be afraid, oh I won’t be afraid/Just as long as you stand, stand by me’. The song’s message was most appropriate.
Death may try to cut us off from our loved ones. But it can’t do that forever. One day, death itself will die. Pain and suffering will be no more. And as we wait for that great day of deliverance – when a God of love heals all our wounds – Christ offers to carry us in our grief, even now.
The ‘Man of Sorrows’ walks this dark path, guiding us through it. His big, authoritative hands lift us up and help us along. (Photo of the North Wales coastline by Clive Price)
