🕊️ Eulogy (3 Examples)

Good morning, everyone. Thank you for being here to honour my mum, Helen Margaret O’Connor. Born in Ballarat on 15 May 1958, and leaving us peacefully on 12 March 2026, aged 67. She was “Mum” to me and Liam, “Helen” to so many in the community, and “Nanna” to Ruby and Jack. Patrick’s partner in life for 42 years. Sister to Aileen and Michael. The heart of our family. Mum grew up under big Ballarat skies, where practicality wasn’t a personality trait, it was a way of getting on with life. She took that steady, no-fuss spirit to Melbourne when she moved for nursing school, and from there she spent forty years caring for other people. First as a community nurse walking the streets, ringing doorbells, and finding a way through with whatever was at hand. Later as a palliative care coordinator, the person families looked to when the room was full of fear and silence. She had a way of making complexity simple and unbearable moments bearable. She’d sit, hold a hand, and in that calm voice say, “Let’s take this one step at a time.” It wasn’t magic. It was patience, skill, and a quietly brave heart. Home for us was Brunswick. Our little weatherboard was always warm, even in July, because Mum kept it that way. Not just with heaters, but with open arms and a kettle that never cooled down. There were always extra plates set, just in case a mate of Liam’s wandered in or a neighbour needed feeding. Her ANZAC biscuits lived permanently on the cooling rack, as if the house itself might get peckish. She knitted baby blankets for local mums she barely knew, because in Mum’s world, a new baby meant the whole street had a job to do. On weekends, we’d pack up early and head to the coast. Torquay was our compass point. Mum would stand with us at the water’s edge, squinting into the morning sun, teaching us to read the waves. She thought the ocean had moods, and that if you listened properly, you’d be alright. We’d share hot chips on the sand, vinegar dripping down our fingers, and she’d laugh at our seagull negotiations. Those mornings were simple, and perfect. That’s the version of Mum I carry everywhere—barefoot, practical, eyes on the horizon, making sure we were safe and free at the same time. Mum loved her garden with a fierce gentleness. She understood that nurturing takes time, and she gave it gladly—to roses, tomatoes, and people. You could spot her by the dirt under her nails and the way she’d pass you a punnet like it was a christening gift. If you came by for advice, you left with cuttings and a plan, and probably a bag of lemons you didn’t ask for. She believed in compost, in second chances, and in little signs of life pushing through. Her values were simple and unshakeable. Kindness first. Fairness and hard work. Look out for your mates. And generosity without any fuss. Mum didn’t do grand gestures; she did the everyday acts that stitch a community together. She volunteered with the hospice long after her shifts were over, and she could run a CWA cake stall like a field marshal with a tea towel. If there was a family in need, somehow there’d be a roster, a lasagne, and a quiet envelope passed across without anyone making a big deal of it. At home, she was our anchor and our fiercest supporter. When life wobbled, her hugs reset the world. Her phone calls could slow your breathing in three sentences flat. She had that dry Aussie humour that snuck up on you—one eyebrow up, a tiny smile, and a line that took the heat out of an argument. If something went wrong, she’d say, “Righto. Kettle on,” and it never failed to help. She cheered on the Tigers with loyal optimism, which taught us that faith is sometimes wearing yellow and black through thin years and thick. Mum’s work in palliative care showed us the bravest kind of courage. Not noise, not drama. Just showing up, day after day, for people at their most fragile, and holding a space for love and truth. She didn’t talk much about what it cost. But when I asked her how she kept doing it, she said, “Every person deserves to be met with dignity. That’s the job.” It was her life’s work—meeting people with dignity. Patients. Colleagues. Family. Strangers at the door. All of us. There are so many small memories that have become enormous in these last days. The way she’d rub a thumb over your knuckles when you were rattled. How she’d stand on the front step in her gardening jumper, waving until your car turned the corner. Her quiet pride when Ruby and Jack came barrelling in—Nanna on the floor, blocks and books everywhere, time suddenly unimportant. Her voice on the phone, steady as a lighthouse. The smell of eucalyptus and vanilla in the house after a baking day. None of these things were flashy. That’s why they mattered. They were real. Today, there is a space where Mum should be. We feel it sharply—Patrick, who shared a lifetime of ordinary miracles with her. Liam and I, who learned our measure from her. Ruby and Jack, who will grow up on stories of their Nanna’s garden and the beach. Aileen and Michael, who knew her from the beginning and loved her all the way through. And the rest of us, who were fed by her hands and steadied by her presence. But the truth is, she hasn’t left us empty-handed. She’s left us instructions, even if she didn’t write them down. Start with kindness. Make room at the table. Take the call. Drop the cake off without a fuss. Watch the water, read the waves, and don’t panic—there’s a rhythm you can trust. Grow things. People, especially. What will we miss most? Her hugs, her calm on the line, the way every guest felt at home within five minutes. But grief, Mum would remind us, is the proof of love. And love has a stubborn way of sticking around. It’s in the garden she coaxed into bloom. In the neighbours’ babies wrapped in her wool. In the patients who found courage in her quiet. In the family traditions we’ll keep—ANZACs cooling on the rack, Tigers scarves at the ready, and early starts for the coast. Mum didn’t chase applause. She’d be rolling her eyes at all this attention. She’d tell us to look after each other, check on the neighbour, and please don’t overwater the basil. And then she’d kiss our cheeks and send us out the door with leftovers we swore we didn’t need. So we’ll do what she taught us. We’ll hold each other a bit longer. We’ll keep things simple and good. We’ll keep the kettle on. Thank you, Mum, for every steady day, every brave choice, every gentle nudge towards the light. We’ll carry your spirit in the way we love, the way we work, the way we open our doors. And when we stand by the shore at Torquay, hot chips warming our hands, we’ll read the waves like you taught us. Eyes on the horizon. Together.

Hey everyone, I’m here as Jaco’s best mate from our uni days at UNSW, the bloke I built start‑up dreams with and paddled out for more dawn surfs than I can count. To Sophie and little Ava, to Lan and Tu, and to Daniel — we’re wrapping our arms around you today. We’re here to celebrate a life that ran hot and generous for forty good years. Jaco — Jacob Minh Nguyen — was Bankstown through and through. He carried that big-hearted, cheeky energy from the streets he grew up on into every room he walked into. At UNSW he fell in love with computer science the way he fell in love with everything — headfirst, curious, and convinced it could make the world a bit fairer for the underdog. He became a brilliant software engineer, then co‑founded a small tech studio where “creative coder” wasn’t just a job title — it was permission to play, to experiment, to bring people in. In between commits and client calls, he was down at community sport, backing kids who didn’t think they belonged until he showed them they did. Weekends? You knew where to find him. Coaching junior footy, somehow getting a pack of nine-year-olds to focus with a mix of dad jokes, patience, and a grin the size of the goalposts. He taught them how to pass, sure — but mostly how to pass the ball to the kid who hadn’t had a touch yet. He said yes to adventure like it was a religion. Surfboards on the roof before sunrise. Guitar jams on balconies. A camera always slung over his shoulder, hunting that split-second of colour at dusk. Cooking pho for a table that somehow kept growing as strangers became friends. And those last‑minute texts — “Up the coast now? Pack a towel.” — that wrecked your plans and made your week. My favourite memory? After a bleary hackathon, he dragged me down to Bondi for a sunrise session. Water like liquid glass. We shared banh mi for breakfast, sandy hands and all. Sitting on the wall, wetsuits steaming, he laid out plans bigger than the horizon — a studio that hired on potential, not polish; tech that served people before profit; a life that kept room for surf, for Sophie, for the family he knew he wanted. He stuck to that. He really did. At home, he was Sophie’s partner and Ava’s devoted dad — the softest place for their hearts to land. He’d race from a deploy to bedtime stories, guitar in lap, lullabies drifting into giggles. He talked about Ava like she was his best invention. And to Lan and Tu, he was a proud son who never forgot the shoulders he stood on. To Daniel, a brother who’d turn up with tools, soup, or surf wax — whatever the day needed. He believed in loyalty, in inclusion, in backing the underdog every single time. That showed up in the way he mentored junior devs, the way he listened before he spoke, and the way he rallied us for the annual Beyond Blue charity run. He’d match our donations with a wink — “Double or nothing, mates” — and then run the course like it was a joyful protest against silence. What will we miss? That booming laugh that rolled across a room before he did. His talent for turning strangers into mates by the end of an elevator ride. And those impulsive road trips up the coast that reset your soul and clogged your camera roll. Today hurts. But standing here, I can hear him clearing his throat, teasing us for getting too serious, and then nudging us forward. Take a kid under your wing. Cook a big pot of pho and invite more people than chairs. Match a donation. Say yes to the dawn surf, the road north, the new idea. Keep the circle open. Sophie, Ava — you were and are the centre of his story. When the waves feel too big, know that an army of Jaco’s people is paddling beside you. Lan and Tu, Daniel — thank you for shaping the man who shaped so many of us. Jaco, mate — you lived wide awake. You taught us that curiosity is a compass, that loyalty is a verb, and that there’s always time for one more wave. We’ll carry that forward. And when the sun comes up over Bondi, or the freeway bends toward the sea, we’ll hear your laugh in the wind and we’ll say yes. Always yes.

Family and friends, We gather here at Arthur James Riley’s resting place with gratitude for a long life well lived, and with tenderness for the ache that his leaving brings. Arthur — Art, as he was lovingly known — was born in Newcastle on 30 January 1934. He passed from us on 10 March 2026, ninety‑two years of age, a span marked not by fuss or fanfare, but by steady, faithful service. He began as an apprentice electrician, then answered the call of national service with the RAAF in the 1950s. When his uniform years were done, he returned to the work he respected: decades maintaining regional power lines, travelling back roads, righting faults, keeping the lights on. He became a master of his craft — meticulous, exacting, the one others turned to when it had to be done properly. In retirement at Port Stephens, he did not put his tools away; he simply put them to new use — for neighbours, at the local men’s shed, and wherever a quiet fix was needed. Art was the widower of Margaret, his steadfast companion. He was father to Susan and Peter, and proud Pop to five grandchildren and three great‑grandchildren. He guided them not with speeches, but with example — integrity shown in small decisions, promises kept, and a calm word when tempers ran high. Many of you will miss the same things: his steady counsel, his precise handiwork, and that gentle leadership that never needed to raise its voice. Those who knew him well will picture him at the Sunday roast, carving with a kind of ceremony, the knife glinting, the grin beginning, and then the yarns — country jobs in the summer heat, a storm rolling in, a pole that wouldn’t cooperate, a young linesman learning to respect the craft and the weather. There was a wry twinkle in his eye that said, “Yes, it was hard — and yes, it was worth it.” He found pleasure in simple, well‑earned joys: lawn bowls on a bright afternoon, the smell of sawdust in the shed, the satisfaction of getting an old radio humming again, and adjudicating backyard cricket with the seriousness the game deserves. He showed that you honour life by paying attention — to the job in your hands, the people at your table, the place you call home. Art’s circle was wider than family. A long‑time member of the RSL, he honoured mateship not with big gestures, but with quiet support — checking in, driving someone to an appointment, ensuring no one was left behind. At the men’s shed he passed on know‑how and patience, teaching the younger blokes that a straight cut begins with a straight eye, and that keeping your word is the first tool out of the box. Today, at the graveside, we stand between memory and hope. We commend Art with thanks for a life that lit the way for others, and we take comfort in what endures because of him: a family knit together by decency and love, friends who learned reliability at his elbow, and a community made safer and kinder by his hands. To Susan and Peter, to the grandchildren and great‑grandchildren: may the stories at Sunday lunch continue, may the roast be carved with care, and may the lessons he lived — integrity, service, respect for craft, keep your word — become the inheritance you carry with quiet pride. Farewell, Art. You have run your course as you lived it — steadfast, humble, dependable. The lights you kept burning in homes and hearts will not go out. They shine in those gathered here, and they will guide us on.