A eulogy for your mother

Now that your mother has passed away, you are closing an era. Therefore, you would like to tell something about her.

Below are 3 different examples for your funeral speech.

Personal memories of Lies
A biography of Martine
For mama Debora with a poem

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Example 1:

Samira gives a funeral speech for her mother Lies

When I think of my mother, the first thing I think of is her voice. With which she sang songs for me when I went to sleep. She always sang, by the way, when she was alone in the room downstairs you could hear it upstairs. And when she was in the car. I think she would be able to sing along to all the songs we are playing for her today. Maybe she is doing that too, somewhere.

When I think of my mother, I also think of the sewing machine. When I woke up in the evening as a child, I heard it humming and rattling and occasionally the snip of scissors. And then my heart beat fast because I thought it would be for me, until I fell asleep again. And often the next morning there was a new dress or a sweater or pants hanging over my chair, and when I put it on it seemed as if she herself was surprised and then she always said "turn around so I can admire you."

When I think of my mother, I see the tough, proud and independent woman she was. How she was always there for others. And how she stood up for others. She absolutely couldn't stand injustice. I remember that one of the teachers sent me out of the class at one point, while I wasn't talking but others were. When I told her that at home, she immediately picked up the phone and called the teacher. On the other hand, I shouldn't try to lie either. She looked right through you.

When I think of my mother, I think how happy I am that she could still come to my wedding. We had been looking forward to it together so much and you really fought to be there mom. I am so glad that Kim got to know you. And that when we have children later, we can tell them about you together. Because we will. You are not gone mom, never. We love you.

Example 2:

Cornel speaks at the cremation of his mother Martine

Hello, my name is Cornel, I am the second child of Martine, and I may tell you something about her on behalf of my sisters Petra and Marlon.

Our mother was born in 1943 as the third of seven children. She was too young to experience anything of the war, and her parents didn't talk much about it later either. Due to her father's work with the railways, the family moved regularly in her youth. She often had to let go of school friends because of this, but she therefore saw the happiness that she grew up in a large family: you had each other. That close bond with brothers and sisters has always remained.

After primary school in alternating Breda and Ommen, Martine went to the Mulo in Arnhem. She also went to the Kweekschool there. She liked to talk about those years, and made friends for life at her first workplace. A few of them are also present here this afternoon.

At the age of 20 she met dad. That was at the Breda autumn fair. Hendrikus Antonius Maria Bosch, son of a truly Catholic working-class family. It wasn't love at first sight. But they agreed to meet again, and the fact that her friend Els had an eye on Henk's friend Cornel (exactly, after whom I am named) also helped. They started dating and got married in '65. And yes, what is now unimaginable, Martine had to stop working then.

(Cornel then tells about how the family grew, about the rules at home, about the holidays and about the trip his parents made after their retirement. Cornel also mentions how his mother was as a grandmother for the grandchildren. Finally, he talks about his mother's illness. He concludes with "Thank you mom, for everything, we will never forget you.")

Example 3:

The speech of Liz at the funeral of her mother Debora

My name is Liz, I am the second daughter of Ben and Debora. I start with a poem, it is called Leaving and is by Rutger Kopland

Leaving
Leaving is something else
than sneaking out of the house
softly closing the door
behind your existence and not
returning. You stay
someone who is waited for.

Leaving can be described as
a kind of staying. Nobody
waits because you are still there.
Nobody says goodbye
because you are not leaving.

In a strange way, this poem expresses how we as a family have experienced the illness and death of our mother and wife Debora. Her illness started insidiously. On tiptoe, small pieces of memory disappeared, small pieces of interest in the world, in the people around her. And eventually there came that difficult moment when she could no longer live at home and we brought her to Het Zonneheem.

You visited her so faithfully there dad. And every time you came there it seemed as if she had been waiting for you. "Are you finally there, Ben?" And you who then said: "I am always there." Your joke. Fine and painful. And eventually that recognition also slipped out the door, first from us her daughters and eventually also from her Ben. We remember her so differently. Active, present, full of attention. Anything but quiet. If you came to a family gathering, whether it was that of the Wachters or the Van Dammen, you immediately heard if mom and dad were already there when you came in. You recognized her laugh out of thousands, above everything.

The roles in the family were clearly divided. Ben worked, made long days and made a career. Debora took care of the house and for us as children. Only when I was in high school did I discover how smart she actually was. Up to and including the 6th she could help me with all subjects, whether it was French or Mathematics. I once asked her if she hadn't wanted to continue studying earlier. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said: oh, child, in hindsight it is quiet living, and I am very happy though.

And she was. If anyone had a talent for being happy, it was Debora. Exuberantly happy. We couldn't find a photo for this morning on which she wasn't seen smiling broadly.

Dear mom, you remain someone who is waited for. We say goodbye to you this morning. And yet you stay.

Farewell.