Abound

Some days in this work end with a policy. Some days end with silence. And some days end with 343 dials , 6 total contacts , 2 people who had already died, 2 who swear they never filled out a form , and 1 very clear message that included the f-bomb and instructions to leave them alone. After a day like that, I had choices. I could have written Lauryn a letter of resignation. I could have poured something strong and kept pouring, purely for medicinal reasons. Or I could do what I’ve learned to do over a lifetime — look for God, and for the Unlikely Altar , even on days like this. So I made an Old Fashioned , sat with the frustration, and went looking for meaning instead of escape. This is what I found. Most days, this work doesn’t feel like selling anything at all. It feels like waiting and hoping. Waiting and hoping for someone to answer a call. Waiting and hoping for a text that rarely comes. Waiting and hoping through long pauses where you don’t know if you helped, were annoyed, or simply disappeared into someone else’s already-full life. Those days get under your skin. They make you second-guess your timing, your tone, your calling. They whisper that maybe you’re bothering people. That maybe this work is foolish. That maybe you should find something easier, something cleaner, something with clearer wins. But I’ve seen what happens when no one shows up early. I’ve seen families blindsided, not just by grief but by decisions they didn’t know they’d have to make so fast. I’ve watched love get tangled up with panic, debt, and shame. I’ve seen people try to say goodbye while also figuring out how to pay for it. Final expense work lets us step into the story before the crisis. Not to scare people. Not to pressure them. Just to slow things down. To give them room. To give love a little help before it’s exhausted. It’s not flashy work. It’s quiet. Sometimes awkward. Often resisted. And a lot of it never shows up on a spreadsheet. Some conversations end with a policy. Many don’t. Some end with “not now.” Some end with silence. Some end because the person dies before anything can be done at all. Those are the ones that hurt the most, because you know exactly how the story will go from there. Still, we show up. Somewhere between the last unanswered call and the first honest breath of the evening, I realized that this too was an altar. Not a sanctuary. Not a success story. Just a kitchen counter, a half-finished drink, and the choice to stay present instead of walking away. That’s the Unlikely Altar . The place where frustration and care sit side by side. Where you tell the truth about how hard the day was and still decide not to quit. We show up because kindness done in advance still counts, even when it’s invisible. We show up because being honest and steady with someone who’s afraid is never wasted. We show up because preparation is one of the most underrated forms of love. I don’t know what your “why” is. Maybe it’s mostly financial. Maybe this work just fits your season right now. That’s okay. There’s no purity test for why we do this. I only know mine. Mine comes from seeing families who couldn’t afford even a simple cremation. Mine comes from watching grief get heavier than it ever needed to be. Mine comes from knowing that a little planning can spare the people you love from a very hard day. Hope doesn’t always look like a win. Sometimes it looks like not quitting. Sometimes it looks like making the next call with the same care as the first. Sometimes it looks like an Old Fashioned on the counter and the decision to look for meaning instead of escape. So we keep showing up. And day after day, I have to remind myself of this simple truth: nothing done with love and honesty is ever wasted.

There’s a moment at some gravesides that never leaves me. The prayer has been said. The final words have settled into the air. And just before people turn to walk away, someone lingers. Sometimes it’s a spouse who reaches out and rests their hand on the casket a second longer than expected. Sometimes it’s a daughter who leans in, whispering something only she needs to hear. Sometimes it’s a son who clears his throat, nods once, and steps back quickly, as if staying any longer might undo him. That pause tells me everything. It tells me love was here. It tells me something mattered. It tells me this goodbye carries weight. I have learned more about life, love, and legacy at a graveside than anywhere else. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t show up the same way twice. Some people cry openly. Some stand very still. Some tell stories through tears. Some stare at the ground as if they’re trying to memorize it. None of it is wrong. I’ve learned that love is almost always present, even when relationships were complicated. Even when words were left unsaid. Even when the story wasn’t neat or easy. Grief has a way of clarifying what mattered. And standing there, I’m always aware of this simple truth: one day, every one of us will be remembered in a moment like this. Not for what we owned. Not for what we avoided. But for how we loved. I’ve learned that people rarely talk about money at gravesides—but they carry it with them anyway. I’ve seen worry sitting just behind the eyes. I’ve heard the whispered questions later, once the crowd thins and the quiet returns. Who’s paying for this? What happens next? Did they leave anything in place? I’ve also learned that relief has a sound. I t sounds like a deep exhale. It looks like shoulders dropping. It feels like space—space to grieve without also having to scramble. I’ve stood with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those moments, grief was still heavy—love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. I’ve learned that the most meaningful moments are often the simplest ones. A hand placed gently on a casket. A name spoken out loud one last time. A pause long enough to let love catch up with loss. I’ve learned that nobody wishes they had said less. They wish they had said thank you. They wish they had said I forgive you. They wish they had said I love you one more time. I’ve learned that preparation is not the opposite of hope. It’s an expression of it. The families who experience the most peace aren’t the ones who avoided hard conversations. They’re the ones who faced them gently, ahead of time, and left fewer questions behind. Grief will always be heavy. Love makes it that way. But standing at gravesides has taught me this: what we do beforehand matters. Quietly. Faithfully. In ways that may never be noticed—but are deeply felt. And by the time they’re needed, they matter more than words. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty