Short eulogy examples

My mom left the porch light on every night of my life, even after I moved to another state. She said you never know who might need to find their way home.

I'm Megan, her daughter. She raised three kids mostly on her own, worked nights at the hospital, and never missed a school play.

When I was seventeen and came home late and scared after a car accident, the light was on, and so was she, on the steps in her robe. She didn't ask questions until the next day. She just held on.

Mom, I'll leave the light on. Thank you for always being on the steps.

My dad was a man of two words at a time. "Good job." "Drive safe." "Love you." He meant every one.

I'm Kevin. Dad worked at the same plant for thirty-four years and never called in sick once. He fished every Saturday he could and told the truth about the size of the fish, which is rarer than you'd think.

On my wedding day, he shook my hand, held on a second too long, and said, "Good man." I have kept those two words for twenty years.

Dad: drive safe. Love you.

Grandpa knew one card trick. He performed it at every family gathering for thirty years. We always pretended to be amazed, and he always pretended to believe us.

I'm Olivia, one of his nine grandchildren. He was a mailman, a deacon, and the worst poker player in the county.

When I was little and afraid of the dark, he taught me the card trick so I would have something to think about instead. I still do it in my head on hard nights.

Grandpa, I'll keep the trick. I'll pretend to be amazed. Thank you.

Diane had a key to my house for twenty-two years. She used it to water my plants, feed my cat, and once to leave a pot of soup on the stove when she heard I had the flu.

I'm Barbara. We met in a church choir, where neither of us could sing, so we sat in the back and talked.

She never waited to be asked. She noticed, and then she showed up.

Diane, I'm keeping your key on my ring. Thank you for every time you used it.

Every morning for fifteen years, Jim was the first one in and the coffee was already made. Nobody ever asked him to do it. Nobody ever thanked him enough.

I'm Maria, and I worked beside Jim in the county clerk's office.

When I started, terrified, he left a sticky note on my desk: "Nobody knows what they're doing the first month. Ask me anything." I kept it. It's in my wallet today.

Jim, thank you for the coffee and for the note. To his family: he talked about you every single day.

My aunt, Evelyn Grace Porter, wrote letters. Real ones, on paper, with stamps. Every birthday, every graduation, every hard year, a letter arrived.

I'm Daniel, her nephew. She taught high school English for thirty-six years and believed that a sentence written by hand was a small act of respect.

I have forty-one of her letters in a shoebox. The last one arrived two weeks ago. It ended the way they all did: "Be kind, be curious, and write back."

Aunt Evelyn, I'm writing back. Thank you.

You could always find Chris at a party by his laugh. It came from somewhere near his shoes and filled the room.

I'm his mom. I don't know how to stand here, so I'll just tell you one thing.

When he was six, his little sister was scared of thunderstorms. Every storm, he took his pillow and slept on her floor, until she was eleven and told him to go away.

That was my son. He stayed with the people who were afraid. Chris, I will hear that laugh in every room. I love you.

My sister Anna planted wildflowers everywhere she lived. Apartments, rentals, a college dorm window. Wherever she went, something bloomed after she left.

I'm Kate, her younger sister. Anna was a social worker, a terrible cook, and the bravest person I have ever known.

The last thing she planted was a row of poppies along the fence at our parents' house, last spring. They came up this week.

Anna, they came up. You were right. They always do.

For twenty years, Walter shoveled the whole sidewalk on our block before anyone else woke up. Not just his. All of it.

I'm Linda, from two doors down.

He never mentioned it, and if you thanked him, he said the exercise was good for his heart.

Walter, the snow is coming. We'll take turns. It won't be the same.

My grandmother sat in the same front pew of this church for fifty-two years. Today we are sitting in it for her.

I'm Isaiah, her grandson. She raised four children and helped raise twelve grandchildren, most of us at her kitchen table on Sunday afternoons.

Every Sunday after church, she asked each of us one question: "Who did you help this week?" If we didn't have an answer, we had a week to find one.

Grandma, I have an answer this week. I'm helping say goodbye. We'll keep your seat warm.