👵 Eulogy for Grandmother (3 Examples)

Tēnā koutou, dear family and friends, Thank you for being here to honour and remember our beloved Margaret Joan Wilson — our Nana Marg. I speak today as her granddaughter, one of the lucky ones she helped raise, the one who rang her every week for a chat that always began with, “Right, what’s on the go then?” and somehow ended with me feeling steadier than when I called. Nana was born on 14 March 1939, in Christchurch. She trained as a nurse, because looking after people was never a question for her — it was simply what you do. In the late 1960s she moved to Wellington, put down roots, and spent the next decades looking outward: district nurse, community health advocate, hospice volunteer, and the quiet organiser behind neighbourhood meal rosters that seemed to appear exactly when families needed them. She married Peter, our Grandad, and for 60 years they were a team — the practical list-maker and the calm improviser, raising Susan and David with a mixture of warmth and commonsense that became the family weather we all grew up in. Five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren later, she was still the steady heart of us. If I had to tell you what set Nana apart, I’d start with her calm. As a district nurse she had a particular gift for reassurance: a hand folded over yours at the exact right moment, a sentence trimmed of drama, anchored by facts, and then, “Let’s get this sorted.” In a crisis she was unflappable — not because she didn’t feel things, but because feeling never stopped her from helping. She was practical, warm, and quietly witty. Her generosity was measured in time, in showing up, in staying until the job was done. No speeches about kindness, just the daily practice of it. “Kindness first,” she’d say, “and no fuss about it.” Some of my favourite memories with her are in the half-light. Before dawn on ANZAC Day, she and I would bake ANZAC biscuits, the golden syrup scent filling the kitchen while the radio carried the service from the cenotaph. She’d tell stories — not grand ones — of nurses who found a way, of neighbours who shared what little they had, of how resilience and kindness aren’t big words, they’re small choices made again and again. We’d stand at the bench, waiting for the trays to cool, and it felt like learning how to be a person. At home, there were roses in careful rows, knitting needles clicking out baby cardigans for the ward, a half-finished cryptic crossword on the table — clues neatly ringed, muttered at, and eventually tamed — and Sunday walks along the Wellington waterfront, where she somehow remembered the names of half the people we passed. She never tried to make life fancy. She made it good. A cuppa at her table could fix most things. Not because tea is magic, but because next to her, the knots in your thinking loosened. And if you needed courage for a decision, she had a way of lending you some without making a fuss. We’ll miss those cuppas. We’ll miss the handwritten notes she slipped into lunchboxes — folded twice, “Proud of you” written in her tidy script, and a joke gentle enough to carry in your pocket. We’ll miss the advice that made hard choices feel lighter: not telling you what to do, but asking the question that helped you find your own answer. Nana’s life was full, not because it was loud, but because it was faithful — faithful to people, to fairness, to service. She believed that community doesn’t happen by accident. It’s baked, rostered, watered, and walked with — biscuit by biscuit, visit by visit, rose by rose. She didn’t chase recognition. If someone tried to make a fuss she’d swat it away with a smile and a “Don’t be daft.” To Grandad Peter — thank you for your 60-year partnership with her. We all learned from the way you two took care of each other. To Mum, Susan, and to David — she was proud of you in that particular Nana way: bragging only in private, listening in public. To all of us grandchildren and the great-grandkids — we carry her forward every time we check in on a neighbour, make an extra plate for someone, or choose to be steady when it would be easier to panic. There are so many small pictures I hope we keep: her pegging washing with the southerly nipping her heels, unfazed; her apron dusted with flour and that exact pinch of salt she insisted the biscuits needed; her laugh, quiet, surprised, and then gone again; her hand on your arm, the world briefly in order. As we say goodbye, I want to offer thanks on behalf of the family to the staff at Wellington Hospital. Your care was professional, gentle, and deeply appreciated. If you are sending flowers, know they will be welcomed — and if you’re thinking of a tribute, a donation to the hospice she supported would have made perfect sense to her. Practical help for the next person in line. Nana taught me that grief and gratitude can hold hands. Today we feel both. We mourn the gap at the table, and we give thanks for all the mornings and cups of tea and notes and walks that filled a lifetime. If you’re looking for a way to honour her, try this: put the kettle on for someone who needs it, ask the second question and really listen to the answer, choose fairness even when no one is watching, and keep the fuss to a minimum. That’s how she lived. That’s what lasts. Thank you, Nana Marg, for the steadiness, for the stories before dawn, for the kindness that never needed a spotlight. We’ll take it from here — staying practical, staying kind, and making sure the biscuits don’t burn.

E te whānau, e ngā hoa, tēnā koutou katoa. We gather to honour and celebrate the life of our beloved kuia, Aroha Rangi Thompson — our Nana Aroha — born in Rotorua on 22 July 1945, and at 79 years, still teaching us how to carry ourselves with dignity and warmth. I speak as her mokopuna, a grandson who learned patience at her side, pride in our whānau from her example, and how to laugh with my whole heart because she showed me that joy is a duty as much as a delight. Nana began as a dedicated primary school kaiako, and she never really stopped teaching. Her classrooms held more than reading and maths — they were places where te reo Māori had mana, where waiata stitched a room together, where kapa haka gave shy children a backbone. Later she moved to Tāmaki Makaurau to be closer to her mokopuna, and there she became a bridge between generations — fluent in the language of kids, parents, and kaumātua alike. For 52 years she walked side by side with Hemi, her much-loved husband. Together they raised three children, welcomed eight mokopuna and, recently, their first great-grandchild. That’s a whakapapa she tended the way she tended her kūmara patch and her lemon tree — carefully, consistently, with an eye to the next season. She was dignified and generous, quietly determined, with a wonderfully cheeky laugh that arrived half a second before the punchline — warning us and daring us all at once. She wove harakeke into kete and strangers into friends; organised school waiata groups and community language nights because manaakitanga isn’t a word you speak, it’s a thing you do. My favourite memory is simple. In the marae kitchen, learning to make fry bread, my dough stubborn and lumpy. Nana’s hands were sure and patient. While the oil warmed, she told me stories of our tīpuna — where they stood, what they carried, the mistakes they owned, the aroha that kept them together. By the time the bread was golden, I knew two things: how to turn the dough without tearing it, and that I belonged to something bigger than myself. We will miss her gentle karakia before meals, the hugs that lingered, and the way she made every person in the room feel seen — even the ones hiding by the doorway. We’ll miss the sparkle in her eye as she arranged pāua shell pieces on a windowsill, the rhythm of her voice leading a waiata, the quiet pride when a child found their reo. Her values were clear: whānau first. Manaakitanga in our welcome, kaitiakitanga in how we care for land and people. Respect for elders and children alike — the ends of the canoe, as she would say, that keep us steady. Nana asked for brightness today, so thank you for the colour in this room. She wanted a waiata to close, because music can hold what words can’t. And in lieu of flowers, she hoped for support to go to our local kura kaupapa — her work continues when a child hears their first mihi and knows it by heart. Moe mai rā, Nana Aroha. Your hands taught us, your voice steadied us, your laughter lifted us. We will carry your reo, your kindness, and your courage forward. Kua whetūrangitia koe — you are among the stars now — and we will find our way by your light.

Kia ora koutou, thank you for being here to celebrate the life of my Gran, Shirley Anne McAllister. She was born in Dunedin on 3 November 1932, and lived 92 full, curious years. She’d want me to get the numbers right, and to start with the facts, but then she’d nudge me to tell a good story. So I’ll do both. Gran was a librarian for forty years, which explains a lot about the way she moved through the world. She believed a well-labelled box could save a life, that a tidy index card could rescue a lost memory, and that a book in the right hands at the right time could change a person’s path. She proved it, too. She championed children’s reading programmes long before it was fashionable, coaxing shy kids and busy parents alike into a corner with beanbags and stories that would not let you go. She advocated for mobile libraries because, as she used to say, “if a mountain won’t go to the book, the book will go to the mountain.” And she meant that literally, sending vans down gravel roads so no child’s curiosity was stranded by distance. She married Robert, our Pop, a builder with steady hands and a patient smile. Between them, they built shelves that never sagged and a family that never lacked encouragement. They raised two children, cheered six grandchildren, and greeted three great-grandchildren with the same delighted, slightly bossy tenderness that made you stand up a little straighter and feel a little braver. After decades of work, Gran and Pop retired to Tauranga, and then Aotearoa became their back yard. They took to the road in a campervan, and from then on, they were never far from a map with small, tidy handwriting in the margins. Those maps mattered to her. They were not souvenirs; they were evidence. Evidence of the small bakeries that made the best cheese scones, the beaches where the sand sang, the op shops with hidden treasures, the libraries where she made fast friends with the librarians, because of course she did. If you’ve ever been handed one of those maps, you know there were notes like “turn left at the purple letterbox,” or “excellent thermos stop—sheltered from wind,” or simply, “good people here.” Good people were her specialty. She collected them like first editions—carefully, appreciatively, never to sit on a shelf. Everyone who met her remembers the wit that arrived half a beat after you thought the conversation had ended, the eyebrow that could deflate bluster without a single unkind word, the shock of playful mischief from a woman whose diary was immaculate and whose spare buttons were sorted by colour and size. She was honest without being sharp, thrifty without being mean, organised without being rigid. And she showed up—for birthdays, yes, always on time with a neatly written card—but also for working bees, school fairs, book club rosters, and the op shop crew who relied on her eye to spot what could be mended and loved again. My favourite memory of Gran is simple. Beach picnics at Mount Maunganui. A tartan rug that shed more fluff than a labrador, a thermos of tea that could burn your tongue in July, hokey pokey ice cream that melted faster than any sermon on patience, and Gran reading us poetry while the waves did their own applause behind her. Not the poems we were forced to learn at school, but the ones she thought we might grow into—the ones with a question tucked inside them like a peppermint in her handbag. The page would flap in the wind, she’d put her finger down to hold it, and we’d all lean closer, not wanting to miss the last line. If I shut my eyes, I can still hear the sound of the surf under her voice. Gran loved a full life, but she did not need it to be loud. She took her delight in the ordinary disciplines of joy. Book clubs that ran on biscuits and fierce opinions. Knitting jerseys that actually fit, because gauge matters—she would insist I include that. Cryptic crosswords that taught her to think sideways and laugh when the penny finally dropped. Summer cricket on the radio humming through the house, a patient soundtrack to peeling potatoes or writing Christmas lists. And the ukulele club on Thursdays, where she didn’t care that she was never going to headline a festival—though she would have memorised the festival programme—she just loved being part of a circle of people making small music together. If you ever asked Gran what she stood for, she’d deflect with a joke and then quietly show you. Lifelong learning—because no one is finished, ever. She’d be in the front row of the free lecture at the library, then home to look up extra references and put her own bookmarks in. Thrift and re-use—because waste is a kind of disrespect, and someone else can always use what you no longer need. Honesty—because trust is built in small, consistent truths, not grand gestures. And showing up for your community—because that’s how communities exist, one person at a time choosing to be there, repeatedly, when it counts. You didn’t have to guess what Gran thought you should read. Her recommendations were so accurate it was a little uncanny. She’d tilt her head, look at you the way librarians do—somewhere between gentle assessment and conspiracy—and then put a book in your hands that would slide a window open in your mind. She remembered your birthday every year, the card arriving with handwriting as even as her temperament. Inside was usually a line from a poem or a novel, a sentence chosen just for you. We will miss those cards, and the way they always arrived in good time, and the corner of the envelope folded neatly where the glue never quite behaved. We will also miss the maps. The campervan atlas with place-names circled and comments like “camp early—tūī at dusk” or “ask for Mary—knows the tide.” The pencil marks weren’t just directions; they were invitations. Her maps taught us how to navigate—roads, yes, but also the bigger routes through grief and celebration. Be practical. Pack the thermos. Stop for the view. Write down what matters so you can find your way back if you need to. And never underestimate the kindness of strangers—who are only strangers until you say hello. Gran had a way of grounding a room with humour. If things got too solemn, she’d find a seam of lightness and pull it gently. She understood that levity isn’t frivolous; it’s a tool for carrying weight. It’s the laugh shared over a sink full of dishes after a long day, the pun that sneaks into a condolence note because she knew the person would have liked it. There was mischief in her, and we were better for it. I’ve been thinking about what she would want today to feel like. Not just the shape of the day, but the texture of it. I think she’d want us to tell the truth—that we are sad, and that she mattered to us, and that there’s a gap now where a dependable, steady presence used to be. But I also think she’d want us to notice what is still here because of her. We carry her in the way we browse a bookshelf for the thing that fits, in the way we turn up on time with a slice and a smile, in the way we keep a spare set of knitting needles and a spare bed made up, just in case. We carry her in the way we speak plainly and kindly, and in the way we find each other in rooms like this and say, “I’m here if you need.” To Gran’s children—your mum taught us that you can be both soft and strong, and that routines can be a kind of love. To us grandchildren—she made every milestone feel like a national holiday. She was at the school plays and the sports days and the graduations, cheering—not booming, but that steady clap that said, “I saw you do that, and I’m proud.” To her three great-grandchildren—when you’re older, we’ll show you the maps and the jerseys and the books with corners turned down, and you’ll see where you come from. I know many of us will keep reaching for her in small ways. We’ll listen for the summer cricket and expect to hear her chuckle at a commentator’s terrible joke. We’ll open a book and half expect her to appear over our shoulder, saying, “Just wait for chapter three.” We’ll glance at the calendar as a birthday nears and think, “Gran will ring,” and then remember. That ache is the cost of loving well and being loved well. But even in that ache there is gratitude, because very few people manage the balance she did—of being utterly dependable and still full of surprise. Gran, thank you for the picnics, for the poems, for the full thermos and the hokey pokey and the way you steadied the page in the wind. Thank you for the counsel we didn’t always ask for and needed anyway. Thank you for your lists and your laughter, your labels and your levity. Thank you for showing us that community is not an abstract idea—it is a calendar entry, a casserole, a card in the post. In honour of how she chose to live, the family asks that in lieu of flowers, you consider a donation to the Cancer Society. And because it would delight her no end, we invite you to share a favourite book quote in her memory—something that comforted you, challenged you, or simply made you grin. Write it down, tell it to someone today, pass it on the way she always did. We’ll finish as she might have finished a storytime, by looking up. There is more road ahead, and she would be cross if we stood in the carpark dithering. So we’ll pack the thermos, check the map, and go—curious, organised, a little mischievous. We’ll keep learning. We’ll keep showing up. We’ll keep the door open and the kettle on. Goodbye, Gran. We’ll find you in the libraries and on the long quiet beaches, in the scratch of a pen across a birthday card, in the hum of a summer afternoon and a poem at the edge of the sea. You taught us how to read the world, and we will not stop turning the page.