The Funeral Artist

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Sometimes I wonder why I serve as a funeral celebrant. Why do I choose to walk with families through their hardest goodbyes? Why do I stand in rooms heavy with sorrow and attempt to speak into silence? Truth is, I’m not sure I chose this as much as I am called to it. There are numerous other ways to minister to people that on the surface are more joy-filled and celebratory. Chances are good, if you’re talking to me, you aren’t experiencing your best day.

Well, I don’t choose to do it because I’m comfortable with death. Not at all. I do it because I believe in the sacredness of life and the holiness of honoring it well. Life is something to be celebrated and honored, especially when it is lived well. But—also, when it’s not.

Serving others as a funeral celebrant means I get invited into sacred spaces where grief just arrived. It may be a hospital room or a quiet chapel thick with memory, or at a graveside where hands tremble over flowers and solemn prayers. I listen to stories in rooms and spaces once teaming with life, gathering the fragments, and helping people shape their scattered memories into something whole. Not necessarily perfect; just honest.

The truth is, despite its certainty, most people make no plans for death. I am there to help.

And over time, I’ve learned this:

The funeral artist is the one who speaks
what others don’t know how to say.
Not because they have all the answers,
but because they understand the weight of grace.

They stand where sorrow meets memory,
where shaking hands release a final breath,
and they hold space.
Not just for the dead,
but for the living—
bewildered, broken, beautiful in their grief.

Where there is grief, grace is found.

That’s what this work really is: holding space for love to speak. I’ve learned that even in the midst of loss, love isn’t lost. It hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s simply trying to find a new way to talk.

I don’t pretend to fix grief. At best, I can only try to name it, honor it, and remind people that their pain—and the one they’ve lost—matters deeply. I make sure that they are seen, heard, and valued.

The funeral artist reminds people they are not alone.
In their most fragile hour,
they are someone who listens,
understands, and guides with a gentle touch and discerning ear.

So, why do I do this?

I do it because I’m called to do it. It’s the work God has given me to do, more often than any other. Time and time again, I’m asked to do it, so I answer, “Yes, of course. I’d be honored to do it.” It’s a privilege to stand in the gap for people in their most vulnerable moment.

I do it because I believe that every life deserves to be remembered with dignity. Every life matters. I believe there’s healing in a story shared and told aloud. I do it because, deep down inside, I believe love always deserves the last word.

Standing there—watching someone smile through tears as they remember their father’s jokes, or hear a young child recite a poem she wrote for her goldfish—you sense God is watching.

In grief, grace remains present.

Thanks for reading my post.

Be salty, stay lit.

Rainer Bantau —The Devotional Guy™

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