What Funerals Teach Us About Life

We went to a funeral recently.

You know the kind where you walk through the church doors and see faces you haven’t seen in years. Family members you only get to hug when someone dies. The ones you grew up with but now only meet again in moments of loss.

There’s something strange and sacred about that. About standing shoulder to shoulder with people who once filled your childhood, brought together again by grief.

We grew up where funerals were a familiar part of life. From as early as we can remember, death wasn’t hidden from us. The services were almost always open casket, and we’d follow behind our parents in quiet lines, hands folded, whispering prayers we barely understood.

We’d look at the person in the casket, say our goodbyes, maybe touch or kiss their hands, and then go home. It wasn’t scary. It was simply the way things were. Death was part of the rhythm of our upbringing.

I still remember being in grade three and attending the funeral of a classmate. Our school was right across from the church, and back then, our class would attend funerals together. I helped carry his tiny casket that day. My small hands are holding onto something far too heavy for a child to grasp. But even then, I knew it mattered. That showing up was its own kind of love.

Funerals are never something you look forward to, but there is always a strange beauty in them. In the stories shared, the tears that soften people’s faces, the quiet moments that remind us of what truly matters.

Grief hurts because love existed, and that’s a kind of beauty, too. You don’t get one without the other. You can't love deeply and grieve lightly, and you can’t grieve deeply without having loved in a big way. It’s normal to feel everything all at once. To be okay one minute and undone the next. Grief comes in waves, and each one is just proof that your heart cared.

Death has this way of shaking us awake. It pulls us out of our routines and reminds us how short and fragile our time really is. It makes us see our own lives differently. Makes us think about the relationships we’ve neglected, the grudges we’re tired of carrying, the phone calls we keep putting off.

This funeral in particular… it was hard. It was for someone who did everything “right.”Someone who took care of their body, ate well, worked out, lived intentionally, and still, they’re gone.

There are no explanations for that. No comforting words. No way to make sense of unfairness.

Funerals remind you that time isn’t something you can bank or stretch. It moves with or without your permission, and one day the people you love won’t be standing beside you anymore. So maybe the point is to pay attention. To not rush through the days so quickly that you forget they’re finite. And as you’re sitting there listening to the eulogy, you start thinking about your own family, your own kids, and you can’t help it, that quiet dread settles in. No parent wants to outlive their child. We all hope, in the gentlest way, that life follows the natural order, even though we don’t get to choose.

And then there are the parents who didn’t get that natural order. The ones who have already faced the unthinkable. The ones who had to bury their child. We saw them at this funeral, standing there with a grief that will never fully leave them. There are no words for that kind of pain, only quiet respect and a tenderness that sits in your chest long after you leave.

It stays with you, the reminder that none of this is promised. That the people we love are gifts, not guarantees. And every ordinary day carries more meaning than we allow ourselves to see.

And we truly believe the people we lose never really leave us. They stay with us in ways we can’t always explain. In memory, in spirit, in the quiet moments when their presence feels close. Sometimes you just have to pause long enough to notice it. Ask for a sign. Feel them around you. Their legacy keeps loving through you, shaping the way you show up, the way you care, the way you live. Maybe the best way to honour those we’ve lost is simply to be a little more like them every day.

We walked out of the church afterward into that sharp, cold air, and everyone lingered in the parking lot a little longer than usual. No one wanted to rush back into their day. Grief slows time down like that. It makes you hold onto the moment because you understand how quickly moments disappear.

Funerals will never be easy, but they are honest. They pull us back to what matters: love, connection, presence, the courage to reach out, the softness to forgive, the reminder not to wait.

And maybe that’s the quiet gift hidden inside all the heartbreak.

As we were leaving, the words on the back of the funeral card felt like they were speaking to all of us:

“Life is so incredibly short.

We get caught up in the hustle and bustle, thinking we have all the time in the world. But the truth is, none of us knows when our hourglass will run out.

So tonight, take a moment to hug your loved ones a little tighter. Tell them how much they mean to you.

Don't wait for tomorrow to share your love, do it today, because every moment is precious.

Cherish the people you hold dear, and make sure they know how much they are loved.”