I’ll let you into a secret. It’s a pretty morbid one, so don’t tell lots of people.
Sometimes, every now and then, I imagine what my own funeral will be like.
Where will it be held? What kind of coffin will I be in? There’d better be loads of people crying. I’d like something awesome written on my gravestone, like Leslie Nielsen did.
But one question in my mind shouts louder than the others, like an annoying schoolchild in a class of exuberant infants: How many people will be there?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not expecting Diana-like mourning. It’s doubtful that people will line the streets, or leave a carpet of flowers the size of a football pitch. And there won’t be a fountain erected in my memory, unless a water main bursts and someone takes the opportunity to stick an A4 sign in front of it saying ‘For Ben’, or something similar.
But I’d like to think there’d be a lot of people there. Family, friends, co-workers, that kind of thing. And they’d all be pretty sad, of course, especially if I die in some kind of particularly tragic way. But at the same time, they’d swap stories about daft things I’d done, the stupid things I say every day, how I sing to my colleages and wind them up, those daft quirks I have which are annoying now but will be missed when I’m gone. And then, when the funeral’s over, everyone would have a jolly good knees-up in my memory, and now and then someone will go to my grave and scrape the bird poo off the granite.
Why am I saying this? Because over the past week the actions of two people – Rupert Murdoch and Rebekah Brooks, along with a few of their minions – have thrown the lives of 200 of their employees into confusion and turmoil. Why? To save their own skins. To make a bit of money. To keep their jobs.
We could all learn from Murdoch and Brooks. They may be ‘happy’ now, with their jobs and their millions, but their friends are few and far between. When they’re gone, their millions will mean nothing. And they will forever be remembered not as a person who made someone smile, or who was continually helpful, or an all-round great guy; but instead as that man who put money ahead of everything, the woman who put her job ahead of friendship.
And so, in writing this piece, I find that perhaps I’m focussing on the wrong thing when thinking about my funeral. It’s not how many people attend, it’s not about whether people line the streets: it’s about how you’re remembered when you’re gone by those who love you. And, if people smile when they remember me, I’ll be happy. Even though I’m dead.
What we do in life echoes in eternity. – some Roman chap
I’ve always wondered the same thing. I don’t think it is something morbid to think about honestly. Sure we all want lots of people at our funeral but honestly it’s about the friends you make along the way.
I think your right it’s about how good of a person you are rather then how self centered and worried about yourself.
Exactly. Memories live longer than people!
When my mum died, there were so many mourners that they had to part like the dead see when we drove in. I was in shock at the number of people there were there but feel glad that she touched so many people over her life. Thinking back on it now, I’m happy to know that they cared and wish that my funeral will be the same.
It must have been lovely to see so many people, very reassuring. Sounds like your mum was a wonderful person!
Wise words indeed. I think my mum had it right when she told me to “treat others how I’d wish to be treated myself”. Some people just don’t get it. Sounds like you’d have a packed funeral. (This is probably the wierdest compliment I’ve ever paid anyone.)