It isn’t every day that the call comes—not for a wedding or the arrival of a new baby—but for a different kind of milestone altogether. A family asked if I could document the funeral mass for their beloved father, a man who had been at the centre of their story for so long.


I paused before I said yes, not out of hesitation but because of the weight of what it meant. To witness and preserve such a moment felt like stepping into sacred ground. And on the afternoon of the funeral, as I walked into the church, I understood that weight more fully. The room wasn’t silent, but it held a kind of hush, the kind that comes when a family carries both grief and gratitude in their hearts.


There’s something extraordinary about a life lived well. You can see it in the faces of those left behind—in the quiet smiles when they speak of him, in the way they touch each other’s shoulders, offering silent strength. This family had gathered to celebrate him, not just in their tears but in their laughter, too, in the way they spoke about his stories, his quirks, his steadfast love.

Two people embrace in a warm hug on a city street while others look on in the background.
A bagpiper in traditional Scottish attire with red tartan kilt plays bagpipes outside the Christ Church Cathedral in Victoria, BC.
Black and white photograph of a clergy member in traditional vestments speaking from a church pulpit.

I found myself drawn to the small details, the ones that often say more than words: the grieving wife, her touch gentle but purposeful as she moved quietly among her family, tending to their needs and ensuring the guests felt comforted, even in her own sorrow. The children, their faces a mix of curiosity and uncertainty, stood close together, unsure how to feel or respond to such a rare and profound moment. These quiet gestures spoke volumes—of love, of loss, and of a family holding itself together through the weight of it all.


This day reminded me of why I do this work. Photography is, at its heart, about memory—about freezing time for just a moment, so that years from now, when the edges of this day begin to blur, there is something tangible to hold on to. These images will be for the grandchildren, and their grandchildren too, a way to say, This is who we were. This is where we come from.



As I left the church that day, I found myself thinking about how endings aren’t really endings. They’re doorways, leading us somewhere new. The man they mourned had left behind a legacy that stretched far beyond the day’s goodbyes. It was in their laughter, in their tears, in the stories they would tell for years to come.


And isn’t that what a life well lived is all about? To leave behind something that lingers—not just in the minds of those who loved you, but in the way they choose to live?

To the family who allowed me to step into this sacred space: thank you. You reminded me of the beauty in our fragility and the strength in our love. It was an honor to be a part of your story, and to help preserve it for the years ahead.

A black and white photograph shows two people in silhouette standing by a doorway in conversation.
A person in white clothing speaks to a group while others in red attire listen in a church.
Two people share an emotional embrace on a city sidewalk in warm sunlight.
A black and white photograph shows people singing together in a church.
People sitting in church pews during a service with thoughtful expressions and contemplative poses.
A figure of the virgin Mary and child stands against a stone wall in soft focus with gothic architectural details visible.
Two Union Jack flags hang in a Gothic church interior with stone columns and arched ceilings.
A church altar with a white cloth-covered table, candles, and flowers, with a draped casket in the foreground.
A black and white photograph shows a somber group of people dressed in dark formal attire walking together outdoors.