The first thing you should never do at a funeral is leave your own house in disorder. I know that sounds strange as the first thing on my list, but stay with me. I have seen some of the ugliest family arguments happen after a good man or woman died simply because nobody knew what that person wanted. Who gets the house?
Who gets the jewelry? Where is the insurance policy? One child remembers one conversation. Another remembers something completely different.
And suddenly, brothers and sisters who sat beside each other in the same church for 30 years won’t speak to each other. Grief is already heavy. When you add confusion to grief, you create a terrible storm. So if you’re an older person listening to me right now, put your affairs in order while your hands still work and your mind is still clear.
Have a proper legal will. Write down where important documents are. Make your wishes known about burial, scripture, and the people you want involved. And don’t hide everything in your head and assume your children will figure it out.
They won’t. Not when they’re standing in your kitchen three days after your death with tears in their eyes and a hundred decisions to make. There’s one more thing I want you to do. Write a letter to your children and grandchildren.
Don’t make it fancy. Tell them that you love them. Tell them what you’re proud of. Tell them what your faith has meant to you.
A sermon may be forgotten, but a handwritten letter from a grandmother who is no longer here can become something a family keeps for generations. Please don’t leave your family a puzzle to solve on the worst week of their lives. The second thing you should never do is turn the funeral into a performance. I’ve seen this happen more times than I care to admit.
Somebody wants to prove they were the closest friend. Somebody wants everyone in the room to notice how broken they are. I’m not talking about genuine emotion. Crying isn’t a performance just because other people can see your tears.
Some people cry loudly. Some cry silently. Some don’t cry at all until they’re alone in the car three days later. None of that tells me how deeply they loved somebody.
What concerns me is when grief becomes competition. I once watched two grown relatives argue in a hallway about where they were going to sit because each one wanted to be seen as the person closest to the deceased. The person in the casket couldn’t care less where they sat. But the living were turning sorrow into a stage.
Before you walk into a funeral, ask yourself a simple question. If nobody were watching me today, would I still behave this way? If the answer is yes, then carry on. Grieve honestly.
But if you realize you’re trying to impress somebody, stop and remember why you’re there. You’re not there to become the main character. You’re there to honor someone who can no longer speak for themselves. And if you’re asked to give a eulogy, don’t be afraid to write it down.
I’ve heard people say that reading a prepared eulogy isn’t heartfelt enough. I disagree. Sometimes writing it down is the most loving thing you can do because grief can make the mind wander. You start talking about yourself.
Before you know it, the person you’re supposed to be honoring has disappeared from their own funeral. Keep it simple. Tell the truth. Say what you loved about them, and then sit down.
The third thing you should never do is gossip about the dead or their family. I know that sounds obvious, but you’d be surprised how quickly a funeral gathering can become a place where people start talking about things that should never be discussed. I’ve heard people whisper about how someone died. I’ve heard people discuss old family failures, financial problems, addictions, and even where they think the deceased person might be spiritually.
Let me tell you something I’ve learned after all these years. The person you’re talking about may be dead, but the people who love them are still standing right there. I remember one funeral where two people were talking quietly in the hallway about the dead man’s private struggles. They thought nobody was listening.
A family member heard every word. She didn’t argue. She simply walked away. Years later, she told me that those few sentences changed the way she looked at that church forever.
So I’ve developed a rule for myself. If somebody starts a sentence with, “Did you hear what happened? ” I don’t need to hear it. I need to find somebody who is hurting and stand beside them.
If someone tries to pull you into gossip, you can simply say, “Not today. Let’s honor him. ” Then change the subject. And here’s something even better.
Look around the room. There is almost always somebody standing alone. Maybe it’s a son-in-law who doesn’t know anybody. Maybe it’s a grandchild who is too young to understand.
Walk over and sit beside them. Ask, “How did you know him? ” Then listen. You may do more good in ten quiet minutes than you could ever do with a hundred clever words.
The fourth thing you should never do is say something careless to a grieving person just because you don’t know what else to say. I understand why people do it. Silence makes us uncomfortable. When we see somebody crying, we feel like we have to fix something.
So we reach for familiar phrases. Everything happens for a reason. God needed another angel. At least they’re not suffering anymore.
Please be careful with those words. You may mean well, but meaning well doesn’t automatically make a sentence helpful. A grieving woman doesn’t need you to explain why her husband died. A father who just lost a child doesn’t need a theological lecture in the hallway.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can say is, “I don’t have the right words. ” Sometimes it’s, “I loved him, too. ” And sometimes it’s simply, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. ” Then be quiet.
Sit down. Let the tears come. You don’t have to fill every silence. One of the greatest lessons I learned from an elderly man who mentored me when I was young was this.
When someone is suffering deeply, your presence can speak louder than your explanation. And if you want to help practically, don’t tell a grieving person, “Let me know if you need anything. ” They probably won’t call you. Instead, be specific.
Say, “I’m bringing dinner Thursday evening. Is six o’clock okay? ” Or, “I’ll come by Saturday morning and take care of the yard. ” That’s love that actually shows up.
The fifth thing you should never do is disappear after the funeral is over. This has bothered me more and more as I’ve grown older. We are often very good at showing up when everyone else is showing up. The first week can be incredible.
Cars fill the driveway. People bring food. Flowers arrive. Then suddenly the funeral is over.
The casseroles disappear. Everyone returns to work. The house becomes quiet. And that’s when the real loneliness can begin.
I’ve seen a widow hold herself together for two weeks because there were so many things to do, only to collapse emotionally six weeks later when the house finally became silent. She sees her husband’s coat hanging where he left it. She reaches for the phone to tell him something and remembers. That’s when she needs you.
Not just on the day of the funeral, but weeks later, months later, on the birthday, on the anniversary, on the first Thanksgiving without him. And don’t forget the older men either. I’ve seen widowers disappear into themselves because nobody thought to check on them. Men often don’t ask for help.
They sit alone and tell themselves they’re supposed to be strong. They’re not. None of us were designed to carry grief completely alone. So if someone you love loses a spouse, put a few dates on your calendar.
Call them after a month. Call again after three months. Call on the birthday. And don’t send a quick message just because it’s easier.
Sometimes a real human voice on the other end of the phone is what somebody needs. You can say, “I was thinking about you today. I remember him. How are you really doing?
” Then listen. You don’t have to rescue them. You just have to remind them that they haven’t been forgotten. Now, the sixth thing you should never do is bury your unforgiveness with the person who died.
I know that is a hard thing to hear, and I don’t say it lightly. There are people listening to me who were deeply hurt by a parent, a spouse, a brother, or a sister. Some wounds are not small. Forgiveness does not mean pretending something terrible never happened.
It doesn’t mean saying what they did was acceptable. It doesn’t mean you have to put yourself back into an unsafe relationship. But here’s something I have learned after sitting with grieving families for so many years. When the person dies, the anger doesn’t necessarily die with them.
Sometimes it gets worse because now you can’t confront them. You can’t ask questions. You can’t hear an apology. The person is gone, but the wound is still sitting in your heart.
I remember a man who had spent almost his entire adult life angry with his father. His father had failed him in ways I won’t describe here. I understood why he was angry. But when that father died, the son thought the anger would finally disappear.
It didn’t. He carried it into his marriage. He carried it into the way he raised his children. The person who had hurt him was gone, but the wound had found new places to live.
So if you are carrying something like that today, hear me carefully. You don’t have to call evil good. You don’t have to deny what happened. But you can tell God, “I am no longer willing to carry this debt.
I give it to you. ” Sometimes I recommend people write the person’s name on a piece of paper and write down exactly what happened. Don’t make it pretty. Then underneath it, write, “I release this debt.
I will not spend the rest of my life collecting it. ” Tear that paper up if it helps you make the decision real. Not because the paper has power, but because sometimes our hands need to participate in a decision our hearts are struggling to make. And if reconciliation is possible and safe, don’t always wait.
I have seen people find each other in hospital hallways after years of silence. I’ve seen grown children say, “I’m sorry” before the door closed forever. You don’t always get that opportunity twice. The seventh thing you should never do is put your hope in a ritual, an object, or a superstition.
I’ve seen families place photographs in caskets. I’ve seen people turn clocks around, cover mirrors, light particular candles, or insist that something must be done a certain way or the deceased person’s spirit won’t rest. Some traditions are simply traditions. They can be beautiful.
A rose placed on a casket can be a symbol of love. The problem begins when we start believing that the ritual itself has spiritual power. Watch for the little word. We do this so he can rest.
We place this here so they can take it with them. That’s where a harmless tradition becomes something else. A symbol points toward meaning. A mechanism claims to control an outcome.
Those are not the same thing. Remember this because it can bring tremendous peace to a grieving family. You are not responsible for performing some perfect ceremony that determines the eternal destiny of the person you loved. You cannot save someone with the right flower or the right words spoken over a casket.
And you cannot accidentally condemn someone because you forgot a ritual. That is not where our hope comes from. If somebody tells you that the tradition itself has the power to change what happens to a soul, step back. You don’t have to fight with anybody.
You can simply say, “I understand why this is meaningful to you, but I’m going to put my trust in God. ”
The eighth thing you should never do is try to contact the dead. Grief can make even sensible people vulnerable. When somebody you have loved for forty or fifty years suddenly disappears from your daily life, the desire to hear their voice again can become overwhelming.
You may think, “If I could just have one more conversation. If I could just know that they’re okay. ”
I understand that longing. I have felt it myself.
But longing does not make every answer trustworthy. Over the years, I’ve watched grieving people become involved with mediums, psychics, and people who claim they can communicate with deceased relatives. Some of them charge money. Some speak very softly and use Christian language to make people feel safe.
Stay away from all of it. Your grief belongs with God and with people who are alive and can walk beside you. Don’t go looking for your dead husband in a stranger’s living room. Don’t pay somebody on the internet to read your mother’s energy.
When you’re grieving, you are vulnerable. And there are people who know exactly how to take advantage of that vulnerability. If you’ve already gone down that road, don’t sit in shame. Tell someone you trust.
Turn away from it and bring the pain back into the light. Talk to your pastor. Cry. Pray.
Tell God that you miss them. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. But don’t hand your grief over to someone who claims to have access to the dead. Now, the ninth thing.
And this one may sound strange coming from an old preacher. Never grieve like someone who has no hope. Notice what I said. I didn’t say never grieve.
I didn’t say stop crying. Grief is not a failure of faith. If you love somebody deeply, their absence is going to hurt. There were times when I sat alone after losing someone and didn’t know what to do with the silence.
There were mornings when getting out of bed felt like an act of courage. Faith did not remove the pain. Faith gave the pain somewhere to go. There is a difference between saying, “This hurts terribly, but God is still here” and saying, “This hurts.
Therefore, God has abandoned me. ” Both people may cry. Both may struggle to sleep. But one still has somewhere to look.
When you’re in those first terrible days, be careful about what you declare. Don’t build an entire theology around the worst five minutes of your life. You may say things in grief that you don’t mean. So cry if you need to.
Scream into a pillow. Sit quietly. And when you don’t know what else to pray, borrow a simple prayer. Lord, I believe.
Help my unbelief. If your faith feels small, don’t be ashamed. A small hand can still hold tightly to a strong hand. And finally, the tenth thing you should never do is walk out exactly the same person who walked in.
Of all the things I’ve told you today, this may be the one I want you to remember most. A funeral gives you something that ordinary life rarely gives you. For a little while, death stops being an idea. It becomes real.
You see a casket. You hear the silence. You watch a family say goodbye. And for a few minutes, every person in that room knows something they usually try not to think about.
One day that will be me. And yet somehow we leave the building and immediately start thinking about traffic, dinner, work, the bills. We get back into our cars and return to normal life as though we weren’t just reminded that our days are numbered. I’ve done it myself.
I’m an old man, and I still catch myself rushing past lessons that should have stopped me in my tracks. So now whenever I attend a funeral, I try to take one quiet minute before I leave. I stand still. I look at the casket.
And I ask myself a question. If that were me today, am I ready? Not, “Have I been a good person? ” Not, “Did I attend church enough?
” Not, “Will people remember me kindly? ” I ask, “Am I at peace with God? ” That’s a question worth answering while you’re still alive. Because there are questions you can answer tomorrow, and there are questions you cannot.
Death eventually closes the door on our opportunity to make certain choices. That’s why a funeral can be a warning, but it can also be a gift. It reminds us to call somebody we’ve been avoiding. It reminds us to forgive while we still have time.
It reminds us to tell our children that we love them. It reminds us to stop wasting years on things that won’t matter when we’re old. And for those who have faith, it reminds us that death does not have the final word. I learned that lesson in a way I never expected.
Several years ago, I stood beside the casket of the woman I had loved for more than half my life. Her name was Margaret. We had been married for fifty-seven years. I had stood beside hundreds of grieving families, and I thought I knew something about grief.
Then suddenly I was the man sitting in the front row. I was the one hearing the prayers. I was the one looking at the empty chair beside me. And let me tell you, knowledge doesn’t make grief painless.
My hands shook. My voice broke. There were moments when I didn’t know how I was going to get through the day. But I discovered something.
The faith I had preached for decades had to become my own faith in the darkest room of my life. I couldn’t borrow somebody else’s hope. I had to hold on to it myself. And that’s what I want for you.
Don’t wait until the funeral of somebody you love to think about what matters. Start now. Love your people while they’re alive. Forgive where you can.
Make peace where you can. Guard your tongue. Stay close to people who are hurting. And when you grieve, grieve honestly.
But don’t let grief convince you that love was a mistake or that God has forgotten you. So let me leave you with the ten things one more time. Not as rules carved in stone, but as lessons an old man wishes somebody had taught him sooner. Put your house in order.
Don’t turn a funeral into a performance. Don’t gossip. Don’t speak careless words to the grieving. Don’t disappear after the funeral.
Don’t bury unforgiveness with the dead. Don’t put your hope in superstition. Don’t try to contact the dead. Don’t grieve as though you have no hope.
And don’t walk out of a funeral unchanged. If you remember even three or four of those things, you’ll be better prepared the next time you stand in a funeral home. And more importantly, you’ll be better prepared for the life you’re still living right now. And if you’re watching this because someone you love has recently died, I want you to know something before I go.
You don’t have to pretend you’re strong for everybody else. You don’t have to have all the answers. Take the next day one day at a time. Eat something.
Get some rest. Let somebody sit with you. Pray, even if your prayer is only three words. And if the grief becomes too heavy to carry, please tell someone you trust.
You were never meant to carry everything alone. Call somebody you love while you still can. Tell them what they mean to you. And the next time you walk into a funeral, don’t just think about the person you’re there to remember.
Think about the life you’re still being given.