The service was due to start at 2pm but by 1.40 if you weren’t already in you weren’t going to get a seat. We sat there in our Sunday funereal best biding our time. I was glad I had dressed soberly although I had considered doing otherwise. This didn’t stretch to a tie.
The organist droned on churning out the depressing dirge normal at these events. She played a number of pieces while we were there. At the end of each great pains seemed to be taken over the selection of the next. They all sounded the same to me. She could have repeated one refrain many times and nobody would have noticed.
Looking around I recognised a number of individuals but it was difficult to meet an eye from my corner position on the first floor balcony. I had gone in alone expecting to find people but there wasn’t the luxury of time and space. I shuffled along to a spot at the end of the row and sat down.
Laid out in front of the pulpit the coffin was decorated with a large bouquet of beautiful deep crimson flowers. Don’t ask me what flavour! They contrasted darkly with the grey tones of the rest of the congregation.
The family sat on the front two rows, grim faced. My heart went out to them but there was nothing I could do or say to help now. It was their occasion. Her final moment. The epilogue.
I didn’t really hear the words of the minister when the service eventually started. They did not stir me. Standard quotes from the Welsh Bible considered for the faithful, heard without comment.
When all stood for the first hymn I was transfixed. “Tydi A Roddaist” – “You Gave”. There had not been enough orders of service to give out so I didn’t have the words but the singing was supremely beautiful and I was happy to just listen. In my state of mind I was sure I had never heard its like before and the passage of a few days have not changed this.
At my Grandmother’s funeral the hymns were powerful but I had been the one sat in the front row. I remember the emotional power of the words and the tune of “How Great Thou Art” rather than the harmonies and the quality of the singing.
Prayers came. The majority bowed their heads. An accumulation of centuries of tradition. The tribute was given by an old friend and I learnt a few things that added to the richness our relationship, of my experience with her.
Eventually we all filed out. It took some time. Longer than the average Sunday Service I’ll warrant. I was pleased to renew old acquaintances, struggle with the odd name and gaze blankly at others. I hope I didn’t expose too many of the collected cobwebs of twenty seven years.
Later at the wake the process of healing began.