Natalie Cutler

Mum was born on 2 May 1944 in the village of Chellaston, Derbyshire, to Sol and Marie Lux. She was the youngest of three, and a later arrival to her sister Rosalind and her brother Brian. At the age of eighteen, Mum travelled to London to begin a new life, and after eventually succumbing to my father’s dubious chat up lines, married in November 1973. As far as traditional eulogies go, that is all I wanted to say, as many of you know the rest of the story, and I think we are all more interested in Mum’s character than her history.

Don’t mess with Mrs. C.

As children growing up, Mum was both affectionate and fearsome. A versatile chef, strict disciplinarian, source of endless games and adventures, cultural educator, fierce TV monitor, homemaker, holidaymaker, she was the glowing beating heart of our tight family unit. As we grew older, the discipline quickly gave way to a truly bottomless source of love, wisdom, wit, insight, and support. She was unequivocal in her equal love of her three children, together with Dad creating a safe nest from which we could all grow authentically and unencumbered as individuals, yet united by a shared moral compass and parental example. Despite the prejudice she faced into as a woman, Mum’s faith was a source of strength and comfort to her. She was an ardent supporter of Israel and deeply proud of her religion, her lineage, and the contribution of Jews to society throughout our rich history.

Eulogies are typically times for superlatives, however there are moments when even the richness and subtleties of language fail to convey the beauty and complexity of a human soul. It was our privilege to have a mother who in many ways is indescribable. She was a campaigner for causes that she championed, but more than that, she was an agent of change who followed through on her actions with unwavering determination, charm, and guile until her goal was realised. Don’t mess with Mrs. C.

but more than that

She was a mentor, but more than that, she was an inspiration to young people and women of diverse faiths to whom she could miraculously reach across the social and religious divide and open their eyes to the audacity of hope.

She was a carer, but more than that, she was an attentive ear, a warm seat at the Shabbat and Seder table, a source of wise counsel, co-therapist with her trusty companion Bella, provider of shelter to waifs and strays, patient support to a belligerent Holocaust survivor, quiet and steadfast companion to the lonely.

She was an intellect, but more than that, she was astonishingly well read, with a memory sharp as a razor, a thirst for art and music that she shared with Dad and taught fluently to her children, an achingly rare combination of humility and open-mindedness that fuelled an intellectual dexterity to abandon the most established of beliefs and opinions in her hunger for new insight. Mum was never afraid to evolve, and that freed her to blend the very best of old and new into a wisdom that was both contemporary and timeless.

rare ability to listen with such focus and intensity

She was a friend, but more than that, she was a co-witness to the very best of life, the cutting joke, the wry observation typically delivered one or two decibels louder than strictly necessary, the impeccably rare ability to listen with such focus and intensity that the world was reduced in that moment to just you and her and nothing else, the walks, the concerts, the book clubs, the phone calls… oh the phone calls. Reliable, dependable, irreverent, thoughtful, considerate, loving, she guarded a secret with her life. An unparalleled confidante.

She was an aunt and a cousin, but more than that, she was a sister, the travelling companion with the mischievous eye and contagious laugh, the other half to your Seder or Christmas lunch, the first mazal tov on your good news, the bringer together of loved ones, the ferocious protector of her nearest and dearest, the perfect completion of a jocular sibling triumvirate.

She was a wife, but more than that, she was Dad’s universe, the woman of worth for whom he had spent a lifetime searching, his eternal rock of support and strength, cultural companion, maker of memories, mother to his children, keeper of a Jewish home, nourisher, organiser, his faithful and committed right hand through sickness and health, there with him every day until his very last, his best decision, his one true love.

my enduring example of human excellence

She was a mother, but more than that, she was my guide, my champion, the person who only saw the best in me, my never-ending spring of encouragement, a lioness in leopard print, defender, nurturer, provider, purveyor of chicken soup and carrot cake, rejector of effusion and hyperbole (she would hate this!), adventurer and explorer, unwavering ally against discrimination and prejudice, my ray of sunshine on my way to work, the orange and honey for my sore throat, the last to tuck me in and the first to sing good morning, my proudest fan, my husband’s dear friend, my tranquil safe harbour, my sage counsel and sounding board, my enduring example of human excellence.

The pain of grief is proportionate to the magnitude of the loss. In the words of Yehuda Halevi:

‘Tis a fearful thing

To love

What death can touch

To love, to hope, to dream,

And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

Love,

But a holy thing,

To love what death can touch.

For your life has lived in me;

Your laugh once lifted me;

Your word was a gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,

A holy thing,

To love

What death can touch.

Mum’s love was a powerful force that carved deep canyons into the souls of all whose lives she touched. Our pain is bittersweet, precisely because we know that it is the price we must pay for the life we had the privilege to share with her. And in the depths of those canyons we can choose to bring forth vibrant rivers of life that honour her name and her example. Mum, our responsibility is to carry you onwards through our children, our nephews and nieces, our friendships, our actions, our character, and in our hearts. May your memory be a blessing.