a final act of gratitude

It was way too late (and I was far too tired) by the time the day was done to even think about an entry here last night.

But the day was good and a fitting sort of closure to the life that Mum had lived.

And closure it certainly was. Funerals spell finality. They draw a very final line. Which is good, but hard.

Yesterday was just that combination. Very hard, in lots of ways. But very good as well. Very good. A wonderful day, from all sorts of different ponts of view. Uplifting, engrossing, inspiring, amusing. A comfort and strength in reflection and praise.

People. Loads of people. Special people. People representing in their own unconscious ways the whole extensive spectrum of Mum's life. A kind of huge, expanded version of that television programme from a by-gone age - 'This is your life'.

Except she wasn't there herself. And of course we felt that often keenly through the day. And yet, throughout, the sorrow of the present grief we feel was buttressed and sustained by both our gratitude for all that's been and with that, too, our hope for all that's yet to be.

Upheld in that way, it sometimes seemed our feet had little chance of ever really resting on the ground of all our present grief and pain. Such days will surely come.

But yesterday, as all such days are meant, I think, to be - yesterday was little short of heaven here on earth. At least, a sort of glimpse of that: a tiny little foretaste. To whet our spirit's appetite and make us long for more.

There was a great and lovely gathering of a host of different people, as I say, from all the farthest corners of Mum's life. Some fifty five close relatives (at least), converging on this little village church where Mum had spent her final years: and by their very number, quite apart from all the warmth and open pleasure in their meeting once again, laying stress upon the value and the blessing of that family life which Mum had held so dear.

What comfort there is in these seasons of grief in the visible, tangible sense that such numbers impart that we aren't, and will not be, alone.

What comfort as well in the praise of the Lord and the sense that such praise always brings that our God is both present and always so able to save.

The singing at the brief committal service which began this day of parting was inspiring from the start. A loud and lusty singing of the great Welsh tune Cym Rhonnda with the rich and graphic verses of the well-known hymn 'Guide me O thou great Jehovah'. Enough to bowl you over in itself.

And the singing at the service of thanksgiving later on was just as strong and just as fully steeped in all the thrilling sense of God's own gracious presence in our midst. Our sadness was entirely overshadowed by the overwhelming consciousness of God himself among us in such grace and love and power.

Such times as that are humbling, tingling, absolutely wonderful. It's hard to feel sad, despite all the sorrow that's there. And I don't believe that any of us did. Not then. Though the day will come when we do. It always does. And needs to.

As for me, I was so very much aware of what a privilege it is to lead this people's worship in remembrance of the life my Mum had lived and with such gratitude to God for all she's been. It's hard to think of any greater privilege that that. To offer up to God like that a lifetime's worth of gratitude for all that has been wrought through her who gave me birth.

My prayer was this above all else, that all that would be said and done should be a fitting testament to all that God had been to her and wrought through her and given to us all. Of all the funeral tributes that I've made I prayed that this might be the best.

My final act of gratitude to her. A fitting final sacrifice of praise to God himself to close her life. And to help us all move on, both stronger and more earnest in the living of our lives for him.

(To listen to the service of thanksgiving go to http://www.dmpc.org.uk/Downloads/index.php)