Eulogy examples: 12 full eulogies for Mom, Dad, friends and more

Good morning. I’m Katie, Linda’s oldest daughter. Thank you for coming. My mother would be mortified that so many people got dressed up for her, and she would also have made sure everyone had coffee.

If you called my mother on the phone, you know how the conversation started. Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?” It was, “Did you eat?” She asked it when I was seven. She asked it when I was forty-seven. She asked it from a hospital bed three weeks ago, to the nurse.

For a long time I thought it was a nagging question. This week I finally heard what she was really asking. “Did you eat” meant: are you taking care of yourself? Is someone looking after you? Do you have enough? Is there a place for you? It was her whole heart, in four words.

My mother grew up with very little, and she never forgot it. So there was always a pot of something on the stove at our house. Sunday dinner was not optional, and neither was setting an extra place, because somebody always turned up. A neighbor who’d had a bad week. A boyfriend of mine she hadn’t met. A man from church who had nowhere to go at Thanksgiving. Mom would say, “There’s plenty,” and somehow there was.

She drove a blue Buick for twenty-two years and kept a coffee can of quarters in the glove box for the parking meters. She sang along to the radio and got every single word wrong. She cried at commercials and never at funerals, until she lost Dad, and then she let us see that she was human too, and I loved her for that even more.

She taught me to write thank-you notes within the week. She taught me that you bring something when you visit, even if it’s only a loaf of bread. She taught me that a clean kitchen is nice, but a full table is better. And she taught me, mostly by watching her, that love is a verb, and usually a practical one.

To my brother Mark and my sister Beth, to Dad’s sister Aunt Jean, and to her grandchildren, Sam, Lucy and Owen, who she called her three best reasons for living to ninety: she loved you more than she could ever say, so she said it with casseroles.

Mom, I’m going to try to keep your table full. I’ll leave a place for whoever turns up. And today, since you can’t ask me, I’ll answer: Yes. I ate. I’m all right. Thank you for making sure.

I love you, Mom.

Thank you all for being here. I’m David, Frank’s son. My father was not a man of many words, so I’ll try to say a few good ones for him.

Dad never said “I love you” out loud very often. He said it with a toolbox. If your car wouldn’t start, he showed up. If your gutter was hanging off, he showed up. If you called at ten o’clock at night and said, “I think the water heater’s leaking,” you’d hear him find his keys before you’d finished the sentence.

When I was sixteen I backed his truck into a mailbox. I walked into the garage with my heart in my throat. He looked at the truck, looked at me, and said, “Well. Hand me that wrench.” We fixed the dent together, and in two hours he never raised his voice. At the end he said, “Mailboxes are cheap. You’re not.” That’s the closest he ever came to a speech, and I have never forgotten it.

Dad worked at the same plant for thirty-four years. He was never late. He packed his own lunch, the same sandwich, and he whistled in the garage, always the same three songs, none of them quite in tune. If you heard whistling coming from behind a closed door, you knew where he was, and you knew he was happy.

He loved the Detroit Tigers, even when it hurt. He loved his dog, Pepper, though he pretended Pepper was my mother’s. He loved a thick slice of pie and a quiet porch. And he loved my mother, Ellen, for fifty-one years. Mom, he held your hand in the car until the very end. I noticed. We all did.

What did he teach me? That you show up. That you do the job in front of you and do it right. That when you make a mistake, you hand someone a wrench and you fix it. That a man can be gentle and strong in the same afternoon.

I’ll miss his whistling. I’ll miss his hands. I’ll miss calling and hearing, “Yeah? What do you need?” and knowing that whatever it was, he was already looking for his keys.

Dad, I need you to know that I’m going to be all right, because you taught me how. Thank you for showing up for me. I’ll show up for the ones you loved.

My name is Emma, and I am the first of Rose’s eleven grandchildren. I’m told I’m also the one who talked the most, and she let me.

My grandmother’s purse was a magic trick. Whatever you needed was in there. A tissue. A Band-Aid. A safety pin. A tiny pair of scissors. And in the side pocket, always, butterscotch candies in crinkly gold wrappers. In church, when I was little and the sermon went long, a hand would slide over and quietly pass me one. That was how I learned that someone could love you and also help you survive a long sermon.

She made quilts. Every grandchild got one when they turned thirteen. Mine is blue and green, and I’ve slept under it through two moves, a hard breakup and a long winter. I always wondered how she had time. She did it at night, after everything else was finished, a little lamp beside her chair. She told me once, “Every stitch is a prayer for you.” I didn’t understand how many prayers that was until I counted the stitches.

She sang in church. Alto, a little behind the beat, completely sure of herself. She never missed a Sunday unless she was sick, and then she listened to the service on the radio and sang along anyway.

She taught me that you don’t have to be loud to be strong. She taught me to write letters, to keep a few dollars tucked away for a rainy day, and to always, always have something in your purse for someone else.

Grandma, my quilt is on my bed and a butterscotch candy is in my pocket. I’m going to pass one to the next kid who needs it. Thank you for every stitch and every prayer. I love you.

I’m Jack, and Walt was my grandfather. All of us called him Grandpa Walt, and he had a saying for every occasion, so I thought the best way to honor him might be to run through a few.

If you were late, he’d say, “Early is on time, on time is late.” If you complained about the weather, he’d say, “It’ll change.” If you asked what was for supper, he said, “Food.” And if you asked how he was doing, from the age of fifty to the age of ninety-one, he said, “Still above ground.” He thought that was the funniest thing in the world, every single time, and so did we.

Grandpa farmed two hundred acres outside Marlow for most of his life. He knew every field by its nickname. “The Long Forty.” “Widow’s Corner.” “Dad’s Mistake,” which he never explained. When I was ten, he put me on the tractor seat in front of him, put my hands on the wheel, and said, “Pick a line and don’t look at your hands.” I’ve thought about that sentence more times than I can count, usually while I was doing something frightening.

He kept a pocketknife in his front pocket and used it to peel apples in one long spiral. He carved a whistle for every grandchild, and I can still hear the one he made me. It’s on my desk at home.

He was not a man who talked about feelings. But he was never late to a ball game, a recital or a graduation, even in his eighties, even when the drive was two hours. He was in the third row, hat in his hands. That was how we knew.

Grandpa, I picked a line, and I haven’t looked at my hands. Thank you for putting me on the seat. Early is on time. Still above ground, and always in our hearts.

Thank you for coming. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Anne, and for forty-four years I had the great good luck of being Tom’s wife.

I met Tom at a church picnic in 1979. He was standing by the potato salad, holding a paper plate, looking lost. I asked if he needed help. He said, “I think I’m at the wrong picnic.” I said, “Stay.” He stayed for the next forty-four years.

Tom was a gentle man. He was a high school math teacher for thirty years, and I’ve heard from many of you this week that he made it possible for you to like math. That would be a miracle to anyone who knows me, because he tried for decades to teach me and I never got it, and he never once gave up. He drew little diagrams on napkins. He said, “Anne, it’s easier than it looks.” It never was, but I loved that he believed it.

He was funny in the quiet way. He wouldn’t tell a joke so much as let you find it. He made terrible puns, then waited with his eyebrows raised for your groan. He was always satisfied.

Tom was a man of habit. Coffee at six. The paper. A walk around the block at seven, no matter what the weather. A long grace before dinner, because he said nothing good should be rushed. He kept every card our children ever made him in a shoebox in his closet. I found it Thursday, and I sat on the floor for an hour.

Tom raised our two children, Julie and Mark, the way he taught: with patience, and with an enormous number of diagrams. When Julie was nervous about her driver’s test, he drew a map of the intersection on a napkin. When Mark struck out in the last inning of the championship game, Tom was the first one to reach him, and what he said was, “I’m prouder of how you handled that than I would have been of a home run.” Mark still remembers it word for word.

He loved Caleb, Ruth and Eli, our grandchildren, more than he could stand. He taught Caleb to play chess, and Ruth to fish, and Eli to whistle through a blade of grass. He showed up at every concert, even the long ones, even the bad ones, and clapped like he was at Carnegie Hall.

In our last year, Tom got slower and quieter. But he never stopped being kind. He thanked every nurse, every aide, every person who brought him a cup of ice. On our last anniversary, he squeezed my hand and said, “Still at the right picnic.”

Tom, I don’t have the words to say what you were to me, so I’ll just say these. You were home. You were patient. You were mine.

I’ll keep the coffee on at six. I’ll walk around the block at seven. I’ll say grace slowly, and I won’t rush anything good. Thank you for staying. I love you.

Hello. I’m Robert. For thirty-eight years, I was Susan’s husband, and I want to thank everyone for coming to say goodbye to my best friend.

Susan didn’t like to be the center of attention, so I want you to know I’m deeply nervous. She’d be in the back row, whispering, “Keep it short, Rob.” I’ll try, honey.

I’ve been thinking about all the things you might say in a moment like this. She was a nurse for thirty-one years. She was a wonderful mother to Anna and Peter. She was a woman of faith, a friend, a neighbor. All true. But what I keep thinking about are the ordinary things. Tuesdays.

On Tuesdays, Susan would leave a note in my lunch bag. Just three or four words. “Proud of you.” “Don’t forget milk.” “Wear the blue tie.” Thirty-eight years of Tuesdays. I found a stack of them in a drawer last week. She had kept the ones I wrote back.

She could sit with a frightened patient at two in the morning and make them feel like the only person in the building. She did that for strangers. Imagine what she did for us.

She loved the ocean, though we could only afford it twice. She loved bad movies and good bread. She was a terrible driver and an even worse singer, and she did both with total confidence. She laughed so hard at her own jokes that she never finished them, and we all laughed because she was laughing.

She taught me that being kind is not a weakness. She taught me that you can forgive someone the same day they hurt you, if you decide to. She taught me that you say “I’m sorry” first, even if it was 51 percent their fault.

Susan, thank you for the lunch notes and the long drives, for raising our children to be good people, for the thousand ordinary days that turned out to be the best of my life. I will wear the blue tie. I won’t forget the milk. I’m proud of you. I always was.

I’m Chris. Dave and I met in the sixth grade, when he sat down next to me at lunch and said, “That’s a terrible sandwich.” It was. We were friends for forty-one years after that.

Dave was the friend who answers. That’s the best way I can say it. You could call him at any hour, for any reason, and he’d pick up. “What’s wrong?” was always his first question, because he figured a call at midnight meant something was. Usually, it did. When my dad died, Dave drove four hundred miles and just sat on my porch with me. He didn’t say anything wise. He brought a six-pack of ginger ale and sat there. It was exactly right.

He was also, I should say, the world’s worst planner. We once took a camping trip where he forgot the tent. He said, “It’ll be fine,” and it rained. We slept in his car, sitting up, laughing so hard we woke the whole campground. It’s the best trip I ever took.

He was loyal to a fault. He loved his Cubs, and every year he said, “This is our year,” and he was wrong thirty-eight times in a row, and he never lost hope. I think there’s a lesson in that, somewhere, and he’d have been the first to say so.

What did Dave teach me? That friendship is mostly showing up, and the showing up is more important than what you say. That you can laugh and grieve in the same sentence. That you never have to explain yourself to someone who truly knows you.

Dave, thank you for the terrible sandwich, and everything after it. I’ll keep your phone number in my phone for as long as it works. I know no one will answer. I’ll just like seeing it there.

I’m Sarah, Mike’s little sister. I want to start by saying that for most of my childhood, my brother was my primary tormentor. He told me the ice cream truck only played music when it was out of ice cream. He taught me to swear in front of Grandma. He once convinced me that our dog could talk, and then answered for the dog.

He was also the first person to stand up for me. When I was twelve, a kid at school was cruel to me. I never told anyone. Two days later the kid was suddenly very polite. I asked Mike. He said, “I had a conversation.” That was all I ever got.

Mike was the sort of person you couldn’t stay mad at. He’d make you so angry you’d storm out of the room, then he’d stick his head in a minute later with a cookie and a face like a sorry puppy. “Truce?” he’d say. “Truce,” I’d say. We had maybe a thousand truces.

He grew up to be a good man. A real one. He coached Little League for fifteen years, mostly for kids who couldn’t hit. He believed every kid should get to feel what it’s like to run to first base. He kept their team pictures on the fridge, all fifteen years of them, and he knew every name.

He was a loving husband to Jen and a proud father to Tyler and Maddie. And at forty-nine, he was still my big brother, which meant that when I called at midnight, I could hear him sit up in bed.

Mike, you were a pain, and you were a gift. I forgive you for the dog. I forgive you for the ice cream truck. Thank you for the conversation with that kid, and for every truce. Truce, big brother. Always.

My name is Laura, and Beth was my big sister by three years and my best friend for all the rest.

When we were little, we shared a bedroom and a rule. After the lights went out, whoever could think of the funniest thing won. We were laughing so hard one night that our mother stood in the doorway and said, “I can hear you from the kitchen.” Beth said, “We’re praying.” Mom said, “Pray quieter.” We never forgot it.

Beth was the one who remembered everything. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Which teacher you hated and why. What you wanted for Christmas in 1989. She kept a little blue address book with every cousin, every friend, every old neighbor, and she wrote to them all at Christmas. She was the thread that held our family together, and I don’t think she knew it.

For the last twenty years, we talked every Sunday night. Even when we had nothing to say, we called. We talked about the grandkids, and recipes, and what was on TV, and what the pastor said. Sometimes we just listened to each other breathe while we did the dishes. This Sunday I picked up the phone out of habit. I want you to know how heavy that is.

Beth was brave. She got through things most people would not have survived, and she never made a fuss. She just did the next thing, and then the next. That’s how she lived, and it’s how I’ll try to.

Beth, I’ll pray quieter. I’ll keep your address book and send the Christmas cards. And on Sunday nights, I’ll do the dishes slowly, and I’ll listen for you. I love you, sister.

Hello. I’m Jim. I lived next door to Ray for twenty-six years, and I’d like to say three quick things about him.

First, he waved. Every morning at 6:40, no matter the weather, Ray stood on his porch with his coffee and waved at me as I left for work. I don’t think I ever pulled out of the driveway without looking for him. I drove to work last Tuesday and caught myself looking.

Second, he showed up. When our basement flooded, Ray was there with a wet vac before I’d even called him. When my wife was sick, he mowed our lawn for two months and never mentioned it. When I thanked him, he said, “What are neighbors for?” I’d like to say that most neighbors are not for that. Ray was.

Third, he was funny. Dry and quiet, the kind of funny you get a few seconds later, on the drive home.

Ray never asked to be thanked, so I’m not sure he’d forgive me for doing it in front of all of you. I’m going to anyway. When we moved here, we didn’t know a soul. Within a week, Ray had brought over tomatoes from his garden and a handwritten list of the best places for pizza, a dentist and a hardware store. He turned a strange street into a place where we belonged.

Ray, thank you for the wave. I’ll keep looking. I think a lot of us will. Rest well, my friend.

Good afternoon. I’m Nora, Ed’s niece. Before I begin, I want to say that Uncle Ed gave me strict instructions. He said, “If you do my eulogy, make it funny, and if you cry, I’ll haunt you.” So if I do cry, I’m sorry, Ed, and please keep it to the attic.

Uncle Ed was a man with opinions. About everything. The proper way to load a dishwasher. The correct amount of salt on a pretzel. The best route from his house to Costco, which was nine minutes, which he could tell you at any hour, and would. If you disagreed with him, he’d say, “Well, you’re entitled to be wrong.” It was his way of loving you.

He told the same joke at every family gathering for thirty-five years. I won’t repeat it, because half of you already know it, and the other half deserve better. But I’ll tell you that when he got to the punchline, he laughed so hard he couldn’t finish, and that was the real joke. We laughed at him laughing. Which, I suspect, was the plan.

He wore the same hat for as long as I can remember. A faded green cap that said “Bud’s Hardware,” a store that closed in 1998. When we asked why, he said, “It’s broken in.” We bought him a new hat for his 80th birthday. He put it in a drawer and wore the green one to the party.

But here is what I really want to tell you. Ed never missed anyone’s birthday. Ever. You’d get a card in the mail, always late, always with a five-dollar bill and a note that said, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” When I was in college and broke, that five dollars was sometimes the difference between a decent week and a rough one. He knew. He never said.

In the hospital, near the end, I asked if he needed anything. He thought about it, and said, “A better hat.” We got him one, and he wore the green one in the bed. You can’t win.

Uncle Ed, you were stubborn, generous, wrong about the pretzels, and right about most everything else. We’ll keep your hat. We’ll tell your joke. And we won’t spend it all in one place. We love you.

Grace and peace to you all. I’m Pastor Daniel’s wife, Marcia, and Mother Ruth was my friend and my teacher for twenty-two years at Mount Zion.

Mother Ruth did not have a lot of money, and she never had a high position. But I’ll tell you something: if there was a person in the building I wanted praying for me, it was her. You could always tell when she was praying, because her lips moved just slightly, and her eyes stayed open. She prayed with her eyes open because, she said, “I’m watching for the answer.”

She was watching all the time. She watched for the new family in the back pew and made sure they had somewhere to sit and someone to talk to by the time the benediction was over. She watched for the widow who had stopped coming and drove to her house with a plate. She watched for the teenager who sat alone and slid a peppermint across the pew. Mother Ruth saw people. I think that is what faith looks like in a body.

She sang, and she did not care for key signatures. Her favorite hymn was “It Is Well,” and when she sang it at my husband’s mother’s funeral, nobody in the building was dry. She didn’t sing because she felt fine. She sang because she trusted God when she didn’t.

The Apostle Paul wrote, “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” That is Ruth. Not a flashy fight. A daily one. She kept it when her husband died, and when her son was ill, and when her own body slowed. She finished her course by showing up to church the Sunday before she went into the hospital.

We do not grieve as those who have no hope. We grieve, because we loved her. But we trust the One who said, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” Mother Ruth believed that with her whole heart, and she asked us to believe it too.

Mother Ruth, we are watching for the answer now. We believe it is coming. Thank you for teaching us how to wait. Well done, good and faithful servant. We will see you in the morning.