Bright Path in Darkness

John was born in 1983 in Springfield, a mid-sized town in the Midwest. His mother worked as a nurse in a local hospital, and his father was a mechanic who ran a small garage. From an early age, John’s life was surrounded by work that dealt with both fragility and repair—his mother cared for people at their weakest moments, and his father fixed the machines that others relied on.

John describes his childhood as simple but steady. He played baseball in summer leagues, rode his bike with neighborhood friends, and spent weekends fishing with his father. It was during one of these fishing trips, at age ten, that John encountered death for the first time. A family friend passed away suddenly, and John attended the funeral with his parents.

“I remember being more curious than scared,” John says. “Everyone else was quiet, but I wanted to know why people were gathered, why there were flowers everywhere, why the air felt so heavy.”

In high school, John worked part-time at a local florist to earn money. Many of the orders were for weddings, but just as many were for funerals. He often delivered flowers to the funeral home, where he began to notice the people who worked behind the scenes.

“I realized people were making sure everything ran smoothly, from the flowers to the music,” John recalls. “It wasn’t gloomy. It was organized, thoughtful. It felt like a way of caring for people.”

By his senior year, while his classmates were talking about careers in medicine, law, or engineering, John found himself drawn toward mortuary science. “I knew it was unusual, but it made sense to me. I didn’t want to avoid death. I wanted to help families through it.”

John enrolled in a mortuary science program at a state college. The curriculum was demanding—anatomy, restorative art, business management, and counseling. He remembers the moment he worked on his first embalming procedure.

“It was serious. There’s no other way to put it. But what I noticed was how careful everyone was. It wasn’t clinical. It was respectful.”

During his training, John also had to complete an apprenticeship at a local funeral home. There, he learned the less technical but equally important skills: speaking to grieving families, arranging services, and paying attention to the smallest details. “I realized quickly that the job wasn’t about the deceased. It was about the living—helping them find a way to say goodbye.”

After graduating, John joined a family-owned funeral home in his hometown. At first, he carried out basic tasks: setting up chairs, arranging flowers, and preparing the chapel. Over time, he took on more responsibility, eventually becoming the lead mortician.

He admits that telling people about his profession often leads to awkward pauses. “When people ask what I do and I say I’m a mortician, the conversation usually changes direction. Sometimes there’s a joke. Sometimes there’s just silence. But occasionally, someone will lean in and say, ‘Can I ask you something?’ That’s when I know they really want to talk.”

Despite the nature of his work, John is known for being upbeat. He laughs often, enjoys cooking with his wife, and spends his free time playing piano. He even volunteers at the local community center, where he teaches teenagers basic life skills.

“People expect me to be dark or gloomy,” he says. “But my work has the opposite effect. I’m reminded every day how short life is, and that makes me want to enjoy it more.”

One story stands out to him. A family asked if they could bring a guitar into the chapel and play songs during the service. “They filled the room with music and stories. It didn’t feel like a funeral—it felt like a celebration. That day made me realize there isn’t one way to honor a life.”

The work is not without difficulty. John has handled services for young children, sudden accidents, and tragedies that shook the entire town. “Those are the hardest,” he admits. “You can’t help but carry some of it with you.”

To cope, John takes long walks with his dog, Milo, a golden retriever who rarely leaves his side. He also keeps a notebook where he writes short reflections after difficult days. “I don’t write about the families, but I write about what I felt. It helps me process without letting it weigh me down.”

When asked what advice he gives to young people considering his line of work, John is thoughtful. “First, don’t be afraid of hard work. It’s long hours, unpredictable calls, and emotional days. But if you can handle that, you’ll find it deeply meaningful.”

He also emphasizes the importance of empathy. “People don’t remember what you said. They remember how you made them feel. If you can be calm, steady, and kind, that’s more valuable than any technical skill.”

John is also clear that his profession has shaped his outlook on life. “I don’t take things for granted. A cup of coffee in the morning, a phone call with a friend, even walking the dog—those things mean more to me now. When you see how fragile life is, you learn to hold onto the small joys.”

John has no plans to leave his work. “I don’t see this as just a job. It’s part of who I am now. Maybe someday I’ll teach, help train new morticians, but I think I’ll always stay close to the profession. It’s too important to me.”

Retirement, in the traditional sense, doesn’t make sense to him. “Why would I stop doing something meaningful? As long as I can, I want to keep helping families. Maybe I’ll slow down when I’m older, but I don’t think I’ll ever really stop.”

John’s journey shows that even in professions others might find uncomfortable, there can be purpose and even joy. His story is not about darkness but about light—about dignity, gratitude, and the value of everyday life.