Eulogy examples

Anyone who ever had dinner at Mom's house knows the blue recipe box. It sat by the stove for fifty years, and not one card in it was written the same way twice, because she never followed a recipe, including her own.

I'm Denise, Carol's oldest daughter. On behalf of my brother Mike and our families, thank you for being here and for everything you did for her this year.

Mom was born in Macon, Georgia, and taught second grade in Macon for thirty-one years. Some of you in this church learned to read in her classroom. She was proud of every one of you, and she remembered your names.

When I was nine, a girl in my class lost her mother. For the rest of that school year, there was an extra sandwich in my lunch box every day, with a note: "For Tasha. Don't make a fuss." I didn't understand it then. I understand it now. That was how Mom loved people: quietly, practically, and every single day.

She leaves us the blue box, which we will fight over politely, and a way of noticing who needs an extra sandwich.

Mom, you taught us that faith is something you do with your hands. We'll keep doing it. Rest now. We love you.

My father had a sentence for everything, and it was usually the same one: "Measure twice, cut once."

I'm Aaron, Richard's son. Thank you for coming.

Dad was a finish carpenter in Columbus for forty years. If you live in one of the old neighborhoods downtown, there is a good chance he built your staircase, and a better chance it is still perfectly level.

He was not a man of many words. When I bought my first house, he did not say he was proud of me. He showed up the next morning with his toolbox and rebuilt the back steps. He did not ask. He just measured twice.

He taught me that you show love by doing things carefully for people. He taught my kids how to hold a hammer, and my daughter now corrects me when I rush.

Dad, I measured this twice. I hope it is level. Thank you.

My grandmother had rules. Not many, but she enforced them. Rule one: nobody leaves her house hungry. Rule two: if you're going to sing, sing loud. Rule three: never, ever touch her remote.

I'm Josh, her oldest grandson, and Grandma Lou would want me to say that I was her favorite. She told each of us that, privately. We compared notes at Thanksgiving when I was twelve.

She was born in 1935 in a small town in Iowa, married my grandfather Walt at nineteen, and spent sixty years making sure the Hendersons ate well and sang badly.

When I was in college and broke, a package came every month. Inside: a jar of her peanut butter cookies, a twenty-dollar bill, and a note that just said "Rule one." I never once went hungry.

She leaves us eleven grandchildren who all believe they were the favorite, which may have been her greatest achievement.

Grandma, we'll sing loud. We still won't touch the remote. We love you.

Tom and I had an agreement for forty-four years. On Saturdays, he made breakfast, and I was not allowed in the kitchen. I never learned what he put in the pancakes. I'm told the secret dies with him, and honestly, I think that's what he wanted.

I'm Ellen, his wife. Thank you all for coming. I know some of you drove a long way.

Tom worked for the post office in Spokane for thirty years. He knew every dog on his route by name, and several of them came to the fence when he retired. He coached our son's Little League team for six seasons and never once won a championship, and he said they were the best six seasons of his life.

Last spring, when he was already sick, he got up on a Saturday, very slowly, and made pancakes. It took him an hour. He sat down across from me and said, "Same time next week." I said yes. We both knew.

He leaves me a quiet kitchen on Saturday mornings, and the certainty that I was loved, every week, for forty-four years.

Tom, same time next week. I'll be there.

My brother Marcus called me every Sunday for twenty years. The calls lasted exactly as long as there was no football on TV.

I'm Keisha, his little sister. Marcus would want me to tell you that he was the funny one. He was.

He grew up in Pittsburgh, joined the Army at eighteen, and spent twenty-two years as a mechanic, most of them fixing things other people had broken and pretending it was no trouble. When he retired, he opened a small auto shop and charged half the people in this room less than he should have.

When our mother got sick, Marcus drove three hours every weekend for eight months. He never once mentioned it. I only found out how often he came when the nurses told me they knew his truck.

He leaves us the family's worst jokes, which he told on purpose, and the best example of showing up.

Marcus, it's Sunday. I'll keep calling. Somebody has to tell you the score.

When something good happened to me, Laura was the first call. When something bad happened, she was already on her way.

I'm Rachel. Laura and I met in a dorm hallway in 1994, arguing about a stolen parking spot. It was mine. She never admitted it.

She was a nurse for twenty-five years, in the kind of unit where people are frightened, and she was the person they asked for by name. She brought that same calm into every friendship.

When my son was born early, Laura sat with me in the hospital for two nights. She did not say anything wise. She brought good coffee and she stayed. That was her gift: she stayed.

Laura, you were my first call. I don't know who I'll call now. Thank you for thirty years of staying.

My grandfather, Harold James Whitfield, served his country for four years and his family for seventy.

I am Sarah, his granddaughter, and I am honored to speak for our family today.

He enlisted in the Navy at eighteen and served aboard a destroyer in the Pacific. He rarely spoke about those years. When we asked, he would say only, "I did my job, and I came home." After the war, he came home to Dayton, married our grandmother, Margaret, and worked for thirty-five years as an engineer.

What I remember is how he did ordinary things with care. Every morning, he raised the flag in the front yard. Every evening, he lowered it and folded it properly, even in the rain. When I was eight, he taught me how. He said, "You do the small things right, every day, and the big things take care of themselves."

He leaves four children, eleven grandchildren, and the example of a life lived with discipline and quiet gratitude.

Grandpa, you did your job, and you came home. Thank you. We will take it from here.

Carlos's office door was open for eleven years. I checked. Nobody ever saw it closed.

I'm Priya. I worked with Carlos for nine years, and I am here for all of us from the office.

He trained half of our team. When you made a mistake, he did not ask whose fault it was. He asked, "What do we fix first?" Then he stayed late to fix it with you.

When my father was sick, Carlos took over my projects for three weeks without being asked and told our manager it was his idea to rotate the work. It wasn't.

He leaves us better at our jobs, and a door we are going to try to keep open.

Carlos, thank you. To his family: we saw a small part of him, and it was a very good part.