FINAL EXPENSE & PEACE OF MIND
Because Love Plans Ahead
A Loving Legacy
We plan for weddings, vacations, and retirements — but few of us plan for one of life’s certainties. Marty knows, from walking beside hundreds of grieving families, how much peace it brings when final expenses are already cared for.
As a Licensed Final Expense Specialist, Marty helps families prepare for the practical side of love — protecting the people they cherish from unnecessary financial stress. No gimmicks. No high-pressure sales. Just honest, caring conversations about legacy, dignity, and peace of mind.
This isn’t about fear — it’s about love that thinks ahead, plans ahead, and gives families the gift of breathing room on their hardest day.
Let’s talk about how a little planning today can give your loved ones peace tomorrow.
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
I don’t know your name, but I know this moment. You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think. I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair. This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back. I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet. Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss. But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. That’s why this matters to me. Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance. If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand. If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too. If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love. Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will. Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on. If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open. Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up. And that is no small gift.
The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape. This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next. Because grief is heavy enough. Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you. Who do we call now? What needs to be paid? Is there insurance? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming. I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion. I’ve also seen something else. I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today. Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it. When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human. Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there. Because grief is heavy enough on its own. Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension. If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving. Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy. Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess. And that is no small gift. 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
Let me start with something honest and maybe a little surprising: I didn’t step into final expense because I wanted to sell anybody anything. If you know me — if you’ve sat beside me at a graveside or in a church pew — you already know that. For years, serving churches and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood with families in their most fragile hours. I’ve been in living rooms where grief and paperwork sat at the same table. I’ve seen tears that weren’t about death — but about cost. About decisions. About not knowing what mom or dad would have wanted. I’ve watched loved ones look at one another and whisper the questions no one ever wants to ask: "How do we pay for this?" " Who has the money?" "What do we do now?" The hardest part about death isn’t always the goodbye — Sometimes it’s the weight left behind. And that weight — when carried by the people left behind — can be heavy. Final expense insurance isn’t really about funerals or policies or paperwork. It’s about relief. It’s about compassion with a plan. It’s about love — still speaking long after the voice is gone. I’m not a big company. I don’t read from a script. I don’t do pressure or fear tactics. It’s just me — one human being who has watched this play out more times than I can count. And I’ve seen the difference a plan makes. I’ve watched families breathe easier because arrangements were handled and decisions were clear. I’ve seen tears of gratitude instead of panic. I’ve seen love carry forward — quietly, gently, faithfully — because someone cared enough to prepare. And here’s something I’ve learned: most people want to plan — they just don’t know where to begin. You don’t have to make every decision today. You don’t need a file cabinet or a color-coded binder. You just need a first step. A conversation. A plan that whispers to your family one day: “You’re not alone in this. I took care of you.” That’s what preparation does — it lifts the weight before it lands. That is why I do this work. So let me be clear: I’m not selling final expense insurance. I’m offering peace of mind. I’m offering dignity. I’m offering love — prepared, thoughtful, lasting. I know these conversations aren’t always comfortable. Death rarely is. But neither is leaving our people with a burden they never asked for. If you want to talk about a way to make those hardest days softer — no pressure, no pitch, just two humans talking about legacy and kindness — I’m here. We can explore options. We can ask honest questions. We can plan ahead with courage, tenderness, and hope. Because the way we leave matters. Not in dollars. But in love.
Let’s be honest. Nobody wakes up in the morning thinking, “ You know what I really want to talk about today? My funeral.” It’s not exactly coffee-and-donuts conversation. But here’s the truth: every one of us will eventually reach that moment, and when it comes, somebody has to deal with the details—and the bills. I’m not a big company with a fancy call center or a script that gets recycled from one family to the next. It’s just me—one person, on the phone, talking about something that really matters. And here’s what I’ve learned in my years of walking with families: t he hardest grief isn’t just about losing someone you love, it’s about losing them and being left with unexpected financial stress on top of the heartbreak. That’s why I do what I do. Final expense insurance, sometimes called burial insurance, is simple. It’s not about leaving behind a pile of paperwork or a big confusing policy. It’s about making sure the people you love aren’t scrambling when you’re gone. The average funeral these days costs between $7,000 and $12,000—sometimes more. That’s a lot of money to come up with quickly, especially when emotions are raw. Without a plan, families often have to dip into savings, pull out credit cards, or pass the hat. I’ve seen it happen. And I’ve seen the relief on people’s faces when they realize they don’t have to put their loved ones through that. Think of final expense insurance as your last love letter. It says: I thought of you. I planned for you. I don’t want my leaving to mean stress for you. To me, that’s not just insurance—that’s legacy. Now, I know talking about this can feel awkward. Some people joke, “I’m not planning to die anytime soon!” and I always smile and say, “Well, me neither—but the truth is, none of us get to schedule that.” Humor helps, but compassion carries us through. My promise to you is that our conversations will always be straightforward, respectful, and never pushy. I’ll answer your questions, explain your options, and help you find a plan that fits your life and your budget. This isn’t just business for me—it’s personal. I’ve seen families struggle, and I’ve seen families breathe easier because someone they loved made a wise choice ahead of time. I want your story to be the second kind. When the day comes, your family should be able to focus on what really matters: remembering your laugh, your stories, your quirks, your love—not worrying about funeral invoices. And let me say this: final expense insurance isn’t just for the elderly or those with health concerns. Whether you’re 45 or 85, it’s about preparation, peace, and care. Because let’s face it—life is unpredictable. You don’t need a million-dollar policy to show your family you love them. You just need something simple, something solid, something that says: I cared enough to make this easier for you. So yes, it’s just me—no sales force, no big office. Just one person who believes in helping others prepare for one of life’s hardest days with a little grace, a little humor, and a lot of compassion. My role is to walk with you through the options, answer the questions that keep you up at night, and help you create a plan that feels right. At the end of the day, final expense insurance is about love. Pure and simple. It’s about leaving behind peace instead of panic, dignity instead of debt. Let’s talk. I promise, it won’t be as heavy as you think—and by the end of it, you might even feel lighter.
I never heard my biological father say I love you. But the truth is—I am pretty sure I never heard him say anything. I have no real memory of him at all. He left before I could even form a sentence, let alone hear one from him. There’s a strange kind of silence that comes with abandonment. Not just the absence of love, but the absence of a chance at love. I don’t know what his voice sounded like. I don’t know if he ever wondered about me. But I do know what it’s like to grow up without a father’s words, especially those three: I love you. And then, years later, when my mom died—and not long after, my stepdad too—I wasn’t there to say those words to them, either. Not in person. Not at the end. They knew, of course. We had love, real and steady. But still—I would have given anything to sit beside them, hold their hand, and say it out loud. Not because they needed to hear it, but because I needed to say it. That’s why we start here—with this phrase. I love you. Three words that are simple. Sacred. And sometimes, spoken too late. We act like “I love you” belongs to romance movies or greeting cards or perfectly timed dinner dates. But real love doesn’t wait for the perfect scene. It shows up in kitchens and parking lots. In hospice rooms and voicemails. It shows up trembling and overdue. It shows up clumsy and cracked. But when it’s real, it matters. In one episode of THE PITT , a father is dying. His adult children are encouraged to say four things to him before he goes. One of them is “I love you.” It’s not tidy. It doesn’t fix the past. But it lets something sacred come into the room. Sometimes that’s all love needs: a voice, and enough courage to speak. We assume people know how we feel. We think our actions speak loud enough. We wait for the right time. But I love you isn’t just a farewell. It’s a way of being. A kind of spiritual punctuation that should show up regularly, not rarely. Not the performative kind of love. The practiced kind. The daily, quiet, ordinary kind: I love you, even when the house is loud and no one’s listening. I love you, even when we’ve been distant. I love you, even when I forgot to show it yesterday. Maybe you didn’t grow up in a family that said it. Maybe it still feels awkward or unnecessary. Maybe it’s easier to crack a joke or give a hug than to speak the actual words. Say them anyway. Even if they come out sideways. Even if they sound clumsy. Say them before you wish you had. When I sit with families to learn about a loved one who has passed away, I’m always amazed—and if I’m honest, often saddened—by how rarely I love you gets mentioned. Not because love wasn’t there, but because it went unspoken. Maybe they just weren’t the “say it out loud” type. Maybe they assumed it was understood. It’s part of why I make it a point to tell my boys I love them every time we talk. We don’t hang up the phone without saying it - - ever. It’s not dramatic or emotional. It’s just what we do. A habit of the heart. A way of marking the moment and reminding each other: This matters. You matter. Because I love you is an altar. And when it shows up late, or soft, or bravely spoken in a place it’s rarely heard. It becomes an Unlikely Altar.
Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.