Last Post

This lovely autumn day was dominated - for us, and for many of our friends - by the funeral of our friend Bruce. I think he would have approved of the church which had become his home after an amazing life which, sadly, we were just beginning to learn about when he died.He had served as a young man in the BSAP, and as well as the local congregation and friends in the church today there were accents that spoke of Southern Africa, regimental ties - and one Gurkha uniform, worn by a man who told me he'd dug it out and decided that if he could still get into it he'd wear it in honour of his friend.

Himself was playing the organ - these heartbreaking Highland tunes that he has turned into organ music - as well as organising the recording of the Last Post, which sounded out over the sunlit churchyard at the end of the burial. I read the lesson, the gospel account of the Agony in the Garden; it struck me as I was preparing it that this is how we feel, often, in the face of loss. Our church looked simply lovely - a reflection, perhaps, of how the congregation has taken Bruce and Paddy to their hearts in the three years since they arrived in Dunoon. 

And Bruce's dog was there, in the pew, with the family. 

When you've had an event such as that in a morning, the rest of the day just ... happens. We are both so tired now that I need not to write more in case it becomes garbled. It is insanely late.

Rest in peace, Bruce, and rise in glory.