On the morning of my mother’s funeral, I arrived at the church before anyone else, seeking a solitary moment with her. Faced with the daunting question of whether I could sing for her that day, I felt the weight of impending time pressing down.
A few days prior, on the night of the summer solstice, a shattering phone call awakened me with the news that my mother had coded, and paramedics were fighting to revive her. As I stumbled to the car, I cried out for her, hoping against hope that I was wrong about her fate.
Despite having moved across the country a decade ago, I maintained a connection with her through daily conversations and frequent visits for holidays and summers, reports BritPanorama.
Now, standing in the Roman Catholic church of our shared childhood, I stood in the second pew where she always sat and sought her guidance. I wrestled with the fear that my voice would falter and ruin her service, a thought that weighed heavily upon me. Yet, the more I reflected, the more I recognised that not singing would bring a different kind of regret—a fear of living without her.
I envisioned her large, dark eyes looking up at me, recalling the hundreds of times I had performed here in her presence. I saw her familiar reddish-brown curls framing her face as she mouthed the lyrics along with me, the stained-glass light falling upon her arms, reminding me that if my voice could reach her, this was indeed the place to do so.
The dirge-crooning daughter
This church marks the beginning of my journey as a funeral singer, a role I assumed at the tender age of 10. For over two decades, I was known as the ‘dirge-crooning daughter’ of my lively and outspoken mother, who would openly express her disdain for funerals and the associated rituals.
Yet, amidst her aversion to those somber occasions, her love for music remained unwavering. She made it a point to attend my performances, often slipping in the back wearing black and drawing close to hear me sing. Most recently, I sang for her at her independent living complex, seated at the grand piano in the community room, where I had previously filled the air with comfort songs.
From the front row, she would exuberantly shout, “‘Be Not Afraid!’” as if requesting a rock anthem, conducting along with a rhythm only she could feel.
Would my mother tell me what to do?
I took a seat in my mother’s place, grappling with my inability to connect with her spirit in that moment. I reflected on advice from trauma-informed grief expert Meghan Riordan Jarvis and neuroscientist Mary-Frances O’Connor, who noted that while I had transitioned into a professional funeral singer, I was yet to become a professional griever.
I confided in Jarvis about my fear of uncertainty regarding how my grief would manifest during the ceremony. She reminded me that profound attachment loss is a unique and unprecedented experience.
She likened it to the predictability of meeting physical needs—for instance, feeling satisfied after eating—but asserted that the journey through grief is filled with unpredictability. However, one undeniable aspect is that we navigate through both the acts of letting go and becoming something new.
As the familiar sounds of clicking pendant lights echoed in the church, the footsteps of arriving guests filled the space. The music director—a long-time friend—would soon arrive, offering to support me if needed. In that moment, I inhaled shallowly, mentally preparing for the inevitable.
At the podium, I settled in, resolved to stand firm in my mother’s seat. I opened my hymnal to “Be Not Afraid,” my chosen entrance hymn, as I glanced past my mother’s empty space, noting two childhood friends among the attendees. Before I knew it, I was enveloped in a cascade of hugs from friends, relatives, and acquaintances—each one a testament to the impact my mother had on their lives.
The possibility for more than just pain
Returning to the podium, I surveyed my surroundings before fixing my gaze on my mother’s empty seat, drowning out distractions to immerse myself in the pages of my hymnal. In that moment, an unexpected calm washed over me. Like a surfer engaging with a wave, I decided to ride the moment and seize the opportunity to sing.
My mother would have wanted me to perform, and I owed it to her to give it my all. I realised that achieving the seemingly impossible feat of being here already required tremendous emotional strength. It was time to take the next monumental step.
Jarvis cautioned against judging myself for any emotional overflow during the performance, indicating that such moments could shape the song’s impact beautifully.
I signalled to my friend at the piano, who began to play softly. As I began to sing, I found unexpected support and grounding, feeling uplifted and liberated as notes spilled forth.
Soon after, I turned to sing “Prayer of St. Francis,” knowing this song was another cherished piece of my mother’s musical legacy. Instead of fighting my grief, I chose to let it inform my performance, drawing from vivid memories of her.
Visualising my mother as she’d once marched out of the church, indignant over a priest’s remarks, I honoured her spirit through my music. Through the act of singing, I felt her presence, providing solace rather than sorrow—helping me bear the weight of her absence.
The mysterious place where grief and awe live
Weeks later, I conveyed my surprising feelings to O’Connor, who spoke of the profound impact of being fully present with both joy and grief. She articulated that we often inspire each other to find courage in life, even across the divide between the living and the departed.
I contemplated the possibility that my emotional expression during the funeral had its own validity and that in showing vulnerability, I could unlock deeper experiences and connections.
Within the journey of letting go, I realised that my energy could emerge from the shared domain of grief and awe, where I sensed my mother’s enduring spirit resided. Despite difficulties, she had taught me that remarkable feats were attainable even when faced with life’s most stinging challenges.
Through each performance, I aimed to honour my mother by embracing the beauty interwoven within our bond, especially in moments of profound sorrows and unexpected joys.
As Christmas loomed on the horizon, the dread of spending the holiday without her weighed on me, yet I found a flicker of hope that perhaps similar potential for joy awaited.
“Absolutely,” Jarvis had assured me. “You are beginning to see that with grief comes more than just pain, creating room for unexpected beauty.”
Ultimately, what I wanted most at the funeral extended beyond merely fulfilling my mother’s memory; it meant honouring my own grief and what it truly required of me—emotional expression through song, regardless of the outcome.
