Ministry in a familiar place

This morning, we rose later than usual. I had preparations for today's funeral to complete, and some photocopies of the order of service to get done. Conveniently, there's a well equipped print shop just a few doors down from the apartment block. It's often busy, but on this occasion, I walked in and had the job done within a couple of minutes, quicker and cheaper than I could have done it in the chaplain's office if there'd been a copier or a printer to use for this purpose. That was a relief as it spared me time queuing, or delivering and collecting later.

Then I went with Clare to the beach for her daily swim, and on the return trip we did some food shopping at Mercadona, prior to lunch and an siesta, before driving to Fuengirola for the funeral. I dropped Clare off in Los Boliches, so that she could visit the small 'El Corte Ingles', to look for a few items of summer clothing she'd not been able to find in the giant store in Malaga city centre.

There were about eighty people present for the service. As ever there were problems with the chapel sound system only being able to play standard CDs, and burned CDs being the the wrong format, but one of the mourners brought an all-format player from home which worked, although it was not something I could control and conduct the service smoothly, so a member of the family helped out with this.

These days it's quite normal to have a photo of the deceased on the coffin. On this occasion, the one produced was somewhat unusual, a large A3 print of a picture taken when the man had landed a small part in a movie being made while he was working as a football coach in Alexandria, Egypt.  It was a part of the story of his life which I hadn't heard about until the photo was produced before the service, and the problem was how to display it without a frame. It ended up being Blu-tacked to the catafalque. The family would have known the story. I hope they told people about it afterwards at the wake.

As I had to collect Clare from Los Boliches, I declined the invitation to go back to Puebla Blanca to join them for a drink. Two branches of family, one from Bristol, the other from Tyneside were being united by this bereavement, some meeting again for the first time in decades. Having given them of my best, it was better to let them continue without me. On my way out several people stopped me to express their appreciation for the service. There was nothing more to be said.

Clare's shopping mission was fruitful, and she was pleased with her several purchases. I missed the entrance to the A7 autovia, leaving Los Boliches, so we followed the N340 all the way along the coast back to Malaga. The traffic wasn't too heavy, and it was relaxing to cruise through familiar places, passed through during the eight months of 2013-14 spent on locum duty for the Costa del Sol East Chaplaincy and remember good times past.

  

Fuengirola Funeral

It was cool, clear and bright when I set out on the road to Fuengirola at nine thirty this morning, and that made for an enjoyable journey. I felt that I should arrive with plenty of time to spare, preferably ahead of the bereaved family. I was sitting outside the crematorium café drinking an Americano when they arrived, in the same place where I sat to meet and greet them on Thursday last. There were just five of them at such short notice flying out from Britain for the funeral. I had plenty of time to brief them before their Costa friends started arriving.

About twenty minutes before time, with the chapel prepared, the funeral attendants came to complete the necessary formalities. Here, the chief mourner has to sign official documents to authorise cremation, unlike in Britain, where this is done by the funeral director on behalf of the family. I was able to help as an intermediary by explaining what was being asked and found I had confidence in speaking Spanish in this context which I didn't have when I last did a funeral here two years ago. The church attendant remarked on my effort. I think he may have been glad not to have to struggle with his limited English.

Forty mourners were present, mostly older generation expats, many of them British Legion members. I led the coffin into chapel from a rear corridor to an enclosure before the altar, where floral tributes were laid. The family didn't want to sing hymns, so they selected four songs from 'the soundtrack of life together' to suit what they needed to say about the deceased. Her son and her eldest granddaughter gave moving tributes and I bound their contribution together with scripture readings and prayers. After the committal the congregation took their leave, and once the chapel was empty, the attendants came in and moved the coffin to an enclosed lift platform on the opposite side of the chapel. The same basic C of E funeral ritual but adapted to this context. Familar texts in an unfamiliar place.

I wondered if I might see anyone I knew in the congregation, as many were from La Cala or Calahonda, but I didn't. So as they began to disperse to go to the reception, I took my leave of the family, having given them of my best as a passing stranger in sad circumstances. Such is the nature of some aspects of Christian ministry today, where there's no chance of follow through, or bond pastorally with people, given that transience in relationships is a feature of life in a such mobile society.

I phoned Bill Oliver, former church warden and congregation member in the St Andrew's chaplaincy, then went to meet him at the Oasis Beach Club, El Faro, for a drink and catch-up chat. It's two years since we last met. He then invited me to his house nearby, where he cooked lunch, while we continued to catch each other up on our lives. His kids are now away at University in the USA. No more school runs for him! It was good to spend time with him again, and it was gone five by the time I got back to Rincon.

Being ready and prepared for the service at Velez Malaga tomorrow, I thought about watching Spanish TV for the exercise, then I found that RNE Clasico was relaying the BBC Last Night of the Proms radio broadcast. It's a comfortably warm evening, with a cool breeze, and I can enjoy the Spanish voice in between performances. What a treat!

      

Unexpected bereavement

Yesterday, I had a call about officiating at the funeral today of a woman in her early sixties who'd died unexpectedly on Sunday evening, after emergency surgery, from which she didn't recover. She and her husband came over for several months annually, as they had done for a dozen years. I arranged to meet her husband and three daughters at a beach restaurant in La Cala de Mijas. They were all stunned by the suddenness of her end. She'd lived with physical disabilities for many years, but was such a confident and strong character that she'd not only raised a family, but travelled all over the world, disregarding the difficulties that she might encounter.

We all met again at the Fuengirola Cemetery Chapel this afternoon, for a service attended by friends and neighbours from their urbanzacion as well as family. There were three dozen of us, a remarkable turn-out at such short notice. One daughter read a moving tribute and a grand daughter, recently trained as a sound engineer took charge of producing music from an iPhone attached to a small portable sound system dock. Her husband spoke movingly too. Afterwards mourners assembled for refreshments at a bar in La Cala, much loved by the couple and their kids. I joined them, and chatted for a while before slipping back out of their lives to let them come to terms with the far too fast movement of events over the past four days. 

I was aware the funeral director was a young woman, poised, confident, warm and considerate, acting in a quietly supportive way to the bereaved husband as he made an effort to lead his family with dignity while attending to his own need to spend a last moment alone with his dead wife. As the time cycle for funerals is still much shorter here in Spain than it is in Britain, the experience of helplessness in the face of fast moving events can be a cause of distress. The pastoral sensitivity of those providing the funeral service is as vital as that of the officiating priest. All involved have a stake in moving a family through parting to a quieter space in which they are free to grieve, and re-make their lives.

In this setting, very much like back home, I'm amazed at the willingness of people to trust me as a total stranger to come into their lives at short notice and work with them to create a rite of passage that will be the vehicle for them saying farewell to a loved family member. I do my best and people mostly make an effort to express their appreciation at the end. In return I try to make the effort to say thank you to them for welcoming me into the family circle. It's the least I can do for the privilege.