I recently stumbled upon a clay crafter named Sherri Evans. Sherri is a funeral director and embalmer with a fantastic ability to custom craft clay into anything. Here’s some of her work:
She even does personalized faces. You can send her a photo and she’ll make you into clay.
Aren’t these little fluid pumpers the cutest things you’ve ever seen?
You got your miniature Duotronic with embalming fluid and without it. AND, you got your embalming table:
I absolutely love highlighting the gifts and creative endeavors of funeral directors.
If you want to buy some of Sherri’s work, you can contact her at her Etsy site. The embalming machines are by special order only, so you can contact her through Etsy or via her personal Facebook page. Because Christmas is coming and we all need a little most cuteness in our lives.
By Karen Wyatt, MD
As a hospice medical director I’ve been to a lot of funerals, but only one of them has been labeled “perfect” in my memory. Over the years I have made it a practice to attend the memorial services for as many patients as my schedule will allow, usually to show my respects for the deceased and to offer support to the family, but sometimes to comfort my own grief.
Some patients manage to work their way into my heart so deeply that I miss them desperately when they are gone. The funeral is a place where I can grieve side-by-side with others who also loved the departed person for their own special reasons.
Ralph was one of those unforgettable patients who left me with an aching heart when he died. He was actually a homeless man—or “hobo” as we used to call them—who camped out by the railroad tracks and had ridden the rails most of his adult life. When he was stricken with kidney cancer he was admitted to our hospice for terminal care, which we provided to him in a seedy basement apartment a social worker had found for him several months before.
We expected to be taking care of Ralph for about two weeks—his kidneys were failing and he was not a candidate for dialysis. But Ralph surprised us all by living for an entire year, which was nothing less than a miracle in our eyes.
During that wondrous year Ralph discovered he had a talent for drawing and produced extraordinary sketches of places he had seen on his railroad travels across the country. Each time we visited him he would show us his latest drawings—at first in a spiral notebook with lined pages; then on a sketchpad given to him by a staff member.
Ralph was an amazingly talented artist who didn’t realize his own abilities until the last moments of his life. But then, through an awe-inspiring act of grace, his death was postponed long enough for him to create a portfolio of work before he left this world. He was also a kind, humble and generous man who stole the hearts of everyone who came to know to him, creating a “portfolio” of relationships, as well, during his last days.
When he died, Ralph’s body was taken to the county morgue and eventually cremated after no next-of-kin could be located. We learned that his ashes were to be spread in a “pauper’s grave” with no service or ceremony to mark his passing from this world. In a hasty staff meeting we decided to claim Ralph as part of our own “hospice family” and retrieve his ashes so that he could have a proper burial.
The following week, on a beautiful sun-splashed day, we took the cardboard box of Ralph’s ashes to a riverside park just outside our city where he used to love to go fishing. As an afterthought I had stopped by his apartment building earlier that morning to mention our little memorial service to his neighbor Greg, in case he wanted to join us.
When we arrived at the park we were surprised to see a group of 13 people already gathered at a spot beneath a beautiful old cottonwood tree. Greg was there and several staff members, but I didn’t recognize anyone else in the group. We later learned that they were all residents in Ralph’s apartment building who had gotten to know him over the past year, just as we had done.
Silently Greg and one of the other men dug a small hole beneath the elegant old tree. Then we opened the box and gently sprinkled Ralph’s ashes into the gaping cavity where he was welcomed back to the Earth and its elements.
We stood in a circle around the grave, spontaneously holding hands. Then one young man walked forward, sprinkled a handful of dirt onto the ashes and said tearfully “I will always remember Pops because he taught me how to fish right here at this very river.”
Next a woman pushing a baby stroller came forward and said, “Pops always had a smile and kind word for me, even on my worst days.”
One by one, each person in the circle sprinkled dirt over the ashes and told a story or offered a brief remembrance of Ralph. We were touched to hear his neighbors all call him “Pops” and to recognize that he had played a grandfatherly role to the other struggling inhabitants of that decaying old apartment building.
There was no music, no sermon, no liturgy that day—just an unplanned outpouring from an unlikely ragtag collection of people whose lives had all been touched by a homeless man with a huge heart. The tears and the love flowed freely for this simple person who had lived such an inconspicuous life and there could not have been a more appropriate ceremony to mark his death.
There were 4 things I learned about holding the perfect funeral that day:
- Keep it simple to allow for spontaneity and surprise.
- Make it authentic by avoiding canned sermons from strangers—encourage loved ones to speak from their hearts.
- Reflect the life of the person being remembered by planning the kind of event he or she would have been delighted to attend.
- Share the joy of a life well-lived with both laughter and tears.
Ralph had been given more that his share of difficulties in his lifetime, but had managed to create a unique work of art from the broken pieces of his existence. And his simple little funeral had been a perfect reflection of his free-spirited ride through this world: heartfelt, authentic, and spontaneous. To be so loved and so remembered at the end of one’s days is truly a blessing—may we each be so fortunate when the time comes for our own farewell.
About the Author:
Dr. Karen Wyatt is a hospice and family physician who writes extensively on spirituality and medicine, especially at the end-of-life. She is the author of the award-winning book “What Really Matters: 7 Lessons for Living from the Stories of the Dying.” She hosts the popular online interview series End-of-Life University. Connect with her at karenwyattmd.com.
Pat Stocks, 94, passed away peacefully at her home in bed July 1, 2015. It is believed it was caused from carrying her oxygen tank up the long flight of stairs to her bedroom that made her heart give out. She left behind a hell of a lot of stuff to her daughter and sons who have no idea what to do with it. So if you’re looking for 2 extremely large TV’s from the 90s, a large ceramic stork (we think) umbrella/cane stand, a toaster oven (slightly used) or even a 2001 Oldsmobile with a spoiler (she loved putting the pedal to the metal), with only 71,000 kilometers and 1,000 tools that we aren’t sure what they’re used for. You should wait the appropriate amount of time and get in touch. Tomorrow would be fine.
This is not an ad for a pawn shop, but an obituary for a great Woman, Mother, Grandmother and Great-Grandmother born on May 12, 1921 in Toronto, the daughter of the late Pop (Alexander C.) and Granny (Annie Nigh) Morris. She leaves behind a very dysfunctional family that she was very proud of. Pat was world-renowned for her lack of patience, not holding back her opinion and a knack for telling it like it is. She always told you the truth even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. It was the school of hard knocks and yes we were told many times how she had to walk for miles in a blizzard to get to school, so suck it up.
With that said she was genuine to a fault, a pussy cat at heart (or lion) and yet she sugar coated nothing. Her extensive vocabulary was more than highly proficient at knowing more curse words than most people learned in a lifetime. She liked four letter words as much as she loved her rock garden and trust us she LOVED to weed that garden with us as her helpers, when child labour was legal or so we were told. These words of encouragement, wisdom, and sometimes comfort, kept us in line, taught us the “school of hard knocks” and gave us something to pass down to our children.
Everyone always knew where you stood with her. She liked you or she didn’t, it was black or white. As her children we are still trying to figure out which one it was for us (we know she loved us). She was a master cook in the kitchen. She believed in overcooking everything until it chewed like rubber so you would never get sick because all germs would be nuked. Freezing germs also worked, so by Friday our school sandwiches were hard and chewy, but totally germ free. All four of us learned to use a napkin. You would pretend to cough, spit the food into it and thus was born the Stocks diet. If anyone would like a copy of her homemade gravy, we would suggest you don’t.
… She was preceded in death by her loving husband Paul (Moo) Stocks and eldest daughter Shelley (Stocks) Milnes and beloved pets Tag, Tag, Tag and Tag. All whom loved her dearly and will never forget her tenacity, wit, charm, grace (when pertinent) and undying love and caring for them.
Please give generously to covenanthousetoronto.ca “in memory”. A private family ‘Celebration of Life’ will be held, in lieu of a service, due to her friends not being able to attend, because they decided to beat her to the Pearly Gates. Please note her change of address to her new place of residence, St John’s York Mills Anglican Church, 19 Don Ridge Drive, 12 doors away from Shelley’s place.
Todays guest post is written by Chaplain Beryl Schewe
You may have heard the statistic: More people are afraid of public speaking than dying. But how about when we combine the two, speaking about dying to those near death? From my experience, the idea of speaking to those near death conjures dread. We don’t know what to say, and knowing these may be our last words to someone we love weighs heavily.
Poet Dylan Thomas writes, “After the first death, there is no other.”
Too bad. We’d probably be better navigating a second death if we got a crack at it.
Greek mythology’s tour guide for the journey to death was Charon the ferryman. He accompanied people across the River Styx on a one-way trip to the underworld.
Years ago, someone shared with me six simple things to say when someone is dying. I consider this the wisdom of a modern Charon. Simply put, they are: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Forgive me. I (We) will be OK. Goodbye.
1. I love you. Three simple words. Three powerful words. My crusty, WWII veteran dad was 88 before he uttered those words to me. For years, I’d say “I love you” as I hung up the phone. My dad would fumble around and say something like “same here” or “I feel the same,” but the actual words eluded him until he was on his deathbed. Then, remarkably, he said, “I love you.”
2. Thank you. I have a thank you card that reads, “When eating the apple, remember who planted the tree.” We don’t always remember to thank, and surely we don’t often thank the ones who brought us the momentous stuff in our lives: our parents’ sacrifice and dedication to make sure we had a chance at a good education; their presence at our band concerts and soccer games; their cheering us on, and seeing the best in us when others saw a different reality. Thank you
3. I forgive you. Face it. We’ve all held on to offenses and grudges way too long. Likely, we even remember slights that were not intentional. We hang on to the hurt even though the pain does not serve us well. We allow the pain to be a barrier in our future relationships. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting. It does not mean we are willing to be taken advantage of again. It does mean we are letting go of our option for revenge as we hand our hurts and anger over to God.
4. Forgive me. The church uses the words, “for my sins of omission and commission.” Forgive me for what I have done and what I have failed to do. Sometimes we are more culpable for our inaction than for our actions.
5. I will be OK. I am convinced our loved ones sometimes hang on for us, cling to life because they know we are not yet ready for them to die. Saying the words “I will be OK” gives your loved one permission to go. When young children are in the picture, I suggest people let the dying person know the child will be loved and cared for.
6. Goodbye. Simply letting the dying person know they can go to God when it is their time frees them.
Sometimes last conversations bring healing to a relationship that had become defined by wounds and history. As John Philip Newell writes, “It is about bringing into relationship again the many parts of our lives, including our brokenness, in order to experience transformation. It is not about forgetting the wound or pretending that it did not happen. It is about seeking a new beginning that grows inseparably from the suffering.”
Birthing and dying are oddly similar bedfellows in the circle of life. We had no ideas on how to be born, but we allowed others around us to coax us into the world. The same can be said of dying. In death, I’ve noticed that the most peaceful person in the room is often the one dying. As Carl Jung reminds us, “Wholeness is about integration … but not perfection.” What we say doesn’t need to be perfect. Just say it with love.
Beryl Schewe is a board certified Chaplain who lives and works in Minneapolis. Her new book, Habits of Resilience: Learning to Live Fully in the Midst of Loss is available on Amazon. You can follow her on twitter @BerylSchewe
This post was originally published in the Eden Prairie News.
Today’s guest post is written by Katharine Gates:
It’s my 12th day in a row here at the funeral home.
Another day in a dark place surrounded by suits and the vacant stares of burnt out morticians.
We serve our families to the best of our ability. Always saying yes we can do that for you, always standing still with slow movements that ooze professional demeanor.
The sensitivity robot, always in control, ready to catch the falling emotions of those around us. Walking out of this building at the end of the day is like having to reintegrate into a normal society where people laugh and live. You have to remind yourself that it’s okay to smile and joke on this side of the mortuary walls.
We get so wrapped up in our families, in death and sadness that it’s a battle to remind yourself that you aren’t the one that is suffering a loss.
Yet we carry it, it’s still our burden even if it isn’t our loved one. We lose sleep over the details, we wonder if we’ve said all the right things, given enough attention to everyone in need of it. It’s an honor but a heavy burden. It’s a struggle to put it down and walk away at night some of the time.
The irony is that no matter how tired you get, how mentally unstable you feel at times, you truly want to continue this work. It’s who you are. It almost feels like the universe chose you to play this special role in people’s lives. Not everyone can do it but someone has to and you constantly remind yourself that person is you.
It’s an honor to care for these people, to carry their secrets, to love their families through the storm. It’s an honor to be one of the last people on this earth to get to know them and then put them to rest for the last time. It truly is a calling, but a calling that can take quite the toll on your personal life and mental stability.
Thank goodness for beautiful distractions, love and laughter to get us through the dark days that can quickly turn into dark nights.
Katharine Gates is a Licensed Funeral Director and Embalmer in Hot Springs, Arkansas. She graduated from the Mortuary Science Program in Mesa, AZ in 2012. When she isn’t planning funerals and caring for the deceased she’s usually spending time with her fiancée and love of her life doing something active outdoors.