I spent the better part of the morning watching the funeral for Prince Philip, who was a much beloved husband, father, and great grandfather.
There are folks who think Philip was a bit of a jerk, but any man who keeps having his wedding shoes resoled for over 70 years because they meant so much to him is obviously very, very much in love with his wife. He’s been accused of being unfaithful, but as he said, “I’m accompanied everywhere but in the loo by a police officer. How the hell am I going to get away with that?”
This was a private, family funeral, as much as it can be, considering the people involved. My heart bleeds especially for the Queen, as well as for the rest of the family, unable to weep in private, but forced to mourn publicly. I’m sure, when the family gets “back home” in the privacy of Windsor, there will be hugs and tears, but I don’t understand how people manage to keep a stiff upper lip at times such as these. Jackie Kennedy comes to mind.
The Anglican service is always pitch-perfect; I have memories of other funerals we’ve attended that still make me wonder. I nearly lost it when they played Eternal Father and Flowers of the Forest. You’d really think that after all these years I’d be able to “get a grip”, as the saying goes.
I HEARD a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours. BCP
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