A funeral full of pain — and joy

MY FRIEND’S funeral was on the hottest day of the year and the rare heat suited the passion with which he lived his life.

I looked around the pleasant chapel at Mortlake Crematorium as his five adult children helped to carry the wicker coffin on their shoulders, and reflected on all that has happened in the 41 years since I met M.

How I wished he could have walked in, to berate us for being sad.

Four of those children spoke movingly; his widow struggled to get to the end of her heartfelt tribute without crying and failed; friends spoke simple, true words in praise; we sang along to Lou Reed’s Walk On The Wild Side and listened to Elvis, The Kinks, Hot Chocolate and The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams.

It was a good send-off and he would have loved it.

Yet death is not my subject. It is the dazzling, terrifying complexity of the human spirit. As I looked around at the people present, I shivered to think of the pain that is sometimes the price paid for great love.

I saw people there who’d had passionate affairs, yet survived. Others who had not. Others who simply stopped making each other happy. Others who found new happiness.

Knowing my first husband had been invited, I understood why he had to be with his new family. Then I thought of children estranged from erring parents — and I was moved to tears because that gathering itself proved reconciliation possible.

I marvelled how individuals who have endured physical and mental problems could be tapping their feet to Blue Suede Shoes. The room was full of sadness, yes, but glorious love and resilience, too.

All that explains why I find it hard to be judgmental. I always wear a silver tag on my bracelet carrying the words at the top of today’s column (read my blog at belmooney.co.uk).

When it comes to the heart, you never quite know the truth. Not even after death.

Bel answers readers’ questions on emotional and relationship problems each week. Write to Bel Mooney, Scottish Daily Mail, 20 Waterloo Street, Glasgow G2 6DB, or e-mail bel.mooney@dailymail.co.uk. A pseudonym will be used if you wish. Bel reads all letters but regrets she cannot enter into personal correspondence.