As a group of people united in their grief, they needed to find some creative way of marking his death and also, most importantly, celebrating his life. Gathering together to say to themselves and each other ‘he was here, he was our friend…and we miss him’.

I'd just got in from a funeral when the call came in from one of my chaplaincy colleagues at the hospice. "We've had a bit of an unusual request, and I thought you'd be able to help"…

The next few weeks went by in a blur, and I experienced a range of feelings and emotions from hysterical crying to complete numbness. I went from feeling everything to feeling nothing. I was angry, sad, frustrated. If I did laugh at anything I felt guilty. I felt guilty for carrying on when my dad wasn’t here to enjoy or experience things. For me, a part of me died with my dad and, although I have good days (they are now beginning to outweigh the bad days), I don’t think I will ever be the same person that I was before.

‘My dad died when I was two’.  I must have said this sentence hundreds of times in my life, since I was old enough to articulate what had happened. And yet, for many years, it was a simple factual statement. There was no emotion behind it, no thought of what this had meant for my life and, to be honest, I was usually quite surprised when people looked at me sadly and made noises of commiseration.

Fay wrote this piece about the violent death of her friend, James, many years earlier. Writing the poem over the course of several months helped her process those long-buried feelings, allowing her to express her grief in a way that she wasn’t able to at the time. She now lives in the Spanish mountains where she runs wellness retreats, and is planning to plant a tree in James’s memory.

Here Lisa shares her experience of losing her second baby, and the grief that she felt. This piece was originally posted on Lisa’s blog, Blog From A Broad, in September 2006 under the title ‘Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight’. Lisa now lives near Huntingdon with her husband Paul, their three children, and a four-legged roast potato fiend called Ted. A huge thank you to Lisa for sharing such a deeply personal story.

After Amanda’s dad’s death when she was only seventeen, the loss was packed away and rarely talked about. When her mum died over 40 years later, it was a very different experience, grieving under the shadow of COVID. Here Amanda explores the differences between her two experiences of losing a parent.

Kicking off this year’s series of Grief Stories is a piece from Lucy, whose dad Trevor died in 2022 after a long journey with myelofibrosis. Here she talks about the feelings of disorientation that come with grief and loss, and how it has helped to be able to share some of that experience with friends. She also talks about the frustrations that Trevor felt as a result of his long-term condition, what it was like to support him at the end of his life… and what the future holds.

We can’t always take it at face value because someone looks OK or says ‘I’m fine’ that they are. Often they’re saying that because they think that’s what people want to hear. You just have to be aware and talk about it. That’s why talking is so important.

These ceremonies are very different, and call for particular care, attention, thought and love. The writing process, the family meeting, how we lead the ceremony on the day - all of these things are different when it comes to a funeral for a baby or a young child.

Each chapter tells the story of a different case in the working life of a council officer who oversees Section 46 funerals, where the local authority has taken on responsibility for organising the funeral - for a whole range of reasons. Beautifully written in such a down to earth way, ‘Ashes to Admin’ truly shines a light on death, dying and the complex human dynamics involved in saying goodbye.

When people talk about humanism as a lack of faith, really, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s all about faith - just not a religious one. Humanism, for me at least, is about faith in people. So, while 2022 has been a tough year, it’s given me a lot to be hopeful about too.

One of the best things (and there are plenty of those) about being a celebrant, is that no two weeks - no two days - are ever the same. I’ve never had a job that has been so varied, or one that has given me so many opportunities to meet new people and learn new things.

Last weekend saw humanist celebrants from all across the country gathering in Birmingham for our first in-person conference in three years. Like many, I came away from the weekend feeling re-energised, inspired by conversations with brilliant colleagues - and filled with joy.

The beauty of putting together a naming ceremony is that you make your own rules for the day. A naming ceremony can be whatever you want and include any personal touches that will reflect and celebrate your family - whatever family looks like for you.

As a celebrant, I am often asked about whether I think it is appropriate for children to be at a funeral, or to take part in the service - and my answer always starts the same way. This is an entirely personal decision.

Some years Father’s Day passes without a pang, other years it feels unbearably hard. Whether it’s your first year without your dad or whether it’s been many years, I am thinking of you and I hope the day isn’t too difficult for you.

Each funeral I have led has been different and remarkable in its own way, and I have learned something from each one. So, as I reach what felt like a really important milestone, I thought I would write down 5 of the most important or surprising things I’ve learned as a celebrant.

As celebrants that’s really what we do - tell people’s stories. But you can’t tell the stories without the people! Humanism is all about people. Connecting with people. Learning from people. Having faith in people.

I felt enormous guilt for having to leave her to get back to my husband and children every day, and yet I needed the space, away from that extreme emotional pain.

Watching her lessen from the charismatic figure she had been, and that I had spent so much time with in the last few years was agony. Knowing the end was coming was unbearable.