Working With Families To Create A Funeral Service

Stepping Into Their World

One of the questions I’m asked most often is, “What is it like working with families after someone has died?”

Creating a funeral service is different for every family. Every story is different, and every meeting unfolds in its own way. But the heart of the work remains the same: stepping gently into a family’s world at one of the hardest moments of their lives, and helping them make sense of something that feels impossible to make sense of.

More often than not, the first contact comes through the funeral director. Sometimes, though, a family reaches out to me directly — perhaps because they’ve been recommended by a friend, or they’ve found me online and felt a connection. However the call comes, my first priority is always the same: to arrange a time to meet them within the next few days.

Unless a family lives overseas or many hours away, I always meet them face to face. There is something irreplaceable about being in the same room, sharing a cup of tea, and seeing the environment that held the person they’ve lost. A home tells a story long before anyone speaks. Photographs on the walls, guitars leaning in the corner, a half‑finished craft project on the table — these small details offer glimpses into the life we’re about to honour.

This is where the work truly begins.

Listening With My Whole Self

When I sit down with a family, I’m not there to rush them through a process. I’m there to listen — properly listen — to their stories, their memories, their regrets, their laughter, and sometimes their silence.

Some families come prepared with notes, timelines, and carefully chosen stories. Others sit down and say, “We don’t know where to start.” Both are absolutely fine. Grief doesn’t follow a script, and neither do these conversations.

Often, memories come out in fragments. A story from childhood leads suddenly to something that happened last year. Someone remembers a holiday, then jumps back to school days, then forward to a favourite hobby. The timeline loops and twists and overlaps. It’s not neat. It’s not linear. It’s human.

And that’s where my role comes in.

With gentle prompts — “What were they like as a parent?”, “What made them laugh?”, “What would they be doing on a Sunday afternoon?” — stories begin to surface that the family hadn’t even thought to share. Beautiful stories. Funny stories. Stories that reveal the essence of the person far more clearly than any list of dates ever could.

There’s No Time Limit on Grief — Or on Our Conversation

A family meeting can last anywhere from one to two hours, sometimes longer. There’s no stopwatch. If someone wants to show me every jumper their mum knitted, or every photograph their dad ever took, I’m honoured to sit with them and take it all in. These moments matter. They reveal the texture of a life.

Other times, the family is incredibly organised. They’ve already chosen the music, selected readings, and written down the stories they want included. That’s wonderful too. Every family brings what they can, in the way that feels right for them.

By the time I leave, I usually have pages and pages of notes — some written, some held in memory — and a deep sense of the person we’re going to honour. It’s not just information; it’s atmosphere and it’s emotion. It’s the feeling of who they were and how they lived their life.

Shaping the Stories Into a Ceremony

Once I’m home, I begin shaping everything I’ve gathered into a ceremony that feels like the person — personal, heartfelt, and true. This is where the skills of a celebrant come in.

It’s not work by a template.  There’s no cutting and pasting.

It’s storytelling. It’s holding space.  It’s guiding gently. And it’s an honour every single time.

Families often say, “I’ve no idea how you’re going to make sense of all that!”

And I always smile, because that’s exactly what I love. Even when there are several conversations happening at once, even when the stories jump around in time, even when the emotions are raw and tangled — there is always a thread. 

Always.

My job is to find it.

I take all the memories, all the anecdotes, all the details, and I begin to place them in order. I create a timeline from the fragments. I look for themes — the repeated mention of a favourite phrase, a lifelong passion, a particular way of being in the world. These threads help me shape a tribute that feels whole.

Creating a Ceremony That Feels Like Them

A ceremony isn’t just a sequence of words. It’s an experience and it needs to reflect the person who has died, but also the people who are grieving.

Some families want a ceremony filled with warmth and humour. Others want something quiet and reflective. Some want a celebration of life while others want something more traditional or spiritual. There’s no right or wrong — only what feels true.

We talk about:

·       music

·       readings

·       poems

·       symbolic gestures

·       visual tributes

·       personal touches

I’ve seen everything from children placing cans of Coke on the coffin, to pets being included in the ceremony, to families creating memory tables filled with treasured objects. These touches are often the most moving parts of the service.

When I tell families they can do almost anything they like — that there are no strict rules, no rigid expectations — the relief on their faces is palpable. They realise they have permission to honour their loved one in a way that feels authentic, not formulaic.

Holding Space With Care

The family meeting is about quality time. I don’t want anyone to feel rushed or pressured. I want them to feel safe enough to remember, to laugh, to cry, to pause, to breathe.

Working with families is not just part of my job - it’s the heart of it. It’s where the ceremony begins — not on the page, but in the stories shared around a kitchen table, in the quiet moments between words, in the love that fills the room even in the midst of grief.

Every family invites me into their world for a short time.

Every story is a privilege.

Every ceremony is an honour.

And I never take that for granted.