As a family we laid my grandmother, Cecilia Hilliard, to rest on Saturday, October 28th, 2006. Never believed I might say this about a funeral, but the ceremony was beautiful. Nearly every family member played a key part in the services. Some presented flowers, others served as pallbearers, and a few read scripture. Seeing us unite reminded me how important she really was to us, and how perfectly our coordination reflected her wishes that we all come together by choice and by love.

When my aunt asked me to deliver the previous entry as grandma’s eulogy, I was humbled. For some reason, the priest was very old school and would not sanction the reading of the piece anywhere except the tail of the service. A curious edict, especially since both my aunt and mother decided that based on the structure and flow of the services they designed the eulogy fit best earlier. But the priest was having none of it.

My relatives spared me the back room negotiations, which was a good thing, because another surprise decision bumped the piece back even later than the programs indicated. Up to the moment I crossed the altar, I was uncertain whether or not it was really a go. Or if the priest might inveigh halfway through. He did not.

As I read, I realized that my grandmother had bestowed one last unexpected gift. By writing her eulogy, Grandma’s passing gave me an opportunity to see my writing reach a group of people I care about.

It was the sort of real-time feedback that comes so very rarely for a writer, where the time ticks by in isolation, and the signposts are slim and none. A comment I’ll never forget: “You said what we were all feeling but couldn’t find the words to say.”

And I thought to myself, that’s as good as I can do.

And it’s good enough.