At Carrie’s funeral, her daughter speaks with simple clarity: “When my sister and I first met my mother, what I remember most were the smiles, and the hugs. My beautiful mother.”

By Carmel Lillis

What do you say at a funeral?

My fellow Vincentian and I sweat this dilemma as we cross town to attend the funeral of Carrie, a woman we have visited on and off for years.

Our dilemma is universal. We know that. Who hasn’t been smitten with exactly this dread of “what to say” when grief has afflicted a family and friends upon the loss of a loved one? The horrible truth is that we all know that something must be said, even as we recognise that no words are adequate.

But what we are anticipating is the dread of “not knowing what to say” on steroids. The Society of St Vincent de Paul is funding the funeral. A compassionate priest who had visited Carrie will officiate. But apart from ourselves, will there even be any mourners?

At the funeral home, a situation we had not foreseen confronts us. Estranged brothers and sisters of Carrie, nieces and nephews, her children and even a couple of grandchildren, have swollen the number of attendees.

But the demarcation line is as vivid as if it has been etched in blood and hung with a sign: “Do Not Cross.”

On one side of the room is a huddle of the ravaged faces of addiction. They have squandered their talents; ‘failed’ over and over.

Opposite are those who have been dutiful to life’s demands. They have held down jobs, paid their bills; attempted not to transgress.

Where do my fellow Vincentian and I fit? With a flash of insight, and without any exchange of words, we both know that, as card-carrying members of the human race, we belong in both groups.

But if our dilemma about what to say at a funeral had been worrying before, it is now acute.

In the group of blighted lives, the air is thick with accusations against ‘those over there’ who think ‘they’re better than us’ but who ‘wouldn’t know what it is to suffer’. The accusations are peppered with swearing and cursing. We dredge for words to dissuade Carrie’s son from tackling that ‘superior lot’ about how judgmental they are. Suggesting that his mum would feel proud of him for his forbearance puts the simmering confrontation on hold.

On the other side of the room, the mood is no more conciliatory. Carrie’s brothers and sisters turn their backs on the huddle opposite. Muttered expletives of ‘hopeless’ and ‘waste of space’ are exchanged.

Never have I been so relieved when a funeral service began.

But the dilemma of ‘What do you say at a funeral?’ has not abated.

At a funeral, you talk of the deceased’s accomplishments, their contributions. Carrie told me, when I took her a parcel of food and a supermarket voucher, how she had been one of the subjects of a royal commission into jail wardens procuring inmates for prostitution. She said she spoke quite a lot to that commission. 

Later, I did an online search for her testimony. It was noted she presented well, despite her background. The commissioners, in their wisdom, cited her admission of procuring drugs while on leave, but denial of being coerced into prostitution to procure them, as evidence that coercion did not happen.

“Why did the commission just accept what I said?” “Had they not heard of blind terror?” “Why did they not insist on knowing what I DID to procure the drugs?”

No mention will be made of Carrie’s contribution to the Commission.   

At a funeral, you talk of the deceased’s parenting. No matter what their failures, most people score a few ticks. On early visits, Carrie had told us, with childlike eagerness, how one daughter had learnt to ride a bike; another was struggling at school, although excelling at art. 

But soon we learnt that Carrie’s babies, one after another, were born addicted, spent time in agonised withdrawal, and were fostered out.

No mention will be made of Carrie’s parenting.

At a funeral, you talk of the deceased’s childhood, evoking fond memories and tender anecdotes. But on the phone at Carrie’s place, holding, holding to negotiate with the housing ministry or some utilities company she hadn’t paid, she would insist on making me coffee and she would tell me, without self-pity, how her brother molested her when she was a child. 

When she lay dying, her face pared of flesh, her bone structure was beautiful, and I told her so. But she said, “No, my father said I was the ugly one.”

Later, the only sister with whom she retained in contact, described their childhood in one word, ‘Hell’.

No mention will be made of Carrie’s childhood.

We had fretted, my fellow volunteer worker and I, that we would be the sole mourners at Carrie’s funeral, and it troubled me that this mother of four, sibling of 10, should be grieved for only by kind strangers.

Yet at the funeral, a daughter, struggling with addiction and just out of jail, speaks with simple clarity. “When my sister and I first met my mother,” she says, “what I remember most were the smiles, and the hugs. My beautiful mother.”

“Do you believe in God?” Carrie had once asked me. 

“I do,” I said.  “Not a little, narrow God though.  A big, merciful God.”

And she’d said, “Yes.  That’s my God, too.”

Now, it is the priest’s turn to find words. 

“When I visited Carrie in her hospital room,” he says, “we spoke for a long time.  And what I know is that God was in that room with us.  I am certain of it.”

Through their tears, her relatives smile at each other across the demarcation line. I am reminded of the beautiful reflections of the Dutch priest Henri Nouwen who, over several days, studied Rembrandt’s painting The Return of the Prodigal Son.

He spoke of how, as the days unfolded, the light shifted from figure to figure. Now we, too, understand how there could be a moment when we transcend grief and emptiness and blame, and be united by a light that is shining on all of us. How we all could be the parent who forgives, who is filled with joy at the prodigal who found their way home.

We needn’t have worried. At Carrie’s funeral, there was just one thing that needed to be said.

Godspeed, Carrie.

For 24/7 domestic violence counselling call the National Sexual Assault, Family & Domestic Violence Counselling Line on 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) or visit www.1800respect.org.au