Eulogy Examples

Good morning. For those who don't know me, I'm Rachel, Linda's oldest daughter. On behalf of my brother Tom, my sister Amy and my dad, thank you for being here. Mom would be amazed to see this room so full, and then she would ask whether everyone had eaten.

My mother was born Linda Marie Kowalski in Toledo, Ohio, in 1952, the third of five children. She liked to say she learned to cook because it was the only way to get a seat at the table. She met my dad at a roller rink when she was nineteen. He fell, she laughed, and he asked her to skate with him anyway. They were married for fifty-one years.

Mom worked as a school secretary at Whitmer Elementary for twenty-eight years. If you went to that school, she probably knew your name, your little brother's name, and which of you had forgotten your lunch. She kept a drawer of granola bars, spare mittens and bandages, and she never once told the principal it was there.

At home she ran our family the same way: quietly, and with a list. There was a list on the fridge for groceries, a list for birthdays, and a list of the people she was worrying about. When I left for college, I found a list in my suitcase. It said: "Call your mother. Eat something green. You can always come home."

I want to tell you about one ordinary day, because ordinary days were where Mom did her best work. When I was twelve, I didn't get the part I wanted in the school play. I came home and went straight to my room. Mom didn't knock and didn't lecture. About an hour later she slid a plate under the door: a grilled cheese, cut into triangles, and a note that said, "Their loss. Come out when you're ready." I came out. We watched old movies all night. I don't remember the play, but I remember the grilled cheese.

That was her gift. She noticed. She noticed when someone was quiet at dinner, when a neighbor's car hadn't moved in a few days, when one of her grandchildren needed a little longer on her lap. She never made speeches about kindness. She just showed up, usually with a casserole.

The last two years were hard. Her illness took her strength, but it never took her humor. Two weeks ago a nurse asked if she was comfortable, and she said, "I'm in bed in the middle of the day and people keep bringing me pudding. I've never been more comfortable." Even then, she was taking care of us.

Mom, I don't know how to do this without you. But I know you'd tell me I already do, because you spent my whole life showing me how. You taught me that love is mostly paying attention. You taught me to set an extra place at the table, just in case. And you taught me that I can always come home.

So here is the list I'm putting on my fridge: Call your kids. Eat something green. Notice people. And when someone is sad, make the grilled cheese.

We love you, Mom. Thank you for everything. Rest now.

Hi, everyone. I'm Daniel, Bob's son. Dad would hate that we're all dressed up for him. He'd be standing at the back in his work jacket, telling me to keep this short because the food is getting cold. So, Dad, I'll do my best.

Robert James Mendez was born in San Antonio, Texas, in 1949. He served in the Army, came home, and spent thirty-five years as an electrician. There are houses all over this county that have lights because of him, and he could tell you which ones, and what the homeowner had done wrong before he got there.

Dad was not a man of many words. He showed love by fixing things. When I bought my first car, a terrible old Corolla, he didn't tell me it was a mistake. He just came over every Saturday for three months with his toolbox and a thermos of coffee, and we fixed it together. I thought he was teaching me about engines. I figured out much later that he was finding a reason to spend his Saturdays with me.

He had rules. Measure twice, cut once. Never let the gas tank go below a quarter. If you borrow a man's truck, you bring it back full. And the big one: say what you mean, and then do what you said. If Dad told you he'd be there at seven, he was in your driveway at ten to, with the engine running.

He also had a sense of humor that sneaked up on you. He told the same five jokes for forty years and laughed at every one of them like it was the first time. My mom, Carol, has heard the one about the electrician and the parrot more times than anyone should, and she smiled every time. That was their marriage: patience, and a lot of laughing.

When he became a grandfather, something in him softened. The man who couldn't sit through a movie would sit on the floor for an hour building blocks with my daughter, Sofia. He let her be the boss. He even let her put a pink roof on the garage they built, which, if you knew him, tells you everything.

Dad, I know you didn't like speeches, so I'll keep the last part simple. You taught me how to work, how to keep my word and how to show up for the people I love. Everything good I can do with my hands, and most of what I know about being a father, came from you.

The lights are still on, Dad. We'll keep them on.

Thank you all for coming. Now please, go and eat. He'd want the food to be warm.

Good afternoon. My name is Hannah, and I'm one of Grandma Ruth's fourteen grandchildren. Pastor Mike, thank you for your words, and thank you all for being here to celebrate a woman who loved the Lord, loved her family, and made the best cinnamon rolls in the state of Iowa.

Ruth Eleanor Johnson was born on a farm outside Ames in 1934. She married Grandpa Walter in 1955 at First Lutheran Church, the same church where she taught Sunday school for more than forty years. Some of you in this room learned your Bible verses at her kitchen table, with a cinnamon roll as the reward. I know I did.

Grandma's faith wasn't loud. It was steady. She got up before the sun every morning, made coffee, and read her Bible at the kitchen table in her blue robe. When we stayed over as kids, we'd come downstairs and find her there, and she'd pull out a chair and say, "Sit with me a minute." She never preached at us. She just let us see what it looked like to start every day with God.

She prayed for each of us by name. After she died, we found a small notebook with every grandchild and great-grandchild listed, and notes beside our names: a job interview, a hard semester, a baby on the way. Some of the notes are twenty years old. She was still praying through them.

When Grandpa died in 2011, I worried about her. She told me, "Hannah, I'm not alone. I've never been alone." And she meant it. She kept baking, kept visiting the shut-ins from church, and kept sending birthday cards with a five-dollar bill inside, even to grandchildren who were thirty.

There is a verse in Proverbs that Grandma marked in her Bible years ago. It describes a woman of strength, and it says, "Her children arise up, and call her blessed." Grandma, we are all here today, your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren, and we call you blessed.

In her last weeks she was tired, but she was at peace. She told my mom she was ready to go home. I believe that is exactly where she is now: home, with Grandpa, and with the Lord she served her whole life.

The apostle Paul wrote, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." Grandma, you finished well. We'll keep a chair at the kitchen table for you, and every morning, we'll sit with you a minute.

Thank you.

Thank you all for being here. I'm Patricia, and for forty-six years I had the privilege of being George's wife.

I've been told a eulogy should tell you who someone was. The easy answer is that George was a retired high school history teacher, a Little League coach, a Navy veteran and a terrible singer who sang anyway. All true. But I want to tell you who he was at home, because that's the George I'll miss most.

We met in 1977 at a friend's wedding in Pittsburgh. He spilled punch on my dress and spent the rest of the night apologizing, and by the end of the evening I had stopped minding about the dress. He proposed six months later on my parents' porch, so nervous that he forgot to open the ring box. I said yes to the closed box.

George believed in small rituals. Every morning for forty-six years, he brought me coffee in bed. I never once asked him to. When his knees got bad, he still did it, just slower. When he was in the hospital last spring, he had our son bring it to me instead, and he phoned to check that it was hot.

He loved his students. He believed history was just stories about people, and that if you told the stories well enough, any teenager would listen. This week I've received cards from students he taught in 1985, in 2005 and in 2015. They remembered the stories. Mostly, they remembered that he believed in them.

He was the same with our children, Michael and Laura. He never missed a game, a recital or a chance to tell them he was proud. And when the grandchildren came along, he became the man who always found a quarter behind someone's ear.

George, you were my best friend. You made me laugh every single day, even the last ones. You taught me that love isn't one big promise. It's a thousand small ones, kept every morning.

I don't know yet what mornings will look like without you. But I'll make the coffee myself, and I'll think of you, and I'll be grateful for every cup.

Thank you, my love. And thank you all.

Hello, everyone. My name is Jasmine. Keisha and I were best friends for thirty-one years, ever since we were assigned the same dorm room and she told me, within ten minutes, that I was going to need a better winter coat.

She was right. She was usually right. And she always told you, kindly and immediately.

Keisha Denise Brooks was a nurse for twenty-two years, most of them on the children's ward at the hospital downtown. If you have ever had a sick child, you know what it means to have a nurse who stays calm, explains everything twice and remembers your name. That was her. Parents wrote to her years later. She kept every letter in a shoebox labeled "Good Days."

As a friend, she was the one who showed up. When my father died, she drove four hours, walked into my mother's kitchen and started washing dishes without saying a word. When my marriage ended, she sent me a text every morning for a month. Every one of them said the same thing: "Still here." I have them all. I read them again this week.

She was also the most fun person I have ever known. She planned the trips, booked the restaurants and made us dance at every wedding, whether there was music or not. She believed a birthday should last a week. For her fortieth we went to New Orleans, and somehow she ended up singing with the band.

Keisha, you were taken from us much too soon, and I'm angry about that. I think you'd let me be angry for a little while. But I know what you'd say after that: "Okay. Now go live." So I'm going to try.

To everyone here: if Keisha ever showed up for you, and I'd bet she did, the best way to honor her is to show up for someone else. Wash the dishes. Send the text. Make them dance.

Still here, my friend. Always.

Thank you.

Good morning. I'm Megan, Laura's little sister. She would want me to point out that I'm still the little sister, even though I'm forty-four.

Laura was born in Portland, Oregon, in 1979, two years before me, and she spent most of her childhood being in charge of me. She taught me how to ride a bike, how to braid my hair and how to get out of trouble by blaming the dog. We didn't have a dog. It worked anyway.

As a grown-up she became a veterinary technician, which surprised no one. Every stray in the neighborhood knew where she lived. At one point she had three cats, two rabbits and a one-eyed parakeet named Captain. She'd say, "Nobody else wanted them," as if that explained everything. It did.

We fought, of course. We once didn't speak for a whole summer over a borrowed sweater. But when it mattered, she was my first call. When my son was born, she was at the hospital before my husband had found a parking space. When Mom got sick, Laura moved back home for a year to look after her, and she never once made it sound like a sacrifice.

What I'll miss most is how easy it was. We could sit on her back porch for an hour without saying much, and it was the best conversation I'd have all week. She knew everything about me, and she loved me anyway. That's what a sister is.

Laura, I'm going to take care of Captain. I'm going to tell my son the bike story until he's sick of it. And I'm going to keep borrowing your sweaters, because now I can.

I love you. Thank you for being in charge of me.

Thank you, everyone.

Thank you for standing out here with us today. I'm Chris, Frank's nephew, and I'll be brief, because Uncle Frank always said the best speeches were the short ones.

Frank Delaney spent his whole life within ten miles of this spot. He farmed this land, coached half the kids in town in Little League, and never missed the Friday fish fry at the Legion hall. He had a handshake like a vise and a laugh you could hear across a parking lot.

He never married, but he was never without family. He was at every birthday, every graduation and every hospital waiting room. When my dad died, Frank taught me to drive, to fish and to tie a tie. I'm wearing that tie today.

Frank, you were a steady man in a world that isn't always steady. We'll take it from here.

Rest easy, Uncle Frank.