Drew Baxter - Celebrant.

11/03/2026

Welcome to Wednesday

At the conclusion of a funeral service this week, the family thanked me, we exchanged hugs and then they said “ we hope we never see you again”.

I hear that a lot, and I totally understand their comments which I hope comes from a positive place.

We part ways and I move on to the next family, but never forgetting those families I have worked with.

From time to time I hear discussion amongst celebrants about whether we should telephone families after a funeral to check how they are doing.

(Or maybe it’s to gain feedback, or to prompt a nice review on their page…cynical old Andrew!)

Joking aside, before I say anything else, let me make something very clear. I am not criticising anyone who does this.

We all find our own way of doing our work and we each offer care and support in ways that feel right to us.

But it did make me think about my own practice.

People sometimes assume that because I do not make follow-up calls, it means I have turned my back and stepped away now that the service is over. That I don’t care.

That isn’t really how I see it.

When I work with a family, I imagine that I am walking beside them for a short stretch of a very long road.

For a little while our lives intersect.

We talk about someone they loved. We share memories, laughter, sometimes tears. Together we create a moment where that person’s life is recognised and honoured.

Then, gently and respectfully, I step away.

If, in the future, they require the services of a celebrant, perhaps they'll think back to that walk we took together and invite me to join them again.

I'll be there if needed.

Grief does not have a timetable and in my opinion, it certainly doesn’t need someone phoning to ask how it’s progressing.

I totally understand that for some people a call might feel comforting.

For others it might reopen something they are only just beginning to slowly recover from.

How you tell the difference is a skill I have yet to develop.

So my instinct has always been to leave families with their own space and their own grief; their own healing path.

That does not mean they are alone.

Families know that they can contact me if they ever need to. Some do. Most don’t — and that’s perfectly fine too.

What I try to do instead is remain quietly visible. The old fat fella in the scruffy blue suit, standing quietly in the wings, awaiting his cue…if it comes.

Through these weekly reflections I hope people know that I am still here.

Not intruding, not knocking on the door of their grief like some pesky atheist Jehovah’s Witness, but simply present should they ever wish to reach out.

For those who would like company with others who understand loss, there are also places like our bereavement café, where people can sit together, talk if they wish, or simply share a cup of tea with others who understand.

Grief is not something we can fix with a quick phone call.

It’s something we learn to carry.
We learn to cope.
Or sometimes we don’t.

I remember once leading a service for a gentleman and at the end his widow smiled, held my hand and thanked me. Then she gently pulled me close and whispered in my ear:

“I’ll see you soon.”

A week later she died.

I often think about that moment.

Because it reminds me that love runs deeper than we often realise. And the pain of loss, however heavy it feels, is simply the evidence of that love.

Can people die of a broken heart?
Is that a way of coping?
A release from the pain?

I think perhaps it is.

But when that heart breaks, the least we can do, as celebrants, is acknowledge the brave and beautiful work that heart has done in life, then gently doff our caps, and leave people to their love and their memories.

To follow their path.

04/03/2026

Look who’s back.

Yes, it is I; the Prodigal Celebrant.

I’ve been away from these Wednesday musings for a few weeks. Not in a far-flung land squandering my inheritance on wild living (sadly), but quietly resting the pen and giving you all a break from my pearls of questionable wisdom.

I did wonder whether anyone would notice…other than Yvette.

There’s always that tiny, needy part of the human psyche that whispers, “If you stop posting, will they forget you?”

It’s astonishing how quickly a supposedly confident adult can morph into an anxious Labrador waiting to see if anyone throws the ball.

You’ll notice not much has changed in my approach though. Using biblical references to underpin my very unbiblical prognostications. Like hijacking the story of the Prodigal Son.

It’s a story usually framed as recklessness and forgiveness.
Off he goes, makes a mess, realises he’s been a prize idiot, then shuffles home expecting a lecture and instead gets a banquet.

Now I’m not expecting a banquet. A slice of toast generously buttered with Lurpak would suffice.

But what intrigues me more these days isn’t the wandering son: it’s the waiting father.

Patience is a peculiar virtue.

It looks passive but it isn’t.
It isn’t weakness. It isn’t resignation.

It certainly isn’t posting cryptic quotes about “trusting the process” while secretly checking who’s liked it.

Patience is choosing not to panic.

Choosing not to chase after things and not to slam the door when someone wanders off.

Patience is holding steady.

I think I’m a fairly steady person, in demeanour that is. In gait, I am in fact a very proficient stumbler!

I do make progress, but at my pace. Don’t expect too much, too soon.

I think I bring this to my work. The result is sometimes all the better because I push through the anxiety and then find a steady course to get me where I need to be.

I like what I do and how I do it.
I like being competent, not flashy.

don’t mind saying I’m good at what I do — because in the work of a celebrant, I find expressions of fake humility too exhausting.

You know the type.
“Oh I’m just a humble vessel…”

No you’re not. You’ve got a business plan, a website and a pricing structure. Own it.

Confidence isn’t arrogance. Arrogance is pretending you’re perfect. There’s a difference.

But back to patience…thank you for waiting.

Patience doesn’t trend.
Patience doesn’t get likes.
But every meaningful thing I’ve ever done has required it.

Every service I write and lead, involved patience and waiting.

Waiting for the right words.
Waiting for a family to relax enough to open up and trust me.
Waiting for silence to do its work.
Waiting for people to find the door you’ve opened to the past, a past that they shared with a loved one.

The prodigal’s return only works because someone waited without closing the door.

That takes strength and that takes patience. That takes love.

And so I’ve wandered back to you. I’ve had my little break and recharged my batteries.

I return, hoping the door is open; that there’s still a place at the table. That people have been patient.

And apparently you have. Bless you all, my lovely little flock.

So if you’ve wandered from something worthwhile — a project, a discipline, a person — perhaps the virtue isn’t in dramatic repentance.

Perhaps it’s in gentle return?

And if you’re the one doing the waiting - well just keep the light on and the door slightly ajar.

See you next Wednesday.

Unless I wander off again.

25/02/2026

11/02/2026

My Spidey-sense tells me it’s Wednesday!

28/01/2026

Welcome to Wednesday - for the final time in the foreseeable future.

Wednesday will still be here, even without me, but if you’re really struggling without my weekly reminders of what day of the week it is, I can arrange for a man with a big stick to come and knock on your windows.

If you don’t fancy the big stick method, there’s also a volunteer willing to shout through your letter boxes.

Although he sometimes sticks a cucumber through and shouts ‘the Martians are coming!’ (Thank you Ken Dodd for that gem).

You’ll cope I’m sure.

Just think about how many Wednesdays came and went before I arrived in your world.

Yes, you’ll cope.

My plan is to take a break throughout the whole of February and then, when March comes in like a lion, I may roar back into action.

So, what wisdom can I offer on this occasion that might tempt you to wait for me?

I’m not sure there is any.

After a bereavement, I often discuss with families how they will eventually fall into a new routine of life.

Maybe you will all fall into a new routine without me bothering you on a Wednesday?

As Mr Spock so wisely said, nature abhors a vacuum.

Nature.

That place where I feel my roots are firmly tethered.

That cycle of nature to which we are all inextricably linked.

You know, this planet would tick along very nicely without any of us being here.

We are, perhaps, insignificant in the scheme of things - but we are all here and we are all special in our way.

But we are not the only special thing on this planet. We’d very often like to think so.

There are so many precedents of how, when man steps back, nature steps in.

When the actor Kenneth Mitchell died in 2024, he asked that his body be buried under a tree. He wrote these words:

"I want to be buried under the roots so I can be soaked up, all my matter, my energy, my love, my laughter, my tears, and I want to reach up through the branches and touch the night sky”.

This lovely man, who I had the privilege of meeting, died aged just 49 of motor neurone disease.

For me, his words are not only a beautiful and poetic sentiment, but a great acknowledgement of how we are part of this ongoing cycle of nature.

Birth, death and then rebirth.

We are part of it, not apart from it.

Now some might think I’m venturing into the vaguely religious and spiritual realm which I normally avoid.

Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am that rare breed, a spiritual humanist?

Not spiritual in the sense of heaven and hell.

Spiritual in the sense of accepting that we have found a place in something much is so much bigger than ourselves.

Spiritual in acknowledging that which survives.
The personal legacy we all leave behind.

Love and memories.

Humankind, we can be quite arrogant as a species.

Rather than simply embrace our uniqueness as being just that, unique, we want to elevate this state of individuality into something beyond our nature.

At the end of the day, the rich and famous, the ones who revel in their wealth and power, will be no less dead when they draw their last breath, than the man on the Clapham omnibus.

I’m not sure where this is going…but I’m going. Tickets please!

We are born, we live our lives, we die. But something remains…

Now before I get accused of being morbid, I’m not dead.

I’m having a break.

It's as simple as that. I’ll be back.

In the meantime, appreciate your place in the scheme of things, carry on being you, as special and as individual as you all are and remember this:

"Whatever you do in life will be insignificant, but it is important that you do it, because nobody else will." — Mahatma Gandhi

Now play nicely whilst I pop out.

See you on the other side.

21/01/2026

Welcome to Wednesday.

This will be my penultimate communique before I take a bit of a rest.

It’s been a very busy couple of months and I’m going to be taking some time for myself.

I intend to luxuriate in a bath of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and then massage Lurpak into my aching nooks and crannies.

I will still be officiating at a few services in the coming weeks but perhaps as events unfold you’ll understand why I might need some time away.

You’ll not miss me anyway.

I’ve noticed a decline in the number of people who take the time to read and comment each week and that’s perhaps understandable. I’m not complaining by the way, you owe me nothing.

Any interaction is gratefully received, but this shouldn’t be about what I get out of this transaction.

Maybe my time has come and gone?

I’m not young, I’m not fresh and vibrant and full of sparky new ideas, like many of the newer celebrants.

I haven’t the stamina to post after every service I conduct, which would seem to be de rigueur.

Please do not feel that I criticise or cavil, we all must find and follow our path to glory and greatness.

My path has apparently bypassed glory, skirted around greatness and is now pointing me towards the knackers yard!

Anyway, don’t be sad, I’m here this week and next, and I’ll try and find something deep and meaningful to say.

That’ll make a nice change won’t it?

Oh, before I forget, to the concerned citizen who may have mentioned in passing that my choice of language in these posts is not always befitting of my role…do one.

My role?

I’m a funeral celebrant not a saint.

I spend my days talking about real people and sometimes real people use lots of words that the late Queen Mother might not have approved of.

There again, give her glass of Dubonnet and gin and she’d could apparently swear like a trooper.

If you think my use of colloquial terms and certain racy idioms is beneath me, or the job I do, then you can take your judgmental backside elsewhere.

The one thing you get, when you get me…is me!

As I get older I have less and less patience with these proselytising prats; these holier than thou hypocrites, casting vast clods of humility wherever they go, like an old fashioned muck spreader.

I know I’m lucky to have been around a long time so I have never had to pr******te myself all over social media.

These Wednesday Witterings are enough.

God I’m a miserable old bu**er, and you must take most of what I say with a pinch of salt, but I think the tiredness of a long and busy few months has knocked all the professional niceness out of me.

Thank goodness I can still muster up enough professionalism for the services I have coming up.

OK, I’ll stop moaning now.

Before I go let me tell you about the funeral I did last week for a lovely man named David.

He loved his pork pies.

The photo below shows the floral display for his casket…

I still love my job. I still love the people I meet. I still love telling stories.

I’m just tired.

Forgive me.

See you next week for the final episode of whatever this is…oh yes, Wednesday Wisdom.

14/01/2026

Welcome to Wednesday

Welcome to my followers, old and new.

To the old, thank you for your loyalty and patience.

To the new, what the bloody hell do you want?

Welcome lovely fellow celebrants, lovely funeral professionals and all the lovely people and family members that I have met through my celebrancy work.

If you don’t fit in any of these categories, best bu**er off now.

It may well be that none of you are actually listening, but that doesn’t matter; I’m happy talking to myself.

As my old friend and mentor Gandalf once said: “I was talking aloud to myself. A habit of the old: they choose the wisest person present to speak to.”

If only I had his beard. Ah well. Moving on.

For those recovering from Storm Goretti, I hope you weren’t too badly inconvenienced?

We had some snow to deal with, but my way of dealing with snow is to ignore it wherever possible. I just stay indoors, drink sherry and pray that my next Lurpak delivery will make it through the blizzards.

It didn’t.

Once again proving to me that the power of prayer can be very disappointing.

Honestly though, Ocado not turning up is definitely a first world problem and nothing to get agitated about.

So many people are dealing with awful tragedies in their lives.
We should be grateful if all we have to complain about is the shopping not arriving.

So, what shall I rabbit on about today?

Well, I haven’t posted anything vaguely self serving for about 10 minutes, so maybe I’ll talk about me. My favourite thing.

Which reminds me, we went to see The Sound of Music at The Curve Theatre in Leicester last Saturday and it was amazing.

Looking around the audience, and what a motley bunch they were, I realised we were sitting in the Saga section.

There were that many sniffles and coughs, it was more like The Sound of Mucous; it was like the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery.

Or perhaps for some, God’s waiting room.

I’m pretty sure when the Nuns started singing, some of them thought their time had come.

But this collection of wrinklies, some wrapped in their finest winter plumage of scarves, fur hats and no knickers, they inspired me.

Those smelling of wintergreen, Vick and brandy. Those who had been for their last cigarette or v**e. They inspired me.

The lady in the woolly green hat and the little fat man who waited until the last minute to get to his seat in the middle of our row…they inspired me.

Dew drops on noses and whiskered old women
Bright coloured blouses you only just fit in
The smell of your liniment, makes my eyes sting
These are just some of my least favourite things.

Old girls in green hats, the smell of fag ashes
Small fat man’s late, so in the t**t dashes
Pushing and shoving, to his programme he clings
These are just some of my least favourite things.

When the lights dim
When the band plays
Now the show will start
I push all these problems
Right out of my thoughts
The theatre has won my heart.

Yes, the theatre won my heart. I laughed. I wept. I didn’t sing along…much.

Anyway, after that little segue to the land of nonsense we find ourselves now in the sunny uplands of my working world, a place where I can bask in the glory of some positive feedback.

I had a lovely message after a service I led this last week. The family were very pleased and they commented that “people thought you were a family friend the way you talked about…”.

That’s the best compliment you can ever get.

I should really remind myself of such positive reviews when I sit to write the really difficult services. I’ve a few of those coming up.

Those services when the self doubt can become almost overwhelming.

I should tell myself that they wouldn’t ask me to be involved if they didn’t think I was up to the task in hand.

You’ll be fed up of me saying this, but the most valuable skillI I possess is being a good listener. Mrs B would disagree of course. She would tell you I never listen to her!

I might be shooting myself in the foot here, letting you into my trade secrets, but I think having pages and pages of notes after a family interview means nothing if you haven’t truly listened; listened to what the family want you to do with them.

A funeral is so much more than a factual presentation.

The reason I can achieve what I sometimes achieve is that I’ve hopefully understood who the deceased is.

A person is not a list of times and dates and places. They are not their CV and work history.

If I’ve listened properly, then I’ve hopefully discovered who they were on a personal level and in their human interactions. Their character? Their soul?

It’s about discovering or understanding that feeling that can only come from having known someone. Really known them.

And I don’t own that feeling. I don’t create that feeling.
It’s my job to uncover it.

Being a good listener means I can then signpost people to the place where they rediscover that feeling for themselves.

I’m going to batter this metaphor to death, but what’s the point of creating a brilliantly detailed map of a person’s life, but never finding the compass that helps navigate it?

So, as I now shoot off my other foot, let me say thank you for the praise and the compliments which are all gratefully received …but it’s all a bit of a fraud.

All I’ve done is shown you what you might have forgotten you already had.

What people hear and may find comforting is not that I knew the deceased, but that they did. And I heard that by listening.

Smoke and mirrors.

But I’m bloody good at it.

Take care.