In newspaperland, things move quickly. Days are deadlines, and big stories at dawn become forgotten stories at dusk. But the words of Sebastian Creane's mother at her son's funeral on Monday are still ringing in many people's ears. How would one even begin to think of writing or delivering a eulogy for a murdered son? How, as a mother, did she summon the energy and spirit to say anything, never mind something so philosophical, transcending the collective fear, confusion and anger the congregation must have been feeling and, turning it into hope.

Much of the coverage of the murder of Sebastian Creane, who was stabbed to death in his Bray home by Shane Clancy, has been overblown, speculative and inaccurate. Witnessing their personal tragedies being hawked around the media must have been extremely testing for Creane's family and friends. Perhaps the most testing thing for them is that there can be no closure. No one will face the courts, there will be no punishment, apart from the punishment Clancy himself administered by taking his own life. It just happened, it just is. There's no manhunt, or evidence, or barristers' arguments to trawl through. How could a mother deal with that?

It's impossible to understand the turmoil the Creanes are going through, but it is heartening to realise that Nuala Creane will be with them throughout this time, reflecting at a time where taking stock seems impossible, offering hope in a situation that appears desperately bleak. At the funeral, she spoke about her son in detail, with anecdotes of his sunny disposition, before trying to articulate a greater meaning to what had happened on 16 August. "We are hyper-conscious at present of how viruses are spread. What about our thoughts, words, intentions? Are they not toxic? When we think negative thoughts do they have no effect?" she said, "when we think one thing and say another, which carries the most impact, the thought or the intention? Surely, these thoughts act just like a virus, manifesting in vulnerable souls?" It is with this understanding, that small things manifest into bigger things, that everything has an effect, that Nuala Creane tries to comprehend what happened to her son.

She says one boy represented darkness and one light, "but one can't paint a picture without at least two shades. It is the dark which gives definition to the light. Darkness is just the lack of light... Do we continue to live in darkness, seeing only fear, anger, bitterness, resentment, blaming, bemoaning our loss, always looking backwards, blaming, blaming, blaming? Or are we ready to transmute this negativity?"

Reading the eulogy – and it's impossible not to shed a tear – one begins to examine how we personally dealt with this tragedy, because everyone reacts to something they read about. Most people reacted with horror, anger, fascination and judgement. But our own kneejerk reactions seem so pathetic when those immediately affected by a tragedy deal with it so honourably.

Is there something about ultimate tragedies that draws this kind of beauty and strength from the people affected by them? Surely some people would just want to avenge their loss, to hate, to become distorted by sorrow and anger. But Nuala Creane is one in a long line of people who put our own petty sufferings to shame. Look at Gordon Wilson, the father of Marie Wilson, a young nurse who was killed in the Enniskillen Remembrance Day bombing in 1987. After her death, he became a peace campaigner, expressing forgiveness to her murderers. Or Jo Tufnell, whose father Sir Anthony Berry was murdered in the Brighton bombing in 1984. She met with bomber Patrick Magee in an attempt at reconciliation.

It is easy to condemn perpetrators of horror as evil, as beasts, as psychopaths, as demented. But Creane and others as strong as she seek to draw meaning from the seemingly meaningless. If Nuala Creane can see something greater at work, a future while being surrounded by a horrific present, then hope can be seen everywhere, in any situation.

"Our hearts are broken, but maybe our hearts needed to be broken so that they could expand," she said, and what a beautiful way to look at things. Even in the most hideous of circumstances, lessons can be learned, people can be developed further, hope can be sourced. Her eulogy speaks universally. It's not just about the loss of a murdered son. It could be about any heartbreak, any turmoil, a source of solace for anyone seeking to draw hope from desperation, light from darkness. Long may her words ring.

umullally@tribune.ie