Examples & Templates

Good morning everyone, and thank you for being here today. For those who don't know me, I'm Rebecca, Margaret's daughter. Standing here is one of the hardest things I've ever done, but it's also an honour—because my mum deserves to be remembered, celebrated, and honoured for the remarkable woman she was.

Mum was born in 1952 in a small mining town in Western Australia, the third of five children. Life wasn't easy growing up—her family didn't have much money, and luxuries were few. But she always said those years taught her what mattered most: family, resilience, and the ability to find joy in simple things. She carried those lessons throughout her entire life.

She met my father, John, at a dance in 1972. Dad tells the story of seeing her across the room—she was wearing a yellow dress and laughing with her friends—and knowing immediately he wanted to know her. They were married within a year, and started building the life that would include my brother David and me. Mum often joked that she and Dad were opposites—he was reserved and practical, she was warm and spontaneous—but those differences complemented each other perfectly. They were partners in the truest sense for 51 years.

As a mother, Mum had this remarkable gift for making us feel loved unconditionally while also pushing us to be our best selves. I remember coming home from school in Year 9, devastated because I'd failed a maths test. I was convinced I was stupid and that my life was over—you know how dramatic teenagers can be. Mum sat me down at our kitchen table, made me a cup of tea with far too much sugar, and said, "Bec, one bad test doesn't define you. But how you respond to it will show your character." Then she spent two hours helping me understand fractions, never losing patience, never making me feel less than capable.

That was Mum—she believed in us even when we didn't believe in ourselves. She had this way of seeing potential in people and quietly, without fanfare, helping them reach it. David and I both credit our successes in life to her unwavering support and belief that we could do anything we set our minds to.

But Mum wasn't just a devoted mother and wife. She volunteered at the local primary school for 20 years, helping children learn to read. She said watching a child's face light up when they finally understood a word was one of the greatest joys of her life. She was involved in our church community, always the first to organise meals for families going through difficult times. She had this radar for when people were struggling, and she'd just show up—with a casserole, or her listening ear, or sometimes just her presence.

Mum had her quirks, of course. She was hopeless with technology—she called her mobile phone "the confusing brick" right up until the end. She couldn't keep a houseplant alive to save her life, despite her best efforts. And she had this habit of starting stories in the middle, assuming you already knew all the context, which led to many confused conversations. But these imperfections just made her more lovable, more real, more Mum.

Her grandchildren—Emma, Jack, and Sophie—were her absolute pride and joy. She'd light up whenever they walked into the room. She attended every school concert, every sporting match, every important moment. She had this special relationship with each of them, tailored to their personalities. With Emma, she'd spend hours baking. With Jack, she'd sit through endless explanations of his latest science project, genuinely interested. With Sophie, she'd play endless games of make-believe. They each thought they were her favourite, and in a way, they all were.

The last five years were difficult. Watching Mum battle cancer was heartbreaking. It robbed her of her energy, her independence, and eventually her time with us. But it never robbed her of her spirit. Even in her final weeks, her warmth shone through. She'd still ask about our lives, still crack jokes, still tell us she loved us every time we visited. She faced her illness with a courage and grace that humbled us all.

Mum taught us so much—about love, about resilience, about finding joy in ordinary moments. She showed us that success isn't measured in money or achievements, but in relationships and kindness. She demonstrated that strength isn't about never struggling, it's about getting back up every time you fall. And she proved that a life well-lived is one spent loving deeply and serving others.

To my dad—she loved you with her whole heart. She told me just last week how blessed she felt to have spent 51 years as your wife and partner. To David—Mum was so proud of the man you've become and the father you are to your children. To Emma, Jack, and Sophie—your Nan's greatest legacy is you. She lives on in your kindness, your laughter, and your hearts.

Mum, you were the heart of our family. You made every house we lived in a home. You turned ordinary days into something special just by being in them. The world feels dimmer without your light in it, but we're so grateful for the 71 years we had you.

Thank you, Mum, for everything. For the sacrifices you made, for the love you gave so freely, for the woman you were. We love you. We miss you. And we'll carry you with us always.