Heartfelt Eulogy for Aunt  | Funeral Tribute

We gather today in this quiet hall because a bright, familiar light has slipped beyond the horizon. We have come with full hearts, some aching, some grateful, all intertwined to remember Margaret “Maggie”, born 14 March 1956 in the little seaside town of Whitstable, and gently departed 2 June 2025, just as the roses she loved were beginning to bloom. Ours is a mixed circle of faiths and philosophies, yet what unites us is the simple wish to say “thank you” for the life that touched each of ours.

Maggie grew up the second of three sisters, cycling the Kent lanes with pigtails flying, a book balanced irresponsibly in her bicycle basket. She studied English and Education at the University of Leeds, where she met Tom—her partner in puns, picnics, and, later, marriage. For thirty devoted years she taught Year 4 pupils at St Agatha’s Primary, the kind of teacher who could turn a chalkboard into a window on the world. After Tom’s sudden passing in 2010, she retired early, poured her energy into community gardening, and embraced her expanding role as beloved aunt, godmother, and unofficial neighbourhood counsellor. Holidays were spent roaming the Scottish Highlands with a camera slung round her neck, returning laden with stories and—somehow—heather cuttings that always seemed to take root.

Ask anyone to describe Maggie and three qualities surface at once: generosity, curiosity, and resilience. Generosity shone in the unannounced care‑packages of lemon drizzle cake that appeared on doorsteps after tough exam weeks; curiosity sparkled whenever she slipped a magnifying glass into a child’s hand and whispered, “Let’s see what secrets this leaf is keeping.” Resilience revealed itself the spring a late frost threatened the seedlings she had coaxed from seed. Undeterred, she hauled every pot into her living room, rearranged furniture, and slept on the sofa until the cold spell passed—laughing that her home now smelled “like fresh mud and hope.”

Stories about Maggie could fill several afternoons, but a few capture her spirit perfectly. There was the legendary Easter treasure hunt she devised for her nieces Lucy and Ben: a winding trail of riddles that led not to chocolate, but to a homemade “certificate for bravery” and a picnic at the top of Beacon Hill. Or her sixtieth birthday, when she strode onto the Crown & Anchor’s open‑mic stage, mandolin in hand, and sang a shaky but triumphant rendition of “Wild Mountain Thyme,” inviting the entire pub—strangers included—to join the chorus. And we can’t forget her favourite saying, delivered whenever life’s plans unraveled: “Well, the best stories need a plot twist, don’t they?” Each moment showed a woman who believed joy doubled when shared and disappointment halved when laughed at.

Maggie’s influence reaches far beyond these anecdotes. Many of us cook with herbs because she pressed cuttings into our palms, saying, “If you can grow thyme, you can grow patience.” Some of us took up evening classes, emboldened by her late‑life dives into pottery, Spanish, and online astronomy. Former pupils write to say they became nurses, engineers, and poets because Margaret convinced them their questions were worth asking. She stitched traditions into our calendar, her solstice supper, complete with mulled cider and improbable origami trees, traditions we now carry forward, proof that one person’s warmth can outlast winter.

Maggie, we will miss your bright scarves flapping like banners of encouragement, your knack for remembering both birthdays and obscure constellations, your gentle way of making each of us feel, if only for a moment the cleverest, kindest version of ourselves. As Maya Angelou reminds us, “People will never forget how you made them feel,” and you made us feel seen. So, with gratitude as wide as a June sky, we say farewell. May we honour you by lending tools before they are asked for, by learning the names of wildflowers, by daring now and then to sing off‑key in a crowded room. As we sit with our memories, may we carry forward her kindness.