Your article on funerals was interesting; the more we’re exposed to all the options available at death, the better (Ditch the hearse, bring the kids, have a picnic: an alternative undertaker’s tips for a better funeral, 19 October). But it paints a binary picture. I’m a funeral celebrant. My first was at Sharpham Meadow natural burial ground, mentioned in the piece. It was slightly chaotic, with songs, spontaneous tributes and a faulty portable speaker. Afterwards, a mourner pressed an unlit fag into the grave’s earth and poured cider on it.
For my second, a shy, heartbroken woman told me very little about her mum, from whom she’d never spent a day apart. The family was sparse, the crematorium nearly empty. But there was a story: her mum grew up in Spain, was made homeless by the fascists in the civil war, had been thrown out of church by a priest for having no shoes, so hated organised religion but had a strong faith (which I was expected to – and did – acknowledge).
My point? Powerful, moving, funny, meaningful funerals are possible anywhere, even at council crematoria. And in a change-averse industry you can still find people who are patient and kind. The business needs alternatives, agreed. The danger is prescribing a new orthodoxy, telling families what they can and can’t say and do.
Most families I work with are fairly poor. Many are traditional and wouldn’t be comfortable with picnics, rosemary sprigs and an all-afternoon open-mic. It’s important that people who are lucky enough to have alternatives use them. But it’s also important that those without such privilege can still access unique and memorable funerals.
Jed Prins
Plymouth
• My youngest brother had severe Down’s syndrome. He lived in sheltered housing in Cork. He shared a cottage with a small group of his peers for almost 50 years. Although he could not speak, he was kind and gentle and was much loved by all. He had a lovely, infectious laugh. His favourite band was Abba. He would show a huge smile as he gently bopped and twirled to their music.
At the funeral mass for him held in the local chapel, instead of hymn sheets, the words to his favourite Abba songs were circulated, and the entire congregation sang along with a guitarist. I am not religious, but the song I Have a Dream – with its line “I believe in angels” – was a poignant surprise. At his burial the next day, everyone again sang his favourite songs. It was a bittersweet occasion.
My point? When a loved one dies, don’t leave it up to some opera singer to sing Ave Maria beautifully at the church; get a musician who can lead a singalong. It doesn’t matter if it’s a formal funeral or a natural burial in a field. Sing all their favourite songs. Sing all your favourite songs. Sing, even if you can’t. Singing lifts your heart. Singing is funeral medicine.
Michael Payne
Berlin, Germany
• We celebrated my husband’s life with what developed into a party in the garden. There was live music played by friends and colleagues, and a wicker coffin almost too beautiful to bury, simply carried next door to a peaceful little Exmoor churchyard with a gorgeous view. My husband wasn’t a churchgoer, but that was where he wanted to be. The church was still locked because of Covid and our numbers had to be limited, but it was a great occasion: music, good food, and recollections from family and friends. Such a pity he wasn’t there to enjoy it himself.
We did use a funeral director – but one sympathetic to our views. Our non-religious celebrant told me how much she wished more people realised they could do it themselves in whatever way appealed. It was a lot to organise at a stressful time, but now, 18 months later, I am so glad I have that celebratory goodbye to look back on.
Gabriella Falk
Cambridge
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