I had written 492 words to honour my brother’s 40 years. I wasn’t sure I could speak even one.
Standing at the podium, I couldn’t look out at the faces. We’d just watched the first of the slide shows — images of him with family and friends throughout his life. Since writing his eulogy, I hadn’t been able to read it aloud. My voice cracked, and tears poured freely each time I tried. Rule number one of writing: read it aloud to ensure it flows. But not this time.
Standing there, my throat was tight, welling tears made it hard to see. Could I really do this?
The tears had been ongoing for days as I struggled through photo albums and digital folders, finding the little moments of my little brother’s life. Some album pages were washed with tears when I couldn’t contain them, revisiting the memories. Speaking with family and friends about his life. These were all private moments, where the tears could flow freely.
How could I possibly read the story of my little brother’s life and get through it? With tears clouding my vision and my voice cracking with pain.
I had faith that I could do it, but up until that moment at the podium, I didn’t know how I was going to do it. For the week prior, I’d had one mission — to honour my little brother.
With my sister rubbing my back, I started speaking, and something shifted. I was able to speak the words I’d written. My voice hitching at times, the tears flowing harder, a deep breath or two, and I continued on. Until I’d read every word and toasted him with a final whisky.
I’ve spoken at funerals before, offering tributes for grandparents, where the words were far fewer. And each time, it’s been so difficult. I kept his eulogy brief so that I could get through it, because my goal was to speak every word, not pass it off to someone else to speak my words, even though there were kind offers to do so.
I’m not a person of traditional faith, but for days before, I was calling on those passed, including my brother, and other beings that would offer me strength to get through this day. I had friends sending me strength. I found other things to help me as well — hand mudras for strength and courage, and affirmations that I was strong enough to do it.
In this time, I realised that I am stronger than I knew. That sometimes no matter how hard we think something is now, there may always be something harder in the future. But when you approach it with the belief that you can do it, and call on whatever you need to reinforce that belief — then you can make it through the hardest or most painful things.
It’s the belief in yourself, and those that care about you, that you can do hard things. There are people here on earth that will help you, and those that may no longer be here helping too.
No matter how hard it seems, there’s always a voice there — waiting for you to call on it, even in the dark and painful moments.