Chapter Three - The Blue Suit

Chapter Three – The Blue Suit

In this deeply personal chapter of Big Skies and Small Ponds, Drew Baxter reflects on the quiet emotional weight carried by those who stand at the front of a funeral service.

Through the story of a highly visible funeral for a mother and daughter, Drew explores the unseen work of a celebrant; the preparation, the listening, the responsibility of telling someone’s story with care… and the strange reality that a crowded chapel and a quiet room can carry exactly the same emotional weight.

At the centre of it all is the “scruffy blue suit”,  part uniform, part armour, part companion and worn while walking into some of life’s hardest moments.

This chapter is not about grief as spectacle, nor about the details of private loss. Instead, it is a thoughtful and humane reflection on trust, dignity, compassion… and the hidden emotional labour of helping people say goodbye.

Contains some adult language and references to sudden death and bereavement.

Drew Baxter

Transcript

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Hello and welcome. Each week I'll be sharing stories, stories that are drawn from real life, from the people I've met and from moments that I've witnessed. Sometimes these stories are remembered just as they were, and sometimes they're softened by time. But they're brought to you with kindness and care, and this week with a gentle warning that there may be some adult language. Welcome to Big Skies and Small Ponds. Chapter 3: The Blue Suit. Although I currently work as a funeral celebrant, what I won't be doing in this audio book stroke podcast is talking about specific funerals I have led in any great detail. I can tell you about the process, well, my process, and I can share some anecdotes. I might even reveal the odd strange event that happened during a service to help illuminate the point I'm talking about, but the actual services remain the property of the family I worked with. But today I will be talking about a funeral that I led, a highly visible funeral service, because of the tragedy surrounding the deaths of a mother and daughter. I am not going to talk about the service itself, not directly, and not about those whose lives had been lost. But I wanted to explain how my scruffy blue suit helps me carry the weight of such occasions, and hopefully how it will continue to do so for families in the future. When people see me at a funeral, they may well assume there's some great difference between all the services that I lead. A huge gathering with hundreds of people must be very different to a quiet service where just a handful of chairs are filled, and of course they do look very different. But the strange thing is they don't always feel that different when you're preparing for them. Well, not to me. How you feel afterwards, well that's another story. The stories I tell are always different, of course, because in life people write their own unique stories, and I get to share them, or edited highlights, with whomever sits before me on that day. When people attend a funeral service, they're witnessing the finished article. Not many get to see the preparatory work that leads to that moment, but a lot happens before the service is delivered. Firstly, there'll be a phone call from the funeral director asking if you can help with the service. And if you are free, then there's a phone call to the family to introduce myself and to make an appointment to visit with them. Then the actual visit itself, and what I still think of as part of my job that requires the most skill and compassion. Entering the home of a stranger and getting them to feel safe and comfortable enough to open up a little and invite you into their world of loss and grief. And then you sit and you listen. And I mean really listen. You leave with your notes and a sense of a life that you never shared, a life you are now being trusted to recall and celebrate. You may have an understanding as you sit to write the service of how many will be in the congregation, but let me assure you, every funeral requires and receives the same degree of preparation and care. Every step of my process is aimed at one clear target. I have to do this person and this family justice. I have several well-established practices to support what I do, simple things like writing the name of the deceased at the top of every page. That way I'm never going to forget somebody's name. I have a process that I have honed over two decades, and it works for me, and hopefully always works for the families I support. So, with the story written and feeling the weight of what I'm about to do, donning the blue suit is like the last link in a chain of preparedness. Suit on, let's do this, whether it's for one person or for hundreds. The road to that lectern from which I'll speak about a human life is the same. But the emotional drain? Well, let's think about that in a moment as I reflect on that service I mentioned earlier, a service for a mother and a daughter. Of course, on that day of all days it had to rain. Why not add to the feeling of misery and darkness that had engulfed this family, this community, and even total strangers? Why not try and dampen their spirits further with a constant fall of rain? Some might say that even the angels in heaven were weeping. They were not alone. Before the day was out I suspected there would be no shortage of tears, and I was correct. There was to be a lot of laughter and happiness too, but still the rain fell before, during and after the service. My day had started with an early visit to the doctor's surgery to have a blood test. I'm okay with needles, but as I settled into the phlebotomist's chair, it wasn't the needle that gave me the shock. It was the very sour faced phlebotomist. I tried to make a joke, but she wasn't having it. So I sat in silence as she eventually hit a vein. I made another effort to cheer her up as I left, but it was clear that she was not impressed. Oh well, you tried your best. Sometimes there just are no words to change a situation. I headed home and ate my breakfast, thinking of the day ahead. I made a coffee and sat with my dog Holly at my side. I found her closeness and the warmth of her little body against my leg calming. My notes had been printed earlier in the day, and I was satisfied that they contained the best words I could muster. Mrs. B. had told me off for reading them too many times. She told me you should trust your instincts. A lump came to my throat as I recalled the words of a man I would be meeting later in that day. I trust you, Drew. I pushed the emotions and thoughts away and went to put on my suit, my scruffy blue suit, my suit of armour. Because when I'm dressed for work I feel more able and prepared. I picked a bright pink necktie from the wardrobe and made sure it was neatly knotted. I stood looking at myself in the mirror. You're looking old, Andrew. Old and tired. It's hard to hide age and tiredness, but getting old and tired is a privilege. On that day I understood that very well. It was time to go. Time to do what I can do in my scruffy blue suit. I arrived at the crematorium and I walked past the gathering crowds. They stand there patiently, quietly, making uniquely human shaped voids in the rain, splashes of pink and leopard print disrupting the glowering and persistent rainy weather. Having gained the safe and dry haven of the chapel, I stand looking out of the window as the crowd continues to grow, still an hour before the service. There are hundreds of people, eventually more than three hundred. I notice the uniforms of the gathering representatives from the Coast Guard and the RNLI there to form an honour guard, and I rehearse in my head how I will thank them for giving a family the chance to do what we're about to do. Around me the crematorium staff are busy making the necessary preparations, technical issues being resolved. They are at once extremely professional and extremely caring, and their manner with me is reassuring. I feel that I'm in a very safe place. I make a mental note to thank them, which I'm sure I did. Am I ready? I feel ready. Well, as ready as you ever can. Will I be okay? Yes, I will. I will do all in my power not to betray the trust placed in me. Out of the gloom along the driveway, I see the approaching funeral cortege. Deep breath. And so we begin. After the service is complete, after the exchange of hugs and kind words and farewells, I wave the cards off, and then I make sure that I shake hands with every lifeboatman and coast guard representative. They are remarkable. They are brave. They make me feel proud to live in a country that provides such a service. Anyone who doesn't value them is a fool. The media are present, of course. They want a brief chat. I have no idea what I'm going to say. It had been suggested by the family that I call them pricks. So fed up are they by their prying and lying, but I resist. Something came out something broadcastable. I head home and I hang up the scruffy blue suit. Time for a rest. Time to think. One week later and I'm back again. A simple service with very few in attendance. Same battlefield, different battle. The scruffy blue suit is doing good work. My armour, my friend. Big skies and small ponds with Drew Baxter. People sometimes think a big funeral must be harder. The emotional impact upon me isn't dependent on the number of people attending. It's the story, the life, the pain of loss. And it's hard to know in advance how you'll feel. I'm only human. You also have to remember that the size of the congregation doesn't change the scale of loss felt by those left behind. Even on days when it's standing room only, and there are even people outside the chapel who can't get in, it matters not to me, because my focus remains on that front row of seats. Maybe even just one chair. The service is for them. Yes, every service deserves the same effort, the same care, the same dignity, big or small, crowded or quiet, every goodbye matters. And that's the weight I feel, and that's the weight my scruffy blue suit helps me carry. If you've enjoyed what you've heard, then I would gently like to invite you to subscribe to this podcast. And if you feel able to like and share this week's chapter here on Big Skies and Small Ponds. You'll be very welcome the next time we meet. Until then, enjoy writing and living your own story.