The Velveteen Rabbit Funeral Reading
Kum Dana
The article focuses on the designing of funeral order of service booklets, and what you need to put in them. During the funeral service it is normal for a few people, usually family or friends, to speak. For some, this is to share memories of the deceased. However, not everyone is comfortable using their own words, and feel that others have said it better than they ever could. So, there will be one or two readings which sum up the emotions of everyone in the room. Choosing the reading is your next task, so to make these easier here are some of the best to get you started:
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember
And haply may forget.
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.
Roads go ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
Let others follow it who can!
Let them a journey new begin,
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.
The rabbit was gray with satin ears, a smooth pink nose, a white face and white hands and feet. Its long limbs made it perfect for sitting upright or pulling close, carrying by one arm or dressing in doll clothes. Though I felt I was too old for stuffed animals, I started sleeping with the rabbit every night. Eventually, her soft fur wore down and became patchy, her body flattened, and her white face grew yellow.
As the days dragged on, his speech became distant and confused. His breath rattled. He called out in his sleep for relatives long dead. Our family worked in rounds, keeping him dosed with pain medication, and to keep his mouth from drying out, swabbing with a pink sponge on the end of a plastic wand. He developed thrush in his throat: a white paste that spread across his palate and tongue. He fell into a delirious sleep from which he never awoke.
To keep him from developing sores, it became necessary to reach across his small body and move him. We cradled him toward us in the sheet while one of us stuffed a pillow underneath him. To keep him from aspirating his morphine, we tucked pillows around his head and placed the dropper inside his cheek, rubbing the outside gently to work the medicine into his bloodstream. We combed his hair because he would want us to keep him looking presentable, even in his state. We rubbed lotion into his hands. We took turns reading him books by Alexander McCall Smith, his favorite author.
He did. Blue eyes, pouty lips, sensitive jaw, thoughtful expression. He was a man who took care with his appearance: fine clothing, trimmed hair, clean shave, shirts always pressed, hat always matching his coat. His good taste extended into choices of restaurants and Scotch, friends and films.
Now my rabbit lives in a box along with our winter coats. Each year when the weather turns cold, she comes tumbling out in a ball of familiar scent. I hug her close: my neck still knows the way her arms wrap around it; my right cheek knows the feeling of hers, soft against my own. I look into her neutral expression, which has turned downward over the years, and I think of all those nights drifting off in my childhood bed. Then I put her back in the box, out of sight, not forgotten.
Looking for ideas for a non-religious ceremony reading? What about something from a beloved children's classic? The Velveteen Rabbit is a popular choice for wedding readings, and with good reason. This book by Margery Williams is all about a toy rabbit who wants to become real through the love of its owner. You're crying already, right?
Sometimes its difficult to find words to say goodbye or capture the personality of the person who has died, or their interests. Using a carefully chosen poem, reading or verse is a good way to bring meaning during a funeral ceremony, memorial or celebration of life. It can also help you express how you are feeling.
As a female led funeral directors, we know planning a funeral is not easy, so if you are looking for the perfect verse or poem to read at a funeral, memorial or celebration of life event, hopefully our large collection of funeral resources below will help you. Drop us an email if you wish to share your favourite and we will add it to our list, so others can be inspired!
Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used
Put no difference in your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was,
Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It it the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well.
When loved ones have to part
To help us feel were with them still
And soothe a grieving heart
They span the years and warm our lives
Preserving ties that bind
Our memories build a special bridge
And bring us peace of mind
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
"Gone where?"
Gone from my sight. That is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull
and spar as she was when she left my side
and she is just as able to bear her
load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
For you can feel the engine, as the revs rise at your command,
Feeling the lusty thrust of power, that answers your demand,
How the clutch feels underfoot, as each gear is selected,
The steering too, how it responds, to where it is directed,
Not just a freeway drive, but each outing on a mission,
And not a veering trundle, but a task of deep precision,
Not the tedium of traffic, relief at the arriving,
The thrill is in the journey, and the passion in the driving
I want to be buried with my mobile phone
To ring in the changes at my new home
With central heating and a marble en-suite
And thermal socks for my poor cold feet
I'll be able to give in to a takeaway
And watch favourite movies on a rainy day
And if I'm feeling a bit under the weather
I'll talk to you until I begin to feel better
I've party hats, fairy cakes & songs to sing
In case somebody should drop in
Which is more likely than you'd think
As my coffin roof is on the blink
I'll be leaving you now as I've a waiting call
From my friend over by the cemetery wall
I watched the service yesterday through my periscope Burying him with his mobile
For a joke, But he'll have the last laugh
When his bill drops through their door
Fourteen hundred and forty minutes a day, for eternity and evermore
Window cleaning is my trade and I want to tell my story Like the time I saw the Vicars wife in the bath in all her glory Or when I saw the Vicar tied up, I thought there'd been as laying I called the police but it turned out, t'was a game that they were playing. And Mrs Smith from two doors down, well she is kind of hot Always leaves big gaps in her drapes just to show me what she's got Next door to her a stripper lives, well she just doesn't care She walks around as I try to clean and yes she's totally bare. Then across from her a nymphomaniac lives, she's always wanting more Whenever I call to clean her glass there's men queueing at the door I always cringe when I knock her door to ask her for my money She always offers payment in flesh; winks and calls me honey. Next door to her is'Dirty Pete' watches movies all day long Not Hollywood films you understand buttitles like King Dong Well I'm no prude each to his own but quadrophonic sound!The first time that he blasted it, I fell off my ladder to the ground. Roundthe corner is Jim and Sue, she always calls me handsome I heard it from the mannext door they want me for a threesome Well maybe to some weirdy folk, it istheir fantasy Not my thing I assure you 'cos she is eighty three. The sororityhouse I'd leave till last ' cos I found it hard to cope They always leave thewindows ajar to let out the fumes of dope Then the world around me, would turncolourful and bright My eyes would see some very strange things and I'd flyhigh as a kite. See that's what I have to endure, to make an honest living Inever tell my wife you know, she'd be so unforgiving When I get home she alwaysasks, "Darling how was your day?" I tell her each time same old sameold, but it helps me pay my way.
Nor is it the game of chance, that punting always brings, From TAB and bookies, and bar-room betting rings, The heady smell of fine manure, turf so lush and green,Fine dressed folk and superb horseflesh, making up the scene.
Maybe the glorious legends, from Phar Lap to the Diva, That leaves me so infected, with the flush of racing fever, The buzz as they are mustered, from the starting gate they lurch, With the Form Guide as my bible, the racetrack as my church.
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