Eulogy
Gabrielle Chin (Daughter)
Entered May 8, 2025
Hi Mom,
I thought I'd put pen to paper and share some thoughts with you.
Let me start with some cool memories. Your storytelling. You always told the best stories! Stories of when you were young, growing up, and about when you met dad. I remember you speaking about the love you had for Ardenne so much that I wanted to see it! You took me with you to Jamaica with the Ardenne Alumni and I got to see the hallowed halls you walked. It was a great time and I was so happy to see it!
I remember the various stories about you and dad, and the courting. The stories about Suyen and I when we were young.
You loved going to Niagara Falls! You loved driving around during the Christmas Holidays to see how the houses were decorated with all the lights. Remember the times when Suyen and I were young? You, dad, Suyen and I would go downtown to see Santa's Workshop at Simpson's? All of us bundled up to see all the decorations down Yonge Street.
I remember grocery shopping on a Saturday and watching you make dad's favourite custard dessert.
How about the Dance Barre? You were Suyen's office manager in the beginning and a backstage mom to the dancers. There was that one year you and 3 of the other mom's performed a jazz number at the recital. You all looked so good on that stage!
I could go on and on......and on and on, but I think I will leave it here with this:
Thanks mom. For everything. For letting me take dance lessons and piano lessons. For signing me up for swimming lessons. For sharing your faith and teaching me the Bible (which was why I did so well in Religion class in high school, by the way!) Most of all, thank you for loving me the only way a mother could.
Suyen, Rob, Tyler, Dorian, Dad, and I miss you so much. All your friends, and church brothers and sisters miss you, but we know, we ALL know that as God called your name, you had to go.
Rest Easy Mom. I Love You.
I thought I'd put pen to paper and share some thoughts with you.
Let me start with some cool memories. Your storytelling. You always told the best stories! Stories of when you were young, growing up, and about when you met dad. I remember you speaking about the love you had for Ardenne so much that I wanted to see it! You took me with you to Jamaica with the Ardenne Alumni and I got to see the hallowed halls you walked. It was a great time and I was so happy to see it!
I remember the various stories about you and dad, and the courting. The stories about Suyen and I when we were young.
You loved going to Niagara Falls! You loved driving around during the Christmas Holidays to see how the houses were decorated with all the lights. Remember the times when Suyen and I were young? You, dad, Suyen and I would go downtown to see Santa's Workshop at Simpson's? All of us bundled up to see all the decorations down Yonge Street.
I remember grocery shopping on a Saturday and watching you make dad's favourite custard dessert.
How about the Dance Barre? You were Suyen's office manager in the beginning and a backstage mom to the dancers. There was that one year you and 3 of the other mom's performed a jazz number at the recital. You all looked so good on that stage!
I could go on and on......and on and on, but I think I will leave it here with this:
Thanks mom. For everything. For letting me take dance lessons and piano lessons. For signing me up for swimming lessons. For sharing your faith and teaching me the Bible (which was why I did so well in Religion class in high school, by the way!) Most of all, thank you for loving me the only way a mother could.
Suyen, Rob, Tyler, Dorian, Dad, and I miss you so much. All your friends, and church brothers and sisters miss you, but we know, we ALL know that as God called your name, you had to go.
Rest Easy Mom. I Love You.
Suyen Doan (Daughter)
Entered May 8, 2025
****Eulogy for Brunhilde Norma-delle Chin****
Good afternoon everyone,
On behalf of my father, my sister, and myself, thank you so much for being here today to celebrate the extraordinary life of Brunhilde Norma-delle Chin—my mother.
Fondly known as Cherry. Daughter of Lynda and Ethelbert. Wife to Cecil George. Mother to Suyen Angelique and Gabrielle Francesca. Grandmother to Tyler Cameron and Dorian Joseph. Sister, aunt, godmother, friend—friend for life if you were lucky enough to be called one.
If you knew my mother, you knew she had a big heart. She’d give you the shirt off her back and the last dollar in her wallet, without hesitation and without being asked. That’s just who she was. Generous to a fault, always ready to help, and often putting others before herself. She was a woman with a heart as big as they come.
She was a firecracker from her youth right through to her final days. She had no patience for rudeness—whether from children or adults. She was headstrong, strong-willed, tenacious, and unapologetically herself. She loved being the center of attention and had the personality to match. She had a way with words… big words… $1.50 words. And she never shied away from saying what needed to be said.
Born the middle child of three, she liked to brag—often—that she was the favourite. The eldest was the trailblazer, the youngest the baby, but Mom? She was the trusted one. The clever one. She had a way of staying in her parents’ good graces. She was sharp, intuitive, and just knew what to say and do to get things done—and to get her way. She didn’t just find favor; she worked for it—and she knew how to keep it.
Mom lived her life grounded in her faith. Her love for God shaped her, strengthened her, and guided her through all of life’s ups and downs. Her faith was a cornerstone of her life, and she shared that foundation with others, mentoring, teaching, guiding. And although she could be fiery and formidable, as I got older, I realized she was also teaching us—through her words and her actions—to be strong, to speak up, and never take crap from anyone. She was raising women, not wallflowers.
She loved deeply and gave fiercely. Looking back now, I see all the ways she taught me to be strong, to be compassionate, to stand tall. I didn’t realize it then, but through her actions and her examples, she handed me the tools to become the woman I am today. A mother, a teacher, a fighter in my own way—just like her. She was always teaching us—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly—but always with love. She showed me what it meant to be a good person, a strong woman, a caring friend, a nurturing mother, and a loving wife.
She was our beacon—of love, of hope, of hard work and determination. So many of the things I value in myself today—my strength, my independence, my ability to love and care deeply—I owe to her. She fought for us. She pushed us. She believed in us. She never stopped wanting more for me and my sister.
At 3 ½ years old, Mom put me in ballet. That tiny step launched a lifelong passion. When I was unsuccessful on becoming a flight attendant, she didn’t let me wallow—she simply suggested I apply to Ryerson University’s dance teacher college. That’s how she operated: when one door closed, she gently, firmly pointed you to another one—usually one you hadn’t seen yet.
When I opened my dance studio, she was the engine behind the scenes. Dad renovated the garage, did the books. Mom ran the front desk. Gab was one of my students. It was a family affair. No one knew what hit them. When the home studio got too small, she was right there, planning our next steps. She did it because she believed in me—and because she loved dance.
She brought that same energy to supporting my sister Gabrielle after she graduated from Early Childhood Education. That partnership had a few more sparks—Gab inherited Mom’s fiery spirit—but make no mistake, she had the same passion, the same commitment. Her family was her world, and she would do anything to see us thrive.
And she had her own unique way of motivating me. I remember one time I was struggling to connect emotionally with a lyrical solo to “Out Here On My Own” sung by Irene Cara from the movie Fame. I just couldn’t get the emotion right. Then one day, in the middle of practice, Mom sat me down and told me—calmly—that this would be my last year of dance. That she couldn’t afford it. That I’d have to quit.
Ok……let’s run through it again. Ummmm what???!??? She drops this bomb on me and I’m suppose to continue practicing. Can I not go to my room and cry my eyes out now please? Is what ran through my head as I stared at her in disbelief. Come on let’s go. You’re not done.
Now, brought up as a child of a Jamaican mother, I of course knew better than to respond. So I said nothing, stood up, and took my opening pose. I danced like my heart was breaking. Because it was. And when I finished, she smiled and said, “That’s it. You got it.” Now every time you perform, think of that feeling you just had. You mean that feeling of sadness, heartbreak, the end of everything I’ve ever known and care about????
That wicked woman had pulled the emotion from my gut by pretending to pull dance from my life. Yes Wicked. But brilliant. That solo went on to win awards—and that moment became a lesson I carried forever. That was my mother. She knew what I needed, even when I didn’t.
Mom was also just… a bit wild. Who else drives from a competition in Sudbury to Ryerson in Toronto so their daughter can write an exam, and then drives back to finish the competition? She did it like it was normal. She never let distance—or exhaustion—stand in the way of her support.
Dad, mom and I carpooled home together from work and school. As soon as we arrived home, mom would walk straight into the kitchen to start dinner. My sister and I laughed and made fun of her cooking while still wearing her winter coat and hat. Her family’s health came first. But seriously, 30 seconds to take off your coat and hat mom? You could afford it.
Mom provided care for those in need. When I decided to return to work, she took care of my younger son Dorian by living part time with my family and part time with dad. She also took care of Mrs. Rowe’s special needs daughter, while she worked. And she took care of Paulene Kennedy’s grandchildren while their parents were at work.
She mentored young people. Educating the children at Church School of the Seventh Day Adventist Church was a joyful position for her. She took on the position with pride.
She bestowed her knowledge. Brunhilde provided her insight and experience to those who sought out comfort and assistance from her. She was always the first person I went to when I had a problem or required guidance. Her words and thoughts may not have always agreed with me but I followed her advice. She was always right.
She provided piano lessons. She, without a second thought, offered and took on the position of piano teacher for Aunt Polly and Uncle Wendell’s girls; Lori-Anne and Primrose. These lessons took place at our house. I believe mom would have provided dance lessons if it weren’t for the fact that I would have strangled her. She was so giving of her time, her talent, her treasures.
Mom had a passion for the arts. She enjoyed dance, specifically ballet. She liked watching figure skating. A beautiful combination of dance on ice. She loved music. The piano was her instrument of choice but she picked up the ukulele later in life just for fun. That curiosity, that love for beauty, never faded.
Dad met mom when she was a student attending Ardenne High School. They lived in the same neighbourhood and he was quite friendly with her family. He knew her brother, her sister, her mother. Not so much grandpa as he was always working. Mom’s brother Larry was quite a good drafts player and Cecil used this excuse to go by the house and see Larry’s good-looking sister. Larry taught Cecil how to play drafts and they would have game matches with one another. People actually thought dad was interested in his sister Blossie as he was friendlier with her in the beginning as mom concentrated on her schoolwork more than she did boys.
Even after mom’s family moved locations, the distance did not deter dad from travelling to see her and her family. One day after hanging out with the Bailey kids, he was ready to go home. Mom offered to walk with him. They got to a certain distance and dad noticed they were far from her house. So he walked her back home not wanting her to travel on her own. They chatted some more and as he headed back home, she accompanied him again. Once again, he walked her back home as they had lost track of the distance because they were chatting so much. This happened about three times before they realized they just kept walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He finally dropped her at her house and went home by himself with his radio for company. This is how their love began—with laughter and companionship.
Brunhilde was not a very good cook in her youth. Mom learned to cook because her own mother refused to have her girls sent back home by any husband who said they couldn’t. So the Bailey girls competed weekly—cooked, served, and were rated at the table. Mom became a great cook, and Dad still raves about her stew pork to this day.
He also remembers taking her to work on his motorcycle after they were married. She rode side-saddle—her tight skirt wouldn’t allow otherwise. But she rode anyway. With him. Always with him.
Your presence would have meant the world to her—she would have been tickled pink, as she used to say, knowing how loved she truly was. Her heart would soar. Thank you for loving her. Thank you for being here.
And so I’ll close with this poem—words that I believe she would’ve chosen for herself:
“When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room—why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little—but not for long, and not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared, miss me—but let me go.
For this is a journey we all must take, and each must go alone,
It’s all a part of the Master’s plan, a step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart—go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds—miss me, but let me go.”
Rest well, Mom. You gave everything you had. You were one of a kind. And we love you always.
Good afternoon everyone,
On behalf of my father, my sister, and myself, thank you so much for being here today to celebrate the extraordinary life of Brunhilde Norma-delle Chin—my mother.
Fondly known as Cherry. Daughter of Lynda and Ethelbert. Wife to Cecil George. Mother to Suyen Angelique and Gabrielle Francesca. Grandmother to Tyler Cameron and Dorian Joseph. Sister, aunt, godmother, friend—friend for life if you were lucky enough to be called one.
If you knew my mother, you knew she had a big heart. She’d give you the shirt off her back and the last dollar in her wallet, without hesitation and without being asked. That’s just who she was. Generous to a fault, always ready to help, and often putting others before herself. She was a woman with a heart as big as they come.
She was a firecracker from her youth right through to her final days. She had no patience for rudeness—whether from children or adults. She was headstrong, strong-willed, tenacious, and unapologetically herself. She loved being the center of attention and had the personality to match. She had a way with words… big words… $1.50 words. And she never shied away from saying what needed to be said.
Born the middle child of three, she liked to brag—often—that she was the favourite. The eldest was the trailblazer, the youngest the baby, but Mom? She was the trusted one. The clever one. She had a way of staying in her parents’ good graces. She was sharp, intuitive, and just knew what to say and do to get things done—and to get her way. She didn’t just find favor; she worked for it—and she knew how to keep it.
Mom lived her life grounded in her faith. Her love for God shaped her, strengthened her, and guided her through all of life’s ups and downs. Her faith was a cornerstone of her life, and she shared that foundation with others, mentoring, teaching, guiding. And although she could be fiery and formidable, as I got older, I realized she was also teaching us—through her words and her actions—to be strong, to speak up, and never take crap from anyone. She was raising women, not wallflowers.
She loved deeply and gave fiercely. Looking back now, I see all the ways she taught me to be strong, to be compassionate, to stand tall. I didn’t realize it then, but through her actions and her examples, she handed me the tools to become the woman I am today. A mother, a teacher, a fighter in my own way—just like her. She was always teaching us—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly—but always with love. She showed me what it meant to be a good person, a strong woman, a caring friend, a nurturing mother, and a loving wife.
She was our beacon—of love, of hope, of hard work and determination. So many of the things I value in myself today—my strength, my independence, my ability to love and care deeply—I owe to her. She fought for us. She pushed us. She believed in us. She never stopped wanting more for me and my sister.
At 3 ½ years old, Mom put me in ballet. That tiny step launched a lifelong passion. When I was unsuccessful on becoming a flight attendant, she didn’t let me wallow—she simply suggested I apply to Ryerson University’s dance teacher college. That’s how she operated: when one door closed, she gently, firmly pointed you to another one—usually one you hadn’t seen yet.
When I opened my dance studio, she was the engine behind the scenes. Dad renovated the garage, did the books. Mom ran the front desk. Gab was one of my students. It was a family affair. No one knew what hit them. When the home studio got too small, she was right there, planning our next steps. She did it because she believed in me—and because she loved dance.
She brought that same energy to supporting my sister Gabrielle after she graduated from Early Childhood Education. That partnership had a few more sparks—Gab inherited Mom’s fiery spirit—but make no mistake, she had the same passion, the same commitment. Her family was her world, and she would do anything to see us thrive.
And she had her own unique way of motivating me. I remember one time I was struggling to connect emotionally with a lyrical solo to “Out Here On My Own” sung by Irene Cara from the movie Fame. I just couldn’t get the emotion right. Then one day, in the middle of practice, Mom sat me down and told me—calmly—that this would be my last year of dance. That she couldn’t afford it. That I’d have to quit.
Ok……let’s run through it again. Ummmm what???!??? She drops this bomb on me and I’m suppose to continue practicing. Can I not go to my room and cry my eyes out now please? Is what ran through my head as I stared at her in disbelief. Come on let’s go. You’re not done.
Now, brought up as a child of a Jamaican mother, I of course knew better than to respond. So I said nothing, stood up, and took my opening pose. I danced like my heart was breaking. Because it was. And when I finished, she smiled and said, “That’s it. You got it.” Now every time you perform, think of that feeling you just had. You mean that feeling of sadness, heartbreak, the end of everything I’ve ever known and care about????
That wicked woman had pulled the emotion from my gut by pretending to pull dance from my life. Yes Wicked. But brilliant. That solo went on to win awards—and that moment became a lesson I carried forever. That was my mother. She knew what I needed, even when I didn’t.
Mom was also just… a bit wild. Who else drives from a competition in Sudbury to Ryerson in Toronto so their daughter can write an exam, and then drives back to finish the competition? She did it like it was normal. She never let distance—or exhaustion—stand in the way of her support.
Dad, mom and I carpooled home together from work and school. As soon as we arrived home, mom would walk straight into the kitchen to start dinner. My sister and I laughed and made fun of her cooking while still wearing her winter coat and hat. Her family’s health came first. But seriously, 30 seconds to take off your coat and hat mom? You could afford it.
Mom provided care for those in need. When I decided to return to work, she took care of my younger son Dorian by living part time with my family and part time with dad. She also took care of Mrs. Rowe’s special needs daughter, while she worked. And she took care of Paulene Kennedy’s grandchildren while their parents were at work.
She mentored young people. Educating the children at Church School of the Seventh Day Adventist Church was a joyful position for her. She took on the position with pride.
She bestowed her knowledge. Brunhilde provided her insight and experience to those who sought out comfort and assistance from her. She was always the first person I went to when I had a problem or required guidance. Her words and thoughts may not have always agreed with me but I followed her advice. She was always right.
She provided piano lessons. She, without a second thought, offered and took on the position of piano teacher for Aunt Polly and Uncle Wendell’s girls; Lori-Anne and Primrose. These lessons took place at our house. I believe mom would have provided dance lessons if it weren’t for the fact that I would have strangled her. She was so giving of her time, her talent, her treasures.
Mom had a passion for the arts. She enjoyed dance, specifically ballet. She liked watching figure skating. A beautiful combination of dance on ice. She loved music. The piano was her instrument of choice but she picked up the ukulele later in life just for fun. That curiosity, that love for beauty, never faded.
Dad met mom when she was a student attending Ardenne High School. They lived in the same neighbourhood and he was quite friendly with her family. He knew her brother, her sister, her mother. Not so much grandpa as he was always working. Mom’s brother Larry was quite a good drafts player and Cecil used this excuse to go by the house and see Larry’s good-looking sister. Larry taught Cecil how to play drafts and they would have game matches with one another. People actually thought dad was interested in his sister Blossie as he was friendlier with her in the beginning as mom concentrated on her schoolwork more than she did boys.
Even after mom’s family moved locations, the distance did not deter dad from travelling to see her and her family. One day after hanging out with the Bailey kids, he was ready to go home. Mom offered to walk with him. They got to a certain distance and dad noticed they were far from her house. So he walked her back home not wanting her to travel on her own. They chatted some more and as he headed back home, she accompanied him again. Once again, he walked her back home as they had lost track of the distance because they were chatting so much. This happened about three times before they realized they just kept walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He finally dropped her at her house and went home by himself with his radio for company. This is how their love began—with laughter and companionship.
Brunhilde was not a very good cook in her youth. Mom learned to cook because her own mother refused to have her girls sent back home by any husband who said they couldn’t. So the Bailey girls competed weekly—cooked, served, and were rated at the table. Mom became a great cook, and Dad still raves about her stew pork to this day.
He also remembers taking her to work on his motorcycle after they were married. She rode side-saddle—her tight skirt wouldn’t allow otherwise. But she rode anyway. With him. Always with him.
Your presence would have meant the world to her—she would have been tickled pink, as she used to say, knowing how loved she truly was. Her heart would soar. Thank you for loving her. Thank you for being here.
And so I’ll close with this poem—words that I believe she would’ve chosen for herself:
“When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room—why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little—but not for long, and not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared, miss me—but let me go.
For this is a journey we all must take, and each must go alone,
It’s all a part of the Master’s plan, a step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart—go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds—miss me, but let me go.”
Rest well, Mom. You gave everything you had. You were one of a kind. And we love you always.