Free Eulogy Generator

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Sarah. Margaret was my mother.

When I think about my mom, the first thing that comes back is the kitchen. Specifically, her kitchen, on a Saturday morning, with the radio playing whatever the local public station had on, and coffee already made before anyone else was up.

She believed in being awake before the world made demands. That was Mom.

[pause]

There are a hundred stories I could tell you. Here's one.

When I was sixteen, I came home from a date in tears. I don't even remember what the boy did. What I remember is that my mom didn't ask any questions. She poured two cups of tea, sat me down at the kitchen table, and waited. She let me cry until I was done. Then she said, very quietly, "He's not worth it. None of them are. Until one is."

That was my mother. She didn't lecture. She listened. And when she did speak, she gave you something you could hold.

She was practical in a way I'm still learning from. She made dentist appointments. She remembered birthdays. She kept a list, in a drawer, of every neighbor on the block and which ones needed checking on. She didn't talk about it. She just did it.

[speaker note: look up here]

To my dad, and to my brother Tom: she was yours too. I know how much you gave up to take care of her this last year. She knew. She told me. More than once.

To Mom's friends from the church, the book club, and the Tuesday morning walking group: thank you for being part of her week. She talked about you constantly.

[pause]

I want to leave you with one image. My mom, in her garden, late June, dirt on her hands, squinting up at me through the sun, saying, "Come help me with the tomatoes." That's the mother I'll remember. Steady. Present. Already doing the work.

Mom, thank you for everything. I love you.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Michael. Robert was my dad.

If you knew my dad, you knew he was the kind of man who fixed things. Not just around the house, though he did that too. He fixed problems. Quietly. Without making anyone feel they had created the problem in the first place.

That was Dad.

[pause]

A story.

When I was eleven, I broke a window in our garage. Not the small one. The big pane that looked out onto the driveway. I was sure I was in for it. I went and told him, and he just nodded and said, "Show me." We walked out, looked at the damage, and he said, "Okay. We'll fix it Saturday. You're going to help."

We fixed it Saturday. He didn't lecture. He didn't tell my mother. He bought the glass, he showed me how to set it, and at the end he said, "Now you know how to fix a window." That was it.

He raised three kids and a few neighbor kids without ever raising his voice. I have never met anyone else who could do that.

[speaker note: pause and breathe]

To my sister Anna, and my brother Pete: he was so proud of us. He didn't say it often. He didn't have to. We knew.

To Mom: fifty-three years. We watched. We learned more from that marriage than from anything he ever said directly.

To the guys from the shop, and the men's Tuesday breakfast group, and everyone here from the neighborhood: thank you for being his community. He talked about every one of you, often, without ever realizing he was telling us how much you mattered.

[pause]

The last thing I want to say is this.

When I run into a problem at work or with my own kids now, I find myself asking, "What would Dad do?" And almost always, the answer is: he would stay calm, he would look at the actual problem, and he would help fix it.

I'm trying, Dad. Thank you for showing me how.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Jen. Lisa and I have been friends since we were nineteen.

That's thirty-two years.

I want to start by saying something to Lisa's family. To Mark, to her kids, to her parents: I know I'm not family. But Lisa let me in further than most friends get, and standing here is one of the great honors of my life. Thank you.

[pause]

Lisa had a thing she would say when one of us was being ridiculous, which was often. She would sigh and say, "Okay, but here's what I think." Then she would lay out exactly what she thought, with no varnish, and she would be right.

She did this for every friend in this room at one point or another. We all came back. We all came back because she was the friend who told you the truth.

A story.

When I was thirty-four, I almost left a marriage I shouldn't have left. Lisa drove ninety minutes to my apartment on a Tuesday night, sat on my couch, and listened for two hours without interrupting. At the end, she said, "Okay, but here's what I think." And what she thought was that I needed to stay one more month and have one specific conversation with my husband before I did anything else.

I had that conversation. I'm still married. Mark and I just celebrated nineteen years.

That was Lisa. She didn't fix you. She helped you see what you already knew.

[speaker note: take a breath here]

To everyone here from the book club, the Thursday morning walking group, and Lisa's job: keep showing up for each other. That's what she would want. That's what she was constantly doing.

[pause]

I want to end with this.

Lisa wrote in a card to me, years ago, the line she lived by: "Show up. Then keep showing up." I'm going to keep showing up. For Mark. For the kids. For each of you. That's the friend she was. I want to be the friend she taught me to be.

Lisa, I love you. Thank you for every Tuesday.