Funeral Speech Examples for Every Part of the Service

Good afternoon. My name is Curtis Benning. Harold was my uncle, and on behalf of his daughters, Joan and Becky, and the whole Benning family, thank you for coming.

We're here to remember Harold and to be together, which is something he'd approve of. He was never happier than when every chair in a room was full and somebody was arguing about baseball.

In a few minutes, Pastor Ruiz will lead us in prayer. Harold's granddaughter Mia will read a passage he kept folded in his wallet for thirty years. Then his oldest friend, Lloyd Carter, and his daughter Joan will each share some memories.

If you need a moment at any point, the doors are open and nobody will mind. Harold never cared much for rules about sitting still.

Let's begin.

I'm Mia, Harold's granddaughter. After Grandpa died, we found a piece of paper in his wallet, behind his driver's license. It was Psalm 121, copied out in his handwriting, and the fold lines were so worn the paper was almost in four pieces. Nobody in the family knew it was there. So we wanted you to hear the words he carried around with him every day.

I'm Dennis Purcell, chief of the Millbrook Volunteer Fire Department. Carol's family asked if one of us would say something, and every single member of the department volunteered. I won the coin toss.

Carol was never a firefighter. She was our auxiliary, which is a fancy word for the person who keeps everybody else alive. For twenty-two years, whenever the pager went off after dark, Carol was at the station within fifteen minutes with two coolers. One had sandwiches. The other had Gatorade and a stack of clean dish towels, because she said wet men are miserable men.

She kept a spiral notebook in her truck with every member's coffee order and allergies written in it. When Tommy Reyes joined at nineteen, she found out he was diabetic before his own captain did, and from then on there was always a bag of orange slices with his name on it.

The night of the grain elevator fire in 2014, we were out there until almost five in the morning. Carol stayed the whole time, in a lawn chair at the edge of the road, wrapped in a blanket, refilling cups. When the last truck pulled out, she folded the chair, looked at us, and said, "Everybody home? Good." Then she drove home and went to work at the bank at eight.

On Tuesday we added her name to the plaque by the bay doors. It's the first one on there that isn't a firefighter. Nobody argued.

Carol, everybody's home. Thank you for waiting up.

Before we go, our family wants to say thank you.

To the nurses on the third floor at St. Vincent's, especially Dana and Marcus, who learned that Dad wanted the radio on during every game and never once turned it off. To the neighbors on Elm Court who mowed his lawn for two summers and never let him pay. To the church kitchen for the food sitting downstairs right now. And to all of you, for the cards, the casseroles, and the stories you've been telling us all week. We needed every one.

You're all invited to the fellowship hall for lunch. Dad would want you to stay, eat too much, and argue about baseball. After that, family will go on to Riverside Cemetery, and anyone who'd like to join us is welcome.

Thank you for loving him.

Harold picked this spot himself, about ten years ago. He said he wanted to be close enough to the road to hear the traffic, so he'd know the town was still running.

It's a good spot. You can see the water tower from here, and the ballfield lights.

Harold, the town's still running. We'll keep it going. Rest easy.

Good morning. I'm Daniel, Patsy's middle kid. My sisters, Teresa and Lupe, are up here with me, because we agreed none of us could do this alone, and Mom would have said that was the right call.

If you ever came to our house on a Sunday night, you know the ironing board was up in the living room. It was always up. Mom ironed everything. Our school clothes, Dad's work shirts, the church tablecloths, and yes, the pillowcases. When I asked her once why anybody would iron a pillowcase, she said, "Because you're going to put your face on it."

That ironing board was where you went to talk to her. She'd have the radio on low, a can of starch, a stack of shirts, and you'd stand on the other side and tell her whatever was going on. She didn't stop ironing. She didn't look up much. That's what made it easy. I told her about my first girlfriend over that board. Teresa told her she was dropping out of nursing school over that board. Lupe told her she was pregnant with Gabriel over that board, and Mom finished the collar she was on, set the iron down, and came around and held her for a long time.

She worked the front desk at Dr. Hamlin's dental office for twenty-eight years. People still stop me at the grocery store to say she was the reason they weren't scared of the dentist. She'd slip a sugar-free sucker into your hand on the way out like it was contraband.

I'll be honest. Mom could be hard to argue with. She had a look, one eyebrow, and if you got the eyebrow, the conversation was over. I got the eyebrow a lot as a teenager. Most of the time, I'll admit now, I deserved it.

When Dad got sick, she ironed his hospital gowns. The nurses tried to tell her it wasn't necessary. She did it anyway, at home, and brought them back in a grocery bag. She said a man ought to feel decent, even in the hospital.

Mom believed small things mattered. A pressed collar. A sucker for a nervous kid. If you took care of the small things, people would know they were loved without a speech about it. Which is lucky, because she hated speeches. She'd be mortified by this one.

The last few months, she couldn't stand at the board anymore. So she'd sit in her chair and tell me how to do it. Collar first. Then the cuffs. Don't rush the yoke. I was terrible at it. She told me so.

I ironed my shirt this morning, Mom. Collar first. It's not as good as yours. But I put on something decent, because you'd want me to. Thank you for every Sunday night. We love you.

My name is Renee Castillo. I worked next to Dale Hutchins in the dispatch office at Plains Freight for nineteen years. Our desks were four feet apart. I knew him better than some of my relatives, and I'm going to miss him more than most of them. Please don't tell my relatives.

If you've never been in a trucking dispatch office, it's loud. Phones, radios, somebody yelling about a load in Amarillo. Dale was the calm in the middle of it. He had a jar of peppermints on his desk that he refilled every Monday, and a coffee mug that said "World's Okayest Grandpa," which his grandson Tyler gave him as a joke and he used every day for eleven years.

Dale knew every driver. Not just their truck numbers. Their wives' names, their kids' ball schedules, which ones got carsick on mountain passes and which ones would drive through a blizzard before they'd admit they were tired. He'd hear something in a man's voice on the radio and say, "Pull over at the next stop, get a meal, call me after." He was usually right.

And at the end of every call, every single one, Dale said the same thing. "Copy. Come home safe." Thousands of times a year, for thirty-four years.

One January, a few years back, one of our younger drivers, Luis, slid off Interstate 40 near Santa Rosa in an ice storm. He was fine, but he was scared, stuck in the cab with the heater going and nobody coming for hours. Dale stayed on the radio with him all night. His shift ended at six in the evening. He was still at his desk at four in the morning, talking to that kid about fishing, about his own first winter driving, about anything at all, so Luis wouldn't be alone in the dark. When the tow truck finally got there, Dale said, "Copy. Come home safe," and then he put his head down on his desk and slept until I came in.

Dale would tell you he was boring. But he had a way of making you feel like somebody was keeping watch.

Outside of work, he was a friend who showed up. When my husband had his surgery, there was a casserole on my porch every Wednesday for six weeks. No note. I knew it was Dale because he always forgot to take the price sticker off the dish.

I've been at my desk this week. His jar is still full of peppermints. None of us can bring ourselves to eat them, and none of us can bring ourselves to throw them out.

Dale, you kept watch for all of us for a long time. You can rest now. We've got the radio.

Copy. Come home safe.

I'm [your name]. I knew [name] as [your relationship] for [how long].

When I picture [name], I see [one ordinary thing: a chair, a tool, a kitchen, a habit, a phrase].

Here's what I mean. [One story, told like a scene. Where were you? What happened? What did they say?]

[Name] spent [years] [work, family, or main pursuit]. But the people in this room will remember [how they treated others, with one small example].

I'll be honest: [name] could be [one loving, true imperfection]. [One sentence on why that was part of who they were.]

What [name] gave me was [a lesson, a habit, a feeling]. I still [where you see it now].

[Name], [a short goodbye or promise that returns to the image from your opening].