Reverend Alan Neal was my uncle and, more importantly, my godfather.

On the evening of 21 December 1988, my godfather was visiting one of his parishioners. It was early evening and, having not yet eaten dinner, he was about to leave for home. However, one of his parishioners asked him to “hold on a minute” while he went to fetch a Christmas gift. The parishioner brought up from his cellar a bottle of red wine. I remember, much later, my godfather telling me about this moment. With hindsight, he realised that that bottle of red wine carried a greater significance. It represented the blood of our Lord Jesus.

That delay saved my godfather’s life and shaped his future. For in that moment, the wreckage of Pan Am flight 103 fell from the sky above Lockerbie. It was 7:03 p.m.

In an instant, Lockerbie went from being a quiet market town of no particular significance to being the focus of the world’s attention. No one involved in the unfolding situation, whether the residents of Lockerbie, the relatives and friends of the victims, or the members of the emergency services and armed forces who assisted in the rescue and recovery efforts, could ever have prepared for such an event.

My godfather told me how the sound of the explosion was like nothing he had ever heard before, followed by an absolute silence like no other.

My godfather and his parishioner dashed outside and saw that a large section of the plane had landed a short distance away. My godfather knew then that something truly terrible had occurred. He also realised that, had his parishioner not asked him to wait whilst he fetched the bottle of wine, he would most likely have been in his car at that very spot and would have been killed.

The first concern of my godfather and his parishioner was the couple of fires that had started under cars parked along the road. Recognising that fire and fuel are never a good combination, they dashed in and out of the parishioner’s house to fetch water to put them out.

My godfather told me that his reactions that night were instinctive, with adrenaline having kicked in.

Next, they ran down the road towards the scene of devastation. Now, I’m not sure when my godfather had last run. He played golf with enormous enthusiasm and a good deal of seriousness (as many will recall) and would go on walks and so forth. But run? I have no idea how he ran, and neither did he, as it was just something he simply did not do. But on that night, he ran.

At Rosebank Crescent and Sherwood Crescent, they were confronted by unimaginable scenes. My godfather said that while he had never seen for himself the devastation caused by the Blitz during the Second World War, this was everything he imagined it to have been.

At Sherwood Crescent, where a large section of the plane had caused a huge crater in the ground, there was no time to think. Fires were starting up everywhere and spreading quickly. My godfather helped families there to leave their homes, including those who did not want to. While he understood their feelings, he also knew that it was not safe for them to remain there. The emergency services started to arrive, and my godfather worked alongside them, helping in any way he could. He continued to support them until the early hours.

At about 3:00 a.m. on 22 December 1988, my godfather returned home for a short while. During this time, he prayed. As he did so, he told me of the clear direction he received from our Heavenly Father and knew that God had a plan for him. In the midst of this awful tragedy, he felt himself called to be God’s earthly representative, supporting those affected by this dreadful event and embracing whatever God put before him. My godfather was to serve the victims of this disaster, their relatives and friends, those who were involved on the ground in the days that followed, those who sought answers, solace, love, peace, and progress. For the legacy of this tragedy would be long-lasting. My godfather accepted God’s plan wholeheartedly.

At 7:00 a.m., after a couple of hours’ rest and prayer, my godfather joined the emergency services and volunteers who were gathering in the town centre and walked with them as they searched for bodies, personal possessions, parts of the plane—anything that could be of assistance to the relatives and the investigation. It was a lot of walking and, as is well documented, the findings were harrowing, but my godfather prayed and carried on.

On Christmas Eve, 24 December 1988, relatives of the victims of Pan Am flight 103 began to arrive in Lockerbie. At that stage, a bomb had yet to be confirmed as the cause of the disaster.

As has been documented so often, there had been 259 people on the plane and 11 Lockerbie residents who were killed on the ground. One hundred ninety of those onboard flight 103 were U.S. citizens. Dozens were students, including 35 from Syracuse University in New York, and a 16-year-old girl named Melina Hudson who was on an exchange programme at Exeter School in England. My godfather’s daughter lived in Exeter and was married to the organist of Exeter Cathedral. In due course, she was made an Honorary Canon, a rarely bestowed honour.

Many of these relatives who had wanted to get to Lockerbie as quickly as possible were, understandably, in deep shock. My godfather prayed for God’s guidance and turned his attention from the search to the care of these folk. They needed love and support, kindness, empathy, a shoulder to cry on, occasionally a chance to laugh, and space to absorb what had happened.

For many, the shock was such that they couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Most carried very little luggage, having just travelled as soon as they possibly could. They came bringing photographs. Some brought dental records.

My godfather welcomed them, prayed with them, comforted them, helped to arrange accommodation and, where appropriate and possible, provided temporary shelter within his own home. He ministered to these folk with all the Lord’s strength, according to the mission he had been given. He never stopped and supported all in any way he could. He kept these relatives informed of what was happening and sometimes, where necessary, protected them.

It wasn’t just the relatives whom my godfather felt drawn to support. There were the personnel involved in the search, those involved in the recording of items found, those tasked with the making safe of buildings, and many more, from soldiers and paramedics to his parishioners. All were in shock and struggling to come to terms with what had happened.

And beyond those already present who needed his support and care, there were the colleagues of the flight crew of flight 103—pilots and flight attendants—who represented the mourning of the entire Pan Am family.

My godfather knew that coming to terms with what had happened was not going to happen overnight and that his mission would be one that he would pursue for the rest of his life. Indeed, right up until the last few weeks before he was called home, he served and supported all these folk. He wanted to ensure that the victims of this appalling tragedy were remembered and honoured appropriately, and that there was dignity in their departing this world.

In the immediate situation, my godfather worried about the local scout troop based at his church. They had been key in ferrying information between the various search parties and others. These were teenage boys dealing with a situation that involved so many victims who were of a similar age to them. They saw things hitherto unimaginable.

Even the army personnel—some barely out of school and many of them very young men—were confronted by sights that they would struggle to absorb, rationalise, and understand.

In due course, the long-term implications would take up most of my godfather’s time, as people endeavoured to negotiate a path back to “normal life.”

Sunday, 25 December 1988, Christmas Day in Lockerbie, should have been focused on the nativity and the birth of our Lord Jesus. Instead, it was consumed by tragedy.

At his church in Lockerbie, my godfather welcomed the Anglican bishop. Rows of soldiers and scouts filled the front pews, incredibly strong and brave despite their obvious exhaustion and distress at what they had witnessed. They were joined by some of the relatives, including a father and son standing side by side. Both men had lost their wives on flight 103.

After the service, folk had got together and laid on a Christmas dinner for all the service personnel: a proper turkey dinner with all the trimmings, provided by the ladies, and a beer for anyone who wanted one.

In the following days, a large congregation attended a service at the Roman Catholic church.  My godfather told me how an announcement was made that any persons who were not members of the Roman Catholic Church could not receive Holy Communion there. My godfather was deeply upset by this. When he held a similar service at All Saints Episcopal Church, he deliberately addressed the congregation at the start of the service, saying, “This is not my table, this is the Lord’s table, and all are welcome to receive Holy Communion here.”

With the searchers covering 845 square miles, days turned into weeks. Some of the items found told stories about the victims. There was the young girl who in her diary had expressed her love for the Lord Jesus. There were the boy and girl who had loved each other, a love which they had declared in their respective diaries. My godfather spoke of the smells. He said how, the first few days, the overpowering smell was of aviation fuel. And then it changed. There is no way to describe the smells in the temporary mortuary, which left him gravely upset. He told me how it had to be fumigated once the bodies were moved. Sometimes, he felt that he just wanted to give in to the grief. But he had to be strong for all those who needed him and to continue to carry out his God-given mission supporting them in any way he could, even sitting in on police interviews with the shocked relatives. Sometimes, of course, he would feel out of his depth, but he would always pray. This gave him the strength to find the right words, the right form of comfort.

Of course, there were many times when my godfather was overwhelmed with guilt. How very close he had been to being hit by the section of the plane that landed just down the road from his parishioner’s home. If that parishioner had not delayed him, he knew that he would have been killed. Faced with such devastation and so many broken hearts, questions preyed on his mind. Why had he been led to be ordained? Why had he had the privilege of serving so many as a baker? Why had he been brought to Lockerbie? Why had he not been killed along with all those so innocent victims, both on the plane and in the town? The answer always lay in that night when he had accepted the mission given to him by our Lord Jesus, to minister to, to comfort, to serve, to help in any way he could, all those who survived and yet were so affected by this awful event. One parent would comment how my godfather had survived 21 December 1988 “because we would never have made it without him,” a sentiment echoed by so many people across the world. He was just there for them, whenever, whatever happened.

Over time, while some just wanted to put the disaster behind them, relatives and friends of the victims continued to visit Lockerbie in search of answers, where, my godfather said, “there were none.”

He recalled a young flight attendant who was due to get married very soon. She was a devout Christian and expressed her faith in her letters, as she did in daily life. Her fiancé showed my godfather some of her letters. Her trust in God was absolute. As was his. If God wanted to call her home, then that is what would happen. God’s will cannot be changed.

From the moment of the explosion, so much happened in a short space of time. The world’s attention was on Lockerbie, with international press everywhere. My godfather was concerned that they could be inappropriately intrusive, and did not want the relatives being bothered by reporters. Unfortunately, he was correct as, in seeking stories that would make headlines, the press proved to be an intrusive presence at times, with behaviour well beyond what most people considered acceptable. He did all he could to protect the grieving folk from this intrusion and expressly requested the press not to enter his church. He found it hard to do so, as it was God’s house and, in his ministerial care, a place for anyone and everyone. But he also needed to protect those who were most vulnerable.

The first memorial service in Lockerbie was held on Wednesday, 4 January 1989. The whole town was silent. Staff from Pan Am travelled to the town. Some were already there and had been assisting the townsfolk and relatives. As there was not enough room for everyone in the church, the local cinema was opened for people to watch the proceedings. Others gathered together on the streets outside. My godfather knew that there were folk who felt that the memorial service took place far too soon, as not all of the bodies had been found, but he believed that it provided a chance for all to unite, to pay respect to all the victims, and to draw comfort from one another.

Over the weeks, months, and years that lay ahead, my godfather never stopped in his service to the victims, relatives, friends, and indeed all those affected by this tragedy.

There was practical work to be done for the survivors of the devastation at Sherwood Crescent, Sherwood Park, and Rosebank Crescent. He made representation to Dumfries and Galloway Council and related authorities on behalf of residents, requesting that their homes be completely rebuilt rather than cobbled together from what was left. These folk needed a fresh start.

In the months following the bombing, my godfather visited the U.S.A. at least four times to continue in his mission to serve his now-international congregation. He stayed with the families of many of the victims and told me with a very sad smile that he had never slept in so many beds that belonged to people who had recently died. It was not said out of insensitivity but from the heart and out of his need to find light relief in such a terrible situation.

He needed to provide comfort, support, and prayer, and to demonstrate God’s love to ensure that none of those affected by this tragedy were left to feel alone. Some were stoic, some almost numb, still in shock. All were going through the most distressing grief.

On one of his many visits to the U.S.A., he stayed with a family and described how he found the mother prostrate on the floor, devastated and overwhelmed by the loss of her child. Having got down beside her and prayed over her, he told me how he felt that he had to be firm. He needed her to feel the strength that God would provide her with. He reminded her that she had two other children who needed her love and attention. Faced with her overwhelming grief, this was a difficult thing for him to say. But for the sake of her family, she needed to be strong and not give up. Situations like this occurred repeatedly as he travelled to the various American families who had lost loved ones.

Over time, my godfather’s mission to serve and care for the relatives and friends of the victims of the bombing saw him being asked to perform baptisms, wedding ceremonies, and funerals for all these people who still counted on him for support and considered him to be such a cornerstone in their lives. He was always honoured to do so.

A wonderful example of this occurred on Saturday October 6, 1990, when he married Marion Alderman, an American widow whose daughter and son-in-law were killed in the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103, to Edward Jablonski at All Saints Church in a ceremony attended by 20 Lockerbie villagers. He said of the service "It is a great joy to be here today for this happy ceremony after all the grief that Lockerbie has seen".

Although my godfather was personally presented to prime ministers, presidents, and other dignitaries over the years, this made no impact on his mission to serve the folk who needed him—namely, the relatives and friends of the victims of the Lockerbie disaster.

My godfather visited Syracuse University multiple times, attending various memorial services for the victims. In 1989, the Lockerbie Trust and Syracuse University set up an annual scholarship whereby two students from Lockerbie Academy would study at Syracuse University for one year. My godfather was very happy about this and felt privileged to meet and talk with the winners of the scholarships. In April 1990, he spoke at the dedication of a memorial to the 35 students who were killed on flight 103. Lockerbie and Syracuse University forged a special bond, and my godfather played a large part in promoting that relationship.

On 29 June, 1990, Reverend Neal interred the ashes of John Binning Cummock, a Pan Am 103 passenger, at Tundergarth Parish Church. Located three miles east of Lockerbie's high street, the church is located across the road from the field where the nosecone of Pan Am 103 crashed. John Cummock was found in the nosecone and his wife, Victoria Cummock, felt that the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside made Tundergarth Parish Church a particularly fitting place for her husband to be laid to rest. John Cummock was buried only a few miles away from where his forefathers originated.

Reverend Neal would provide further support to Victoria Cummock during a 1992 visit to Lockerbie with her three children, from their home in Miami. When Hurricane Andrew devastated Florida on 24 August that year, the family had already checked out of their hotel in Lockerbie and could not find rooms anywhere else. Reverend Neal allowed the family to stay at the manse (minister's clergy house) until they were able to return home.  

My godfather also gave evidence to the relevant hearings in relation to the bombing. In 1992, he was in New York City for the trial that judged Pan Am guilty of not enforcing security regulations. Insurance companies appealed the verdict, and my godfather was very frustrated by these actions, as the families of the victims needed the monies.

My godfather did endeavour to stay clear of the politics surrounding the disaster. Many of the relatives and friends of the victims would not fly Pan Am because they felt that they had been let down by the airline, which had not felt it important to pass on information made known to them. My godfather felt that it was important that he flew Pan Am, as flight 103’s crew had not known of the warnings and were just doing their job. When flying on Pan Am when he travelled between the U.K. and U.S.A., my godfather used the opportunity to minister to the Pan Am staff on the plane, many of whom had known flight 103’s crew.

On 3 November 1995, my godfather felt honoured to give the blessing at the dedication of the Pan Am Flight 103 Memorial Cairn in Arlington Cemetery in Virginia, where he was personally introduced to President Bill Clinton.

In hindsight, my godfather’s whole life before the bombing of Pan Am flight 103 had been preparation for the time when he would need to step up, accept God’s mission, and serve the families and friends and all those so impacted.

He was born on 29 October 1927, in Haslingden, a small town in Lancashire in North West England. The main source of employment was in the many textile mills in the area. By chance, my father was born just a few streets away on 1 November 1927. He and my godfather grew up together and were lifelong best friends, both of them serving as ordained ministers of the Church of England.

My godfather was the middle child of three, born to Jessie and Noel Neal. His maternal grandparents, his mother, and all his maternal aunts and uncles (except one) were born deaf-mute. My godfather and his siblings therefore learned to sign at an early age. Members of the deaf community were often visitors to their home, and when the family moved to Thornton-Cleveleys, Blackpool, in 1938, this close relationship with the deaf community continued. His father became president of the Deaf Association for the Fylde and North West, a position which he held for some considerable time.

The move to Thornton-Cleveleys was for my godfather’s father to establish a bakery, Neal’s Bakery, on Victoria Road. In recent times the bakery was named Neal’s Family Bakery. Sadly, it closed at the end of March 2024 after serving the community for 86 years. Had you been able to visit the bakery before its closure, you would have seen photographs of my godfather and his brother in their baker’s whites.

My godfather was brought up within a family where faith in the Lord Jesus Christ was of the utmost importance. Church played a large part in their lives, and with his regular attendance my godfather progressed from Sunday School to singing in the church choir as a boy and as an adult, then to youth club and, in due course, to roles as church warden and serving on the parish council.

After secondary education at Baines Grammar School in Poulton-Le-Fylde, my godfather then undertook his National Service in the Army Catering Corps. This was followed by time as a Civil Service accountant, helped considerably by his gift for numbers and his enjoyment of the endless totting-up of figures in his head, as he reminded me that there were no calculators then! But in his heart he wanted to work more directly serving the community, and it was that longing that led to him to leave number-crunching behind and return to the family business. He felt that baking and providing food for the local area seemed a more worthwhile use of his talents and his time, and that it sat more comfortably alongside his faith.

The spirit of service which lay at the heart of Neal’s Family Bakery manifested in so many ways. I remember my godfather telling me of one such example. After the Second World War, with rationing still in place in the U.K., folk had to queue at the bakery for bread. The queue would stretch down the street and, one day, a heavily pregnant woman fainted. She was provided with a chair and moved to the front of the queue, and thereafter it was arranged that all pregnant ladies should go straight to the front of the queue for bread!

In due course, my godfather went on to set up his own bakery in Burton-in-Kendal in the Lake District. His desire to serve remained at the heart of his business, the ethos imbued in him by his father, and he did so through baking, the community, and the Lord Jesus Christ. He took great pleasure in baking fresh bread for Holy Communion. At that time, he was a Freemason, a member of the Thornton-Cleveleys Lodge (a role he gave up on entering the church), and was elected president of the Master Bakers’ Association for the North-West.

Continuing to sing in the local choir of St James Church, Burton-in-Kendal, my godfather also served as a church warden. On one particular day, he was walking to church along the village road when a car towing a boat came round the bend. As it did so, it struck my godfather across his arm, and he later discovered that it was badly broken. At the time, however, all he could think of was getting to the church for worship. After the service, he realised that something was seriously wrong with his arm, but he stated that the pain was of no importance compared to his faith.

At the age of 53, with an increasing need to thoroughly immerse himself in a life of service to the Lord Jesus, my godfather applied for and was accepted for ordination in the Church of England.

And so continued an emerging pattern of service.

My godfather did his training in Bristol and, whilst there, spent a considerable amount of time working with the homeless.  He was ordained in 1984 and went on to serve as a curate in a parish in Dundee where 70 percent of folk were unemployed. It was following this curacy that he was made Rector of All Saints Episcopal Church, Lockerbie.

There is no specific training for dealing with a situation such as he found himself in that night in Lockerbie. There is no manual or handbook for anyone. My godfather would need to draw on all his life-learned strength and skills and deep faith to serve according to his mission.

My godfather's experience of the bombing of Pan Am 103 and his work with the families and friends of the victims in the years afterwards created a bond with the folk in America, which led him to move there in June 1999. He settled in West Virginia, where he was the vicar responsible for five churches in the Troy area. From there, he continued in his ministry to the Lockerbie relatives.

As was his way, my godfather still baked bread for the Holy Communion and would leave loaves of bread on the doorsteps of his congregation as he visited the parish. In the run-up to Easter he would hold classes in how to bake hot cross buns, and his shortbread was legendary. Baking continued to be an important factor in his ministry.

My godfather regularly returned to Lockerbie and told me how important it was to attend the memorial there and spend time on his own in prayer there. He had hoped to be buried nearby, but ultimately the logistics prevented that from happening. He was devastated about this. 

Right up until a few weeks before my godfather was “called home” on 6 November 2023, he continued to care for and minister to all those folk who had lost so much on 21 December 1988 and whose lives were changed so abruptly. He never stood back from the mission that God had given to him that same night.

I visited the U.S.A. on numerous occasions to visit with my godfather and was glad that I had a week with him in September 2023. At the time, he was in a residential home and we laughed, hugged, talked, shared memories, prayed, and gave thanks. And we sang, as we always had done. Song and music were so important to us both and, even then, his voice was strong and remained so until the end.

On that last day when my godfather was called home, 6 November 2023, I was able to sing “The King of Love My Shepherd Is” to him over the phone in his last moments. And then he left this earth.

My godfather, Reverend Alan Neal, had fulfilled that lifelong mission entrusted to him by God on 21 December 1988 to minister to the relatives and all those affected by the Lockerbie disaster.

Eulogy given by Fiona Harris at Reverend Alan Neal’s funeral and burial in Virginia and at his memorial service

I so appreciate you all coming here today to honour, celebrate, and give thanks for the life of Reverend Alan Neal, my godfather and uncle.

I know that everybody here loved him very much.

My godfather, Uncle Alan, I am sure you will agree, was really quite a character. A bit of a legend. A man with a big heart, a heart of gold.

Uncle Alan loved people, and folk loved to be around him.

He exuded warmth, and people were drawn by this and his thoughtful nature.

Always with a twinkle in his eye, Uncle Alan was a lot of fun. He loved to laugh and had a great sense of humour.

He loved to walk into a room and announce “never fear, Alan’s here.”

Yet at the same time, Uncle Alan was incredibly sensitive to the needs of others and would do everything in his power to help anyone who needed help. No matter how great or small the matter.

With Uncle Alan I shared so many of my “firsts.”

With my Uncle Alan I went to my first football match. I think it was Blackpool playing Leyton Orient.

I went to my first Dinner Dance. Uncle Alan was, at that time, President of the Master Bakers’ Association for the North-West U.K.

I received from my Uncle Alan my first volume of Beethoven piano sonatas. It was hardback. How I cherished and lived that volume.

First time I visited a golf course, it was in Morecambe, Lancashire—basically, on the cliff top overlooking the sea bay. I caddied for him (bribed with Kit Kats).

With my Uncle Alan I had my first ride in a van. I was about nine years old and stayed with him at his bakery in Burton-in-Kendal. We were delivering his bakery goods to many hotels and pubs in the Lake District. It was such a lot of fun, being high up in the van, and, of course, everywhere we delivered became a social call, as Uncle Alan was just being Uncle Alan and loving to chat and laugh with his customers.

With Uncle Alan I had my first experience of being in a car in the fast lane on the motorway. Just as my father and Uncle Alan were the very best of friends since meeting at infant school, and just as they were great buddies, they were also in some ways complete opposites. My father drove cars that did nothing except get you from A to B, and he always drove slowly. Uncle Alan liked to have a smart car, usually a Ford Cortina, I seem to recall, and he loved to drive fast!

The first time I was a bridesmaid was when Uncle Alan’s daughter, Heather, married Paul Morgan in Exeter Cathedral. I was 12 years old. Uncle Alan was so happy and proud walking his daughter down that very long aisle, and I followed behind as the only bridesmaid. I don’t think either Uncle Alan or I stopped smiling all day long.

Uncle Alan loved his daughter, Heather, very, very much and was so proud of her and her husband, Paul. Heather, like her father, was a great golfer—indeed, so good that when the two of them played as a pair in a competition at their golf club when Heather was about 15 years old, they were doing so well and beating recognised club champions. Well, the club suddenly changed the rules mid-competition and said that those under 18 years were not eligible to play!

Heather was a great cricketer and played for Lancashire ladies. She loves football. The flowers she has sent are in the colours of Blackpool Football Club, which they supported.

Uncle Alan was deeply moved and proud when Heather was made an Honorary Canon of Exeter Cathedral, a very special honour, and she continues to work as a highly respected judge.

It was so right that Heather married her organ teacher, Paul, from whom she took lessons at Exeter Cathedral, where he was Organist for many years.

None of us will ever forget the tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie on 21 December 1988. When Uncle Alan became Rector of the All Saints Scottish Episcopal Church in Lockerbie, it was a relatively small and quiet market town in Scotland. No one knew it would become the focus of worldwide attention.

True to Uncle Alan’s determination, compassion, and love of his fellow men, Uncle Alan rolled up his sleeves to help in every way he could. He spent hours with specialist teams and volunteers searching and noting anything that could be found relating to the crash. As relatives and friends of victims started to arrive from all over the world, Uncle Alan welcomed and cared for them. There were 21 nationalities on that flight, the majority from the U.S.A. Uncle Alan not only looked after the relatives and friends in Lockerbie, he continued to care for them throughout his life. He visited these folk in their grief in America. As his life continued, he never stopped caring for these folk, performing marriages, christenings, funerals, for them and their families, and constantly providing support and care.

Uncle Alan was a Master Baker and served as President of the Master Bakers’ Association (North-West). He was a Freemason along with his father, Noel, and brother, Raymond. He resigned as a Freemason when he was accepted for Ordination. His maternal grandparents were deaf-mute, and he maintained a close connection with the deaf community.

Aged 50, Uncle Alan was accepted for Ordination by the Church of England, the same time as my father.

Uncle Alan and my father, Denis Hardwick, were three days apart in age. They met at infant school in short trousers. Just little boys. And they remained the best of friends.

Uncle Alan never forgot any of the many friends he made. Even as he neared the end of his time in this world, we would chat about various folk he knew, and he remembered every single person.

As a vicar, Uncle Alan loved to share his baking. He would leave loaves of bread on the doorsteps of parishioners. In Troy, here in America, where he served as Rector for many years, he would leave the loaves on doorsteps. He ran classes teaching parishioners to make hot cross buns. I was so happy to show Uncle Alan photos of Ethan, then a little chap and now a big chap, showing and winning medals for his beautiful sheep and goats. He loved seeing those photos. The little chap, now big chap, who still calls Uncle Alan “Grandpa.” He would have been so thrilled and proud to know that Ethan has just received a big promotion at work.

I give thanks for the immense joy that Auntie Julia brought to my Uncle Alan’s life. And I give thanks for the family that Auntie Julia shared with Uncle Alan. The Maas family who took my Uncle Alan into their lives and hearts.

Well, Uncle Alan loved you all so very much and loved being a part of your family. Guys, when you called him Grandpa, he called me to tell me. He was so happy.

Well, there are not the words to explain how much he loved you all.

He felt so happy in the arms of your family. That you counted him as one of your own.

Well, what can I say? Thank you, guys. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Uncle Alan and I shared a huge love of music. He loved to sing. We would speak on the phone almost every day. It was hard to know what to talk about. If I asked him how he was, he would say, “Not bad, not good.” Anyhow, I came up with a plan. So, each day, we would have a Bible verse of the day, a hymn of the day, which we would sing together—he always knew all of the words—and then a thought to take away until we talked again the next day. I remember once, Uncle Alan was feeling a bit glum. I remember saying to him, “You know, Uncle Alan, God never asks us to cope with more than we are able.” His response was, “Well, right now, he’s really pushing his luck.”

And that was the spirit of Uncle Alan. Sometimes, he would be so tired, I would sing him a lullaby, and he would fall asleep peacefully.

Just a few short weeks ago, David and I spent a week in Dallas, visiting Uncle Alan in his care home. We talked, we shared laughter and tears. We hugged. They were very memorable and happy days for which I am so thankful. We would take Uncle Alan downstairs. There was a huge living space and dining room with a beautiful grand piano. I would play the piano, and we would sing. Hymns, much-loved songs, songs from the wars, songs that we grew with. And typically, because of Uncle Alan’s hugely magnetic personality, the space would rapidly fill with residents and staff, all joining in, everyone enjoying a great sing-a-long.

I miss Uncle Alan so very much. The ocean between us, for the last 24 years or so of his life, was no barrier. I loved visiting him and sharing his life here.

I miss Uncle Alan just for being there.

He was THE constant throughout my life.

A rock.

A best friend.

A buddy.

A loving, caring, and understanding godfather.

A wise presence.

With Uncle Alan it was always the King James Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. When he served Holy Communion, he would welcome all, saying “This is not my table, this is God’s table.”

Yes, Uncle Alan was proud.

He was opinionated. Only he knew how a football team should be managed, and that team would never lose a match!

He could have advised the President of U.S.A. and the Prime Minister of U.K., and everything would be sorted.

On the way to church on a Sunday morning, we would pass playing fields with parents watching their children playing football. And he would say, “Those parents should be in church and the children in Sunday School.” And really, when you look at the world around us and the mess it is in, he had a point.

Uncle Alan was competitive. Any of you who have played Mexican Train Dominoes with him, and I know that many of you have, will know this. We would embark on a gentle game of miniature golf on the seafront in Worthing, where we live. But it would rapidly become a competition of Olympic proportions! He always won, but that was probably a good thing!

In Uncle Alan’s last moments, I was able to speak with him by phone. I sang the hymn “The King Of Love My Shepherd Is” and told him how very much I loved him.

I am going to close by singing a short prayer. A prayer loved by Uncle Alan; his best friend, my father; and myself.

It is known as the Sarum Prayer.

It speaks of the presence of the divine and the certainty and comfort of God’s infinite love.

God be in my head, and in my understanding

God be in mine eyes, and in my looking

God be in my mouth, and in my speaking

God be in my heart, and in my looking

God be at mine end, and at my departing.

Amen