I’ve stood beside more graves than I can count, and I can tell you this—some mistakes made in a funeral home can haunt a family for decades. My name is Pastor Thomas Hail. I’m 84 years old, and I’ve spent my life serving people through their hardest seasons. I’ve buried people I knew for 50 years, and people whose names I only learned hours before.
And after all those funerals, I’ve learned that a funeral is never only about the person in the casket. It’s about the people still standing. It’s about what death brings to the surface in your own heart. Here are 10 things I believe you should never do at a funeral, and I’m starting with the one that can quietly destroy a family long after the flowers have dried up.
The first thing is to never leave your own house in disorder. That sounds strange, but stay with me. I’ve seen ugly family arguments happen after a good person died simply because nobody knew what they wanted. Who gets the house?
Who gets the jewelry? Where is the insurance policy? One child remembers one conversation; another remembers something completely different. Suddenly, siblings who sat beside each other in church for 30 years won’t speak.
Grief is heavy enough. When you add confusion to it, you create a storm. If you’re older, put your affairs in order while your hands still work. Have a proper will.
Write down where important documents are. Make your wishes known about burial, songs, scripture, and who you want involved. 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.
And write a letter to your children and grandchildren. Don’t make it fancy. Tell them you love them. Tell them what you’re proud of.
A handwritten letter from a grandmother or grandfather who is no longer here can become a family treasure. Don’t leave your family a puzzle to solve on the worst week of their lives. Give them clarity. Give them peace.
The second thing is to never turn a funeral into a performance. I’ve seen this too many times—people trying to prove they were the closest friend, the best son, or trying to make everyone notice how broken they are. I’m not talking about genuine emotion. Crying isn’t a performance just because others see your tears.
Some people cry loudly, some silently, and some not 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 would sit because each wanted to be seen as closest to the deceased.
The person in the casket couldn’t care less. The living were turning sorrow into a stage. So before you walk in, ask yourself: If nobody were watching me today, would I still behave this way? If the answer is yes, grieve honestly.
But if you’re trying to impress somebody, stop. You’re not there to become the main character. You’re there to honor someone who can no longer speak for themselves. If you’re asked to give a eulogy, don’t be afraid to write it down.
Grief can make the mind wander. You start talking about yourself and telling stories nobody needs to hear, and the person you’re honoring disappears from their own funeral. Keep it simple. Tell the truth.
Share one or two meaningful stories. Say what you loved about them, then sit down. The third thing is to never gossip about the dead or their family. It sounds obvious, but you’d be surprised how quickly a funeral gathering becomes a place for whispers.
I’ve heard people speculate about how someone died, about marriages, about old failures, financial problems, addictions, and even where they think the deceased might be spiritually. The person you’re talking about may be dead, but the people who love them are still standing right there. Your words can reach them. I remember a funeral where two people were chatting quietly in the hallway about the dead man’s private struggles.
They thought no one was listening. A family member heard every word. She didn’t argue; she just walked away. Years later she told me those few sentences changed how she looked at that church forever.
That’s how powerful words are when someone is already wounded. So if someone starts a sentence with “Did you hear what happened? ” I don’t need to hear it. I find someone who is hurting and stand beside them.
If someone tries to pull you into gossip, say, “Not today. Let’s honor him. ” Then change the subject. Look around the room.
There’s almost always somebody standing alone—a son-in-law who doesn’t know anyone, an old friend in the back, a grandchild 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 with a hundred clever words. The fourth thing is to never 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.
We reach for familiar phrases: “Everything happens for a reason. ” “God needed another angel. ” “At least they’re not suffering anymore. ” Please be careful.
You may mean well, but meaning well doesn’t make a sentence helpful. A grieving woman doesn’t need you to explain why her husband died. A father who 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. A mentor once taught me: when someone is suffering deeply, your presence can speak louder than your explanation. If you want to help practically, don’t say, “Let me know if you need anything.
” They won’t call you. Grief makes ordinary tasks difficult. Instead, be specific: “I’m bringing dinner Thursday evening. Is 6:00 okay?
” Or, “I’ll come by Saturday morning and take care of the yard. ” That’s love that actually shows up. The fifth thing is to never disappear after the funeral is over. We are very good at showing up when everyone else is showing up.
The first week can be incredible—cars fill the driveway, people bring food, the phone rings. Then the funeral is over. The casseroles disappear. The flowers fade.
Everyone returns to work. The house becomes quiet. And that’s when the real loneliness begins. I’ve seen a widow hold herself together for two weeks because there was so much to do, only to collapse six weeks later when the house finally became silent.
She hears her husband’s chair creak in her memory. 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.
I’ve seen widowers disappear into themselves because nobody thought to check on them. Men often don’t ask for help. So if someone you love loses a spouse, put dates on your calendar. Call after a month.
Call after three months. Call on the birthday and the anniversary. And don’t send a quick text because it’s easier. Sometimes a real human voice is what someone needs.
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 they haven’t been forgotten. Those are only the first five. The next five involve something that can follow a grieving person for years if they don’t deal with it—especially what we carry inside our hearts when the person we’re angry with is no longer here to hear us say it.
The sixth thing is to never bury your unforgiveness with the person who died. I know that’s hard to hear, and I don’t say it lightly. Some people were deeply hurt by a parent, a spouse, a sibling, even a child. Some wounds are not small.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending something terrible never happened. It doesn’t mean saying what they did was acceptable, and it doesn’t mean putting yourself back into an unsafe relationship. But there comes a point when you have to decide whether you’re going to carry that debt for the rest of your life. When the person dies, the anger doesn’t necessarily die with them.
Sometimes it gets worse because you can’t confront them anymore. You can’t ask questions. You can’t hear an apology. The person is gone, but the wound is still in your heart.
I knew a man who spent almost his entire adult life angry at his father. His father failed him in ways I won’t describe. When the father died, the son thought the anger would finally disappear. It didn’t.
He carried it into his marriage, into how he raised his children, into every relationship where somebody disappointed him. The person who hurt him was gone, but the wound had found new places to live. If you’re carrying something like that, 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 writing the person’s name on a piece of paper, writing down exactly what happened, not making it pretty, then underneath writing, “I release this debt.
I will not spend the rest of my life collecting it. ” Tear it up if that helps 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. If reconciliation is possible and safe, don’t always wait.
I’ve seen brothers shake hands beside a dying mother’s bed. 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 is to never put your hope in a ritual, an object, or a superstition instead of trusting Christ.
I’ve seen families place photographs in caskets, set favorite possessions beside the dead, turn clocks around, cover mirrors, carry bodies out in a certain direction, or insist that something must be done or the deceased’s spirit won’t rest. Some traditions are simply traditions. A rose on a casket can be a symbol of love. A family recipe served after the burial can be a beautiful way of remembering somebody.
There’s nothing wrong with that. The problem begins when we start believing the ritual itself has spiritual power. Watch for the little word: “We do this so he can rest. ” “We say this so her spirit will be at peace.
” “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.
They’re not the same thing. You are not responsible for performing some perfect ceremony that determines the eternal destiny of the person you loved. You can’t save someone with the right flower, the right object, the right number of candles, or the right words spoken over a casket. And you can’t accidentally condemn someone because you forgot a ritual.
That’s not where our hope comes from. If somebody tells you a tradition has the power to change what happens to a soul, step back. You can say, “I understand why this is meaningful to you, but I’m going to put my trust in God. ” Then pray for the living.
There are plenty of people in that room who need prayer. The eighth thing is to never try to contact the dead. Grief can make even sensible people vulnerable. When somebody you loved for 40 or 50 years suddenly disappears from your daily life, the desire to hear their voice again can become overwhelming.
You might think, “If I could just have one more conversation, if I could just know they’re okay. ” I understand that longing. I’ve felt it myself. But longing doesn’t make every answer trustworthy.
Over the years, I’ve watched grieving people get involved with mediums, psychics, spirit boards, and online services—people who claim they can communicate with the deceased. Some charge money. Some speak 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’re vulnerable, and there are people who know exactly how to take advantage of that.
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, a mature friend, your family.
Cry. Pray. Tell God 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. The ninth thing 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 or smile at the funeral because you’re a Christian.
Please don’t do that to yourself or someone you love. Grief is not a failure of faith. If you love somebody deeply, their absence is going to hurt. There were times 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. The Bible doesn’t tell grieving people to stop mourning.
It tells believers not to grieve as those who have no hope. There’s 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. So 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 you don’t mean.
God knows your weakness. But sometimes people spend ten years haunted by something they screamed in a hospital hallway. Cry if you need to. Scream into a pillow.
Sit quietly. And when you don’t know what else to pray, borrow a simple one: “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. ” That prayer has carried many people through dark valleys.
If your faith feels small, don’t be ashamed. A small hand can still hold tightly to a strong hand. Finally, the tenth thing is to never walk out of a funeral exactly the same person who walked in. Of all the things I’ve told you, this may be the one I want you to remember most.
A funeral gives you something 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. 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. So now, whenever I attend a funeral, I take one quiet minute before I leave. I stand still.
I look at the casket and ask myself: “If that were me today, am I ready? ” Not “Have I been a good person? ” Not “Did I attend church enough? ” I ask, “Am I at peace with God?
” That’s a question worth answering while you’re still alive. 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 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 were married for 57 years. I had stood beside hundreds of grieving families and thought I knew something about grief.
Then suddenly I was the man in the front row. I was the one hearing the prayers. I was the one looking at the empty chair beside me. Knowledge doesn’t make grief painless.
My hands shook. My voice broke. There were moments I didn’t know how I’d 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. That’s what I want for you. Don’t wait until the funeral of someone 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.
Put your house in order. 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 here are the 10 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 or ritual. 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 these 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. If you’re watching this because someone you love recently died, know this: you don’t have to pretend you’re strong for everybody else. You don’t have to have all the answers.
Take it 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, tell someone you trust. You were never meant to carry everything alone. At my age, I don’t take time for granted anymore.
Every conversation matters. Every person matters. So take care of yourself. 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.
God bless you, my friend.
