How to Write a Eulogy for a Friend (With Examples)

My name is Gloria, and I was Ruth’s best friend for more than forty years. I think I speak for everyone here when I say it’s hard to imagine life without her steady presence. We’re gathered because we loved Ruth, and because she showed us, year after year, what it means to be a true friend, a devoted mother and grandmother, and the heart of a neighborhood.

Ruth grew up in Wilson, North Carolina, the oldest of five. She was always the one you could count on, even as a kid. For 31 years, she was the librarian at the same elementary school in Raleigh. Generations of children learned to love books in her quiet, calm company. She married Earl, raised two sons—David and Michael—and after Earl passed, she poured even more of herself into her family and her four grandchildren, her “four reasons,” as she liked to say.

I met Ruth in 1984, when we both moved onto Holloway Drive, each with a toddler on our hip. Our kids grew up in and out of each other’s kitchens. Ruth didn’t just become my neighbor; she became my anchor. She never said, ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ She just showed up, sometimes with a casserole, sometimes with her famous peach cobbler, always with her whole heart.

Ruth loved her tomato garden and talked to it every morning like it was part of the family. She did the crossword in pen because, as she would remind us, “pencil is for quitters.” She kept a notebook of every book she ever lent, and if you kept one too long, you’d get a postcard in the mail: “Your book misses home.” That still makes me smile.

One memory I always come back to is from 1999, when my husband had heart surgery. Ruth was at the hospital at 6 a.m. with a thermos of coffee and a folding chair, and she sat with me for 11 hours. That whole week, my kids ate dinner at her house without me ever having to ask. That’s just who she was—love in action, every day.

And then there’s Emerald Isle. For 30 years, Ruth and I went every July, same rental house, same two beach chairs. One year, our car got stuck in the sand, and Ruth, wearing her enormous straw hat, talked four teenage boys into pushing us out. She paid them in peach cobbler, which I’m pretty sure they preferred to cash.

Ruth believed that love is mostly showing up—bringing the casserole, holding the chair beside you, making sure you packed a sweater, just in case. She taught me, and I think all of us, that you don’t have to ask what someone needs; you just show up, and you keep showing up.

To David and Michael and your families—your mom loved you fiercely. To the hospice nurses who cared for her these last months, and to her book club, who never missed a Thursday, thank you for showing up for Ruth the way she always did for us.

Ruth, I’ll keep our chairs on the beach in July. I’ll even bring a cobbler, though we both know it won’t be as good as yours. Thank you for being my friend, and for showing us all how to love well.

I'm Arjun, and I was Ollie's best mate. We met on the first day of Year 7, both late, both lost, both shoved in the back of maths class, and we just never really stopped sitting together after that.

We're all here today because, somehow, Ollie managed to be the heart of every room he walked into. Born and raised in Leeds, he found his place fixing bikes in Headingley and found his people everywhere else. With Megan for the last four years, and always at Elland Road with his dad, or chasing down the best chippy with a spreadsheet only he could understand.

If I had to describe Ollie, I'd say he was the friend who said yes before you even finished the question. He was loud, kind, and absolutely hopeless with directions—unless the destination was the Fox and Hound on a Tuesday night, where our pub quiz team never won a single time, but Ollie always bought the first round.

When I lost my job, Ollie suddenly 'needed help' in the bike shop every Saturday. He paid me in cash and bacon sandwiches for half a year and never once called it a favour. That was him—always looking after you but pretending it was your idea. Or the time we went camping and he forgot the tent poles. We spent the night sitting up in his tiny Fiat Panda, rain pouring down, and he just grinned and called it 'the best hotel in Cumbria.'

Whatever went wrong, Ollie would look at it, shrug, and say, 'It'll buff out.' He said it so much we put it on a mug for his birthday. I hear him saying it now, and it makes me smile, even today.

Ollie taught us to say yes more. He made sure everyone felt included, always asking, 'Same time next week?' at the end of every night. He changed us all, just by being him. Julie, Steve, Beth, Megan—you gave us Ollie, and we're all better for it. The quiz team, the lads from the shop—thank you for showing up for him, and for each other.

Ollie, 29 wasn't nearly long enough, but you packed more in than most people do in 80. Same time next week, mate. Save us a table.