Free Shaping the Ripples by Paul Wallington

further along the pew until finally I was pressed against the side wall, next to a rather large woman in a damp fur coat. Through the speakers attached to the back wall, a taped version of “The Lord’s my Shepherd” began to play, and everybody stood up.
    Leading the procession was a small, fat man in clerical robes. He was bald, and well past retirement age. As he intoned the words to start the service, the light reflected off his bald head.
    “Death, where is thy sting? Grave, where is thy glory?”
    As summoned by his question, the rest of the procession came into view. First, Jennifer’s coffin, on the shoulders of four dark suited men, and then her family. Immediately behind the coffin was a distinguished looking grey haired man, being supported on either side by two women, both of whom bore a striking resemblance to Jennifer. Even if I hadn’t recognised them from the photograph in Jennifer’s consulting room, I couldn’t have had any doubt that these were her daughters and husband. The “sting of death” showed very plainly on their pale, drawn faces.
    Behind them came two men escorting small children, and then the rest of the family and close friends. They all filtered into the pews at the front and the service began. The old priest said a few words about how we were there to celebrate Jennifer’s life and to see if any hope could be found in what was such a horrific and senseless end to her life.
    I have no family left alive, so I’ve sat through quite a few funeral services in my time. When you’re a close relative, it really just washes over you while you’re lost in your own thoughts. All you get is a vague sense (hopefully) of a few comforting words and something nice being said about the person you are grieving for. Being slightly more detached in this case, I was able to pay more attention and take more in.
    There were lots of prayers, all trying to speak of a hope that this sorry gathering did not really signify the end of the existence of Jennifer Carter, but a transition to eternal life. Some of the words were inspiring, others banal. We mumbled our way through a couple of hymns – inevitably “The Day Thou Gavest Lord has ended” and “Abide with me”. The only time I could ever remember the last being sung with gusto was at the start of a Cup Final; when I doubt many of those singing so vigorously had a clue what the song was about. And then we had the address.
    The old priest started by saying that he had never met Jennifer, but was relying on the memories and reflections of those who were closest to her. It was hardly the most encouraging start, but he went on to speak of the legacy she left behind. He touched on the people she had helped through her work, on the love she had shown, and the great legacy of her daughters. Then he fell silent for a moment,
    “So we have to face the question – why? Why is someone who gave so much to others, who had so much life ahead of her, killed in such an awful way? If there is a God why does He allow such things to happen?”
    He fixed his attention on Jennifer’s family, and his voice softened.
    “I can’t give you an answer to that question. Maybe when the person who committed this awful crime is brought to justice you will get some answers about what drove them to do it – but that still won’t be enough. There isn’t an answer to why things like this happen. The only thing I can say with certainty is that when people see tragedy as proof that there is no God, they’ve got it the wrong way round. It’s because there is a God that there is always hope – even on a dreadful day like today.”
    The rest of the service seemed to pass fairly quickly, and a reprise of the taped version of the 23rd Psalm signalled that it was time to stand and head out to the graveside.
    The vicar lead the coffin and Jennifer’s family out first, and all the rest of us joined on the back. As we began to pick our way between gravestones and down the hill,