Abigail Price is an independent celebrant, delivering bespoke funerals and weddings across East Devon and Exeter

It rained like it rains in November, with a cold easterly wind blowing the choir robes up into a storm of white against the grey stones. Occasionally, we enjoyed sunshine but nearly all the Remembrance Days of my childhood are etched in my mind as bleak and damp. My father was the vicar of the small Welsh town where I grew up, and I was the dutiful vicar’s daughter, singing in the choir and serving at the altar. On Remembrance Days, we were at the war memorial, leading the town in the familiar words. Along with the weather, what sticks in my mind is the list of names cut deep into the stone. One of them had the same name as my father. He was no relation but seeing it there, placed so markedly in front of me, brought a personal, human moment for me. I couldn’t connect with the enormity of the war as told by the grown-ups, but I could find a way in to that name, the name so familiar, so like ‘home’ to me. Now, years on, in my life as a celebrant, I see remembrance every day. Funerals are packed full of it, so real you can almost touch it. From the hymns or songs which have a very deep place in the heart of mourners to the memories of previous services in the same chapel that are brought to mind during the ceremony. The loveliest part of my job is going to visit a family to sit with them and plan the service. As I am driving there, I cast aside my own cares and I prepare to be absorbed by another life. It is like entering a book; it is an escape into someone else’s story. And, while we are planning the music and readings and format, I get to hear all about the life of the person who has died. I never take for granted how blessed I am to be sitting there in this family’s inner sanctuary, trusted with their intimate, loving memories. Very often, while sharing these, the room will erupt into laughter at a funny story of mum at Christmas or dad on holiday, the memory as fresh as yesterday and the love still every bit as real. It brings us all together, allows that person to be cherished and contributes to a ceremony which will be more comforting because it is so personal. Memories are important, especially the small everyday memories, which make the person we are missing so real again, as if they are sitting there among us, running a hand through their hair or settling into their armchair just as they always did. Paul Shoobridge, of Shoobridge Funeral Services, whom I work closely with as a funeral celebrant, said: “Following the initial meeting, people very often make references such as ‘I don’t know how you do your job’ as making the funeral arrangements and talking about their loved one, is a raw and very emotional time. My answer is always the same ‘it’s all about the families that I represent and how they often share their personal stories and the depth of intimate memories, the ones that would never normally be mentioned. This is an honour.” On Sunday morning, in my heart, whilst I am submerged in the enormity of the day, I am going to go back to the tiny hamlet of Betws Bledrws, 13 miles from the West Wales coastline; I’m going to breathe in the damp and gloomy air and put my hand on the polyester fabric of my white and red choir dress; I’m going to call up my memories of that familiar memorial and one particular, familiar name; and, through it all, I am going to do what this day is all about – I’m going to remember.

It was one of those glorious late summer evenings where the whole earth seemed to bathe in a copper glow; a glow I wanted to immortalise in my mind because the chill of autumn was already faintly in the air. I was sitting in a garden still beautifully in bloom with purple asters and red roses, setting like rust in the sunlight, talking to a lady whose husband had just died at the age of 96. “We fell in love as teenagers,” she said, croakily but with an almost embarrassed smile. “I know I shouldn’t be upset as he lived such a long life but I just miss him, that’s all. We had been one person for so many years. I don’t know how to make it as a half.” I hear these stories a lot. In a world of escalating divorce rates, we assume that the happy ever after is something out of fairytales whispered to wistful little girls, and yet tales of hearts that simply break after the death of a soulmate, are surprisingly many. Very often, there is almost an apology for feeling so sad at the death. It is as if it is wrong to be devastated when the person who has died has had a long life. But, equally, if two people have spent their lives entwined, how can the remaining half feel anything other than overwhelming sorrow and loneliness? Over time, bereavement changes and goes through many different stages from denial and guilt to acceptance and, eventually, hope. The bereavement guide on Shoobridge Funeral Services website talks of these stages in detail. Under the ‘healing’ section, it says, rather beautifully: “An acceptance of death leads to adjustment, new confidence and the ability to cope. Memories become less painful and more precious. Life slowly becomes whole again, though never the same as it was before.” We are closing in on November, the month of the dead. In the Christian liturgical calendar, November is entirely devoted to those who have died. We begin with All Saints’ Day (November 1) where we celebrate the saints, or more specifically the martyrs who were granted eternal life for their sacrifice. Then it’s All Souls’ Day (November 2), a day instituted by the Church for the living to pray for the souls of the departed. Traditions associated with the feast include placing the names of those to be remembered on the altar at mass and visiting the cemeteries where dead loved ones lie. Exeter Cathedral will have its annual Requiem Eucharist, a moving service naming the dead on our hearts. I’ve always liked the reflective time at the start of November but, this year, I’m going to mark the month of the dead more faithfully than in years gone by. I will have taken 68 funerals when we start the month and it is these 68 memorable people and their families that I will be remembering and praying for over the 30 days. And my prayer for the families – the lonely widows, the shocked parents, the devastated children – will be that, as they pass through their stages of grief, they come to value the memories they have built up, to cherish them and enjoy them as if they were still in them. Say a prayer this month for all those who have gone before us and, if you can, visit their resting place. Let them have this sombre, darkening month with its leaden skies and trees flayed to bone, with the one ingredient which makes every life worth living and remembering: love.

It was early in the evening on Easter Eve 2002 and the hospital room was peaceful. A single lamp at the nurses station just beyond the door was a symbol of light shining in the darkness. My great aunt had just died and, looking at the frail mound of bones under the starchy bed sheets, I was struck by two thoughts: the first was that she would now know first-hand whether heaven existed and, if so, what it was like; the second was that the world already seemed an emptier place without her, this wonderful person in my life. I was blessed: I had family and friends who, I knew, would be scooping me up and looking after me in the days to follow; the funeral would be a celebration of her long life, attended by people who shared something of the sorrow I was feeling; I would be cared for emotionally, physically and, yes, mentally. Over the past 18 months, there have been thousands upon thousands of people who have not been as blessed as I was back then in that darkening night. Covid has had a devastating impact on the bereaved. The newspapers have been full of desperately sad stories of relatives being unable to hold the hands of their loved ones as they faced their last moments and of them being denied the chance to say goodbye in an appropriate, comforting way. At the peak of the pandemic, I officiated at funerals with only a handful of mourners present, all hiding their tears and emotions behind masks and being guided to the hand gel dispenser instead of a warm, empathetic embrace. The widow or widower returned to an empty house, leaving what passed for human contact in the crematorium car park. What loneliness, what emptiness, in the wake of already shattered lives. These have been hard days indeed. This Sunday is World Mental Health Day and it has never been more vital in its 30-year history as it is today. A survey carried out by the Daily Mirror this week found that one in four adults confessed the state of their minds was worse than before Covid struck. One in 12 people had experienced panic attacks and one in 15 has battled suicidal thoughts. Within the group who said their mental health had worsened, one in eight has even tried to take his or her own life. These are shocking figures. But what can we do about it? How can we steer people to some sort of help? Many funeral directors have support for the bereaved on their websites. I work closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter. On their website, they have a ‘grief chat’ service so that people can ask questions and get help around the clock. Paul Shoobridge, director, said: “We recognised the link between bereavement and fragile mental health, and knew that we had to have a facility in which to give support and advice. Our grief chat facility enables people to access a bereavement counsellor 24/7. I would urge anyone devastated by the loss of a loved one to seek further support and advice.” On Sunday, the mental health charity, Mind (www.mind.org.uk), is asking people to ‘do one thing’ to add their voice to start a conversation about mental health equality. Their website encourages people to ‘speak out, spread the word and make change happen.’ So, let’s ditch the bigger picture and look, instead, at the pictures so small that we need to narrow our eyes just to see them. Let’s look at our family and friends afresh and not encourage them with big slogans and direct questioning but rather with simple attention and love. If you know someone who has been recently bereaved, give them a quick call to check in with them; if you have faith, hold them up in your hearts and say a prayer for them. Let us ourselves be the light shining in someone else’s darkness.

It was early in the evening on Easter Eve 2002 and the hospital room was peaceful. A single lamp at the nurses station just beyond the door was a symbol of light shining in the darkness. My great aunt had just died and, looking at the frail mound of bones under the starchy bed sheets, I was struck by two thoughts: the first was that she would now know first-hand whether heaven existed and, if so, what it was like; the second was that the world already seemed an emptier place without her, this wonderful person in my life. I was blessed: I had family and friends who, I knew, would be scooping me up and looking after me in the days to follow; the funeral would be a celebration of her long life, attended by people who shared something of the sorrow I was feeling; I would be cared for emotionally, physically and, yes, mentally. Over the past 18 months, there have been thousands upon thousands of people who have not been as blessed as I was back then in that darkening night. Covid has had a devastating impact on the bereaved. The newspapers have been full of desperately sad stories of relatives being unable to hold the hands of their loved ones as they faced their last moments and of them being denied the chance to say goodbye in an appropriate, comforting way. At the peak of the pandemic, I officiated at funerals with only a handful of mourners present, all hiding their tears and emotions behind masks and being guided to the hand gel dispenser instead of a warm, empathetic embrace. The widow or widower returned to an empty house, leaving what passed for human contact in the crematorium car park. What loneliness, what emptiness, in the wake of already shattered lives. These have been hard days indeed. This Sunday is World Mental Health Day and it has never been more vital in its 30-year history as it is today. A survey carried out by the Daily Mirror this week found that one in four adults confessed the state of their minds was worse than before Covid struck. One in 12 people had experienced panic attacks and one in 15 has battled suicidal thoughts. Within the group who said their mental health had worsened, one in eight has even tried to take his or her own life. These are shocking figures. But what can we do about it? How can we steer people to some sort of help? Many funeral directors have support for the bereaved on their websites. I work closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter. On their website, they have a ‘grief chat’ service so that people can ask questions and get help around the clock. Paul Shoobridge, director, said: “We recognised the link between bereavement and fragile mental health, and knew that we had to have a facility in which to give support and advice. Our grief chat facility enables people to access a bereavement counsellor 24/7. I would urge anyone devastated by the loss of a loved one to seek further support and advice.” On Sunday, the mental health charity, Mind (www.mind.org.uk), is asking people to ‘do one thing’ to add their voice to start a conversation about mental health equality. Their website encourages people to ‘speak out, spread the word and make change happen.’ So, let’s ditch the bigger picture and look, instead, at the pictures so small that we need to narrow our eyes just to see them. Let’s look at our family and friends afresh and not encourage them with big slogans and direct questioning but rather with simple attention and love. If you know someone who has been recently bereaved, give them a quick call to check in with them; if you have faith, hold them up in your hearts and say a prayer for them. Let us ourselves be the light shining in someone else’s darkness.

It was early in the evening on Easter Eve 2002 and the hospital room was peaceful. A single lamp at the nurses station just beyond the door was a symbol of light shining in the darkness. My great aunt had just died and, looking at the frail mound of bones under the starchy bed sheets, I was struck by two thoughts: the first was that she would now know first-hand whether heaven existed and, if so, what it was like; the second was that the world already seemed an emptier place without her, this wonderful person in my life. I was blessed: I had family and friends who, I knew, would be scooping me up and looking after me in the days to follow; the funeral would be a celebration of her long life, attended by people who shared something of the sorrow I was feeling; I would be cared for emotionally, physically and, yes, mentally. Over the past 18 months, there have been thousands upon thousands of people who have not been as blessed as I was back then in that darkening night. Covid has had a devastating impact on the bereaved. The newspapers have been full of desperately sad stories of relatives being unable to hold the hands of their loved ones as they faced their last moments and of them being denied the chance to say goodbye in an appropriate, comforting way. At the peak of the pandemic, I officiated at funerals with only a handful of mourners present, all hiding their tears and emotions behind masks and being guided to the hand gel dispenser instead of a warm, empathetic embrace. The widow or widower returned to an empty house, leaving what passed for human contact in the crematorium car park. What loneliness, what emptiness, in the wake of already shattered lives. These have been hard days indeed. This Sunday is World Mental Health Day and it has never been more vital in its 30-year history as it is today. A survey carried out by the Daily Mirror this week found that one in four adults confessed the state of their minds was worse than before Covid struck. One in 12 people had experienced panic attacks and one in 15 has battled suicidal thoughts. Within the group who said their mental health had worsened, one in eight has even tried to take his or her own life. These are shocking figures. But what can we do about it? How can we steer people to some sort of help? Many funeral directors have support for the bereaved on their websites. I work closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter. On their website, they have a ‘grief chat’ service so that people can ask questions and get help around the clock. Paul Shoobridge, director, said: “We recognised the link between bereavement and fragile mental health, and knew that we had to have a facility in which to give support and advice. Our grief chat facility enables people to access a bereavement counsellor 24/7. I would urge anyone devastated by the loss of a loved one to seek further support and advice.” On Sunday, the mental health charity, Mind (www.mind.org.uk), is asking people to ‘do one thing’ to add their voice to start a conversation about mental health equality. Their website encourages people to ‘speak out, spread the word and make change happen.’ So, let’s ditch the bigger picture and look, instead, at the pictures so small that we need to narrow our eyes just to see them. Let’s look at our family and friends afresh and not encourage them with big slogans and direct questioning but rather with simple attention and love. If you know someone who has been recently bereaved, give them a quick call to check in with them; if you have faith, hold them up in your hearts and say a prayer for them. Let us ourselves be the light shining in someone else’s darkness.

I’ve been reflecting this week on how we are starting to emerge from the pandemic, how we are coming out from the darkness and blinking in the light of togetherness, habitualness, and normality. Just as we see a difference in attitudes in shops with some people still firmly masked and sanitising their hands religiously, whereas others have thrown caution to the wind, so this is carried across into chapels and churches. For the most part, there seems to be a healthy caution with a combination of mask wearing and rediscovered embraces. From a minister’s point of view, it is wonderful to be able to offer that reassurance and comfort to the bereaved. It has gone against the grain to be pastoral at a distance. And the other welcome return is the donations box at the end of the funeral service. Benefactions to charities have plummeted following the impact of the pandemic. A survey of 100 senior executives of large charities in the UK found that 45% sold assets such as property in a bid to boost their income. The irony is that the demand for the services of many charities has shot up while, at the same time, there has been a significant fall in their incomes. Drastic steps have had to be taken just for them just to survive and to be able to offer the same vital services. One huge dent in raising money is the fact that fundraisers big and small have been postponed or cancelled for a prolonged period of time; another is that, for many people, giving to charity has had to take a back seat next to the struggle to stay afloat. Another, more understated, dent is the absence of a retiring collection when people leave the chapel has been one more unwelcome side effect of Covid. Funeral directors and ministers have worked hard to draw people’s attention to the online place to donate to a chosen charity, but it has undoubtedly meant a decrease in donations. The careful positioning of a box in the place where people are turning to one another and waiting to talk to the family is crucial in fundraising. Small change makes a big difference, just as it always has done on the church collection plate. When a much-loved person dies, many people feel the urge to do something positive in his or her memory. And choosing the appropriate charity is a big part of this. It may be to thank a particular set of nurses or hospital department or a hospice; it may be to join a national or global fight against a disease. It may be to give something back to an animal charity or it may be to help train volunteers in a vital service. Whatever it is, it has been carefully thought out and is a way to inject a tiny bit of positivity into an extremely painful time. Paul Shoobridge, funeral director from East Devon’s Shoobridge Funeral Services, said: “Choosing the right charity to support in a loved one’s memory is hugely important to the families we work with. Our most supported charity is Hospiscare, for which donations have exceeded £35,102. At a time filled with sadness and emptiness, doing something to make a positive difference in the world brings comfort and strength.” A member of the congregation said to me after a funeral this week: “It’s the little things in life that matter. It’s not the grand gestures that make the biggest difference, but the little every day acts of kindness – the acts of giving.”

As we all crawl tentatively out of the hibernation of the 18-month pandemic, the look and feel of funerals and weddings is starting to return to normal. And one of the most uplifting parts of the relaxation of rules is being allowed to sing once more. It has been moving to learn how important this once basic and taken-for-granted act is to people. The idea of not coming together as a congregation to share the familiar words of a hymn has cast a shadow on the service and taken away some of the bond that unites people. The funeral service is constantly changing and evolving – and it has done throughout history. The current ‘trend’ is for a celebration of life type of ceremony rather than traditional mourning. People want the person who has died to take centre stage, to be in the spotlight one last time. This is why the Church of England liturgy provokes controversy. Families often say to me that they don’t like church funerals because all the words are the same, just with the name changed. This is because the church’s liturgy focuses on the praying for the soul to enter into eternal life through the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The whole service is a prayer. Popular opinion was apparent at the funeral of the Duke of Edinburgh in April. There were damning verdicts across social media of the Church of England’s funeral service and the dismal faces of the highest clerics. “What an atmosphere of doom”, they cried. It does seem ironic how a Christian service can feel so solemn and a non-religious service can be bursting with life, when the whole hope of Christianity is the joy of the resurrection – the trampling of death and bursting into eternal life with Jesus Christ. And yet, when it comes down to it, it is a combination of the old and the new that seems the most in vogue at the moment. Few people want a full church service because they crave something individual, centred on the person who has died. However, they are not keen to ditch every part of the old. The Lord’s Prayer, for example, is still deeply etched in most adult minds; and a hymn which evokes memories of family occasions down the generations is still a comfort at a sad time of goodbye. I work very closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter, and they are working constantly to establish the right blend of ancient and modern in their ceremonies. There is an appreciation of the delicate balance between the comfort of timeworn rituals and the contemporary aspiration to focus on the individual. A ceremony has to move the congregation out of the chapel and into something else – be it into a particular memory or moment of the life of the person who has died; be it to God and heaven and the hope of something higher than our lives on Earth; or be it, through the words of a song that can lift and inspire, to look towards a future for those of us left behind. During the pandemic, we have been able to listen to hymns as pieces of reflective music, in recordings by choirs or soloists. And this has been surprisingly effective. But nothing comes close to owning the words ourselves as they come out of our mouths in unison, so let’s be thankful that this one piece of normality and inspiration has been returned to us after 18 months of silence in the pews. Abide with me, fast falls the eventide The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee Help of the helpless, O abide with me

As we all crawl tentatively out of the hibernation of the 18-month pandemic, the look and feel of funerals and weddings is starting to return to normal. And one of the most uplifting parts of the relaxation of rules is being allowed to sing once more. It has been moving to learn how important this once basic and taken-for-granted act is to people. The idea of not coming together as a congregation to share the familiar words of a hymn has cast a shadow on the service and taken away some of the bond that unites people. The funeral service is constantly changing and evolving – and it has done throughout history. The current ‘trend’ is for a celebration of life type of ceremony rather than traditional mourning. People want the person who has died to take centre stage, to be in the spotlight one last time. This is why the Church of England liturgy provokes controversy. Families often say to me that they don’t like church funerals because all the words are the same, just with the name changed. This is because the church’s liturgy focuses on the praying for the soul to enter into eternal life through the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The whole service is a prayer. Popular opinion was apparent at the funeral of the Duke of Edinburgh in April. There were damning verdicts across social media of the Church of England’s funeral service and the dismal faces of the highest clerics. “What an atmosphere of doom”, they cried. It does seem ironic how a Christian service can feel so solemn and a non-religious service can be bursting with life, when the whole hope of Christianity is the joy of the resurrection – the trampling of death and bursting into eternal life with Jesus Christ. And yet, when it comes down to it, it is a combination of the old and the new that seems the most in vogue at the moment. Few people want a full church service because they crave something individual, centred on the person who has died. However, they are not keen to ditch every part of the old. The Lord’s Prayer, for example, is still deeply etched in most adult minds; and a hymn which evokes memories of family occasions down the generations is still a comfort at a sad time of goodbye. I work very closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter, and they are working constantly to establish the right blend of ancient and modern in their ceremonies. There is an appreciation of the delicate balance between the comfort of timeworn rituals and the contemporary aspiration to focus on the individual. A ceremony has to move the congregation out of the chapel and into something else – be it into a particular memory or moment of the life of the person who has died; be it to God and heaven and the hope of something higher than our lives on Earth; or be it, through the words of a song that can lift and inspire, to look towards a future for those of us left behind. During the pandemic, we have been able to listen to hymns as pieces of reflective music, in recordings by choirs or soloists. And this has been surprisingly effective. But nothing comes close to owning the words ourselves as they come out of our mouths in unison, so let’s be thankful that this one piece of normality and inspiration has been returned to us after 18 months of silence in the pews. Abide with me, fast falls the eventide The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee Help of the helpless, O abide with me

As we all crawl tentatively out of the hibernation of the 18-month pandemic, the look and feel of funerals and weddings is starting to return to normal. And one of the most uplifting parts of the relaxation of rules is being allowed to sing once more. It has been moving to learn how important this once basic and taken-for-granted act is to people. The idea of not coming together as a congregation to share the familiar words of a hymn has cast a shadow on the service and taken away some of the bond that unites people. The funeral service is constantly changing and evolving – and it has done throughout history. The current ‘trend’ is for a celebration of life type of ceremony rather than traditional mourning. People want the person who has died to take centre stage, to be in the spotlight one last time. This is why the Church of England liturgy provokes controversy. Families often say to me that they don’t like church funerals because all the words are the same, just with the name changed. This is because the church’s liturgy focuses on the praying for the soul to enter into eternal life through the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The whole service is a prayer. Popular opinion was apparent at the funeral of the Duke of Edinburgh in April. There were damning verdicts across social media of the Church of England’s funeral service and the dismal faces of the highest clerics. “What an atmosphere of doom”, they cried. It does seem ironic how a Christian service can feel so solemn and a non-religious service can be bursting with life, when the whole hope of Christianity is the joy of the resurrection – the trampling of death and bursting into eternal life with Jesus Christ. And yet, when it comes down to it, it is a combination of the old and the new that seems the most in vogue at the moment. Few people want a full church service because they crave something individual, centred on the person who has died. However, they are not keen to ditch every part of the old. The Lord’s Prayer, for example, is still deeply etched in most adult minds; and a hymn which evokes memories of family occasions down the generations is still a comfort at a sad time of goodbye. I work very closely with Shoobridge Funeral Services, who have branches in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter, and they are working constantly to establish the right blend of ancient and modern in their ceremonies. There is an appreciation of the delicate balance between the comfort of timeworn rituals and the contemporary aspiration to focus on the individual. A ceremony has to move the congregation out of the chapel and into something else – be it into a particular memory or moment of the life of the person who has died; be it to God and heaven and the hope of something higher than our lives on Earth; or be it, through the words of a song that can lift and inspire, to look towards a future for those of us left behind. During the pandemic, we have been able to listen to hymns as pieces of reflective music, in recordings by choirs or soloists. And this has been surprisingly effective. But nothing comes close to owning the words ourselves as they come out of our mouths in unison, so let’s be thankful that this one piece of normality and inspiration has been returned to us after 18 months of silence in the pews. Abide with me, fast falls the eventide The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee Help of the helpless, O abide with me

We live in an age where the vast majority of the population does not identify with one particular faith, and views the presence of the church in the community as countercultural. Many people do not know who their local minister is and, because clergy are becoming stretched across wide geographical areas, the intimate links between a priest and his or her flock are disappearing fast. So, when someone dies and they were not directly linked to a church or religion, who is going to lead the funeral service on the day? Funeral directors are often the first people to have this conversation with families. If there are no strong and obvious connections to a church or faith, the funeral director will discuss options such as working with celebrants or humanists, who are often independent. An independent, or civil, celebrant is different from a humanist because they can include religious content, bible readings and prayers if the family wishes. So, the funeral service can be a blend of religious and secular rather than being purely one or the other. The conversations I have with families about the inclusion of religious words in the service fascinate me. The majority of people who do not feel God in their lives will want at least one nod to Christian hope. Nearly every service I have taken has included the Lord’s Prayer; many have had hymns; a few have also had a reading from the bible; and three have even had a full Christian committal well. I find it moving to witness so much faith at a time of such sorrow and it is a humble faith; a faith which doesn’t have a name or a belonging. It is a tiny little tea light which lives deep inside but what light that candle gives! The funeral service is evolving all the time. It always has done. In the Stone Age, people were buried with objects; by Victorian times the funeral was a wealthy status symbol; the First and Second World Wars brought an end to ostentatious mourning because of scant time and money; and now we are at another huge shift in thinking, with the birth of the modern person-centred ceremony, a yearning for a ‘celebration of life’ with the focus on the person who has died. For me, the work of an independent celebrant is to find out what best befits the person who has died (and those people left behind) and to turn it into a beautiful, meaningful, ceremony which inspires the congregation and gives them a feeling of hope and peace. Many of the services I take are for Shoobridge Funeral Services, based in Honiton, Exmouth and Exeter, and it is the changing nature of funerals that is of vital importance to them. They and I spend hours with each family, guiding and supporting them through decisions they need to make at a time when they are very fragile and raw with emotion. I officiated at a service where an idea from the children’s book, The Paper Dolls, was very important to the twin girls mourning the death of their father. Throughout the ceremony, I wove the idea of people living on as memories deep inside us. It brought comfort to the family and it made the ceremony theirs. In another service, the family chose ‘Shiny Happy People’ by R.E.M to be played in the solemn time before the committal (the final farewell). Foot-tapping and sadness might not work for many people but for this family it reflected the life that they were there to celebrate and it was right. For families to say the appropriate goodbye gives a deep strength and, ultimately, hope, whether this is a rousing song to get people dancing or holding on to the idea that this person will live on in their memories, ‘in the place where the lost things go.’ We who have the privilege of walking beside people in their darkness and grief have a duty to guide them towards light and love and this is through openness and choice. And that is a road we take together.