This wee church holds a contrast of memories for me.

When visiting family this weekend I sat quietly in this church on my own to remember.

I can picture clearly, standing at the church gates on my Dad’s arm, my bridesmaids half way up the path and my mum at the top of the church steps.

That was 11 years ago now.

Then if you bring the memory into the present, I can remember standing at that lectern, telling the story of my mum’s life, as written my our family as a collective. The church was packed full of people paying respects at her funeral.

Walking down the isle as Mr and Mrs Ryding.

Walking down the Isle carrying her coffin high and proud on my shoulders, with my dad, his cousin and the funeral director family friend as the other pall bearers.

I sat, allowing tears to roll, remembering the happy times, and lit a candle in her memory.

Never forgotten.