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.