Where love meets preparation

My dad may very well live another 20 years or more, but last week the three of us — my dad, my sister and I — spent a day doing something most people avoid for as long as possible: we visited the cemetery and made his funeral arrangements. We picked out his future burial plot. We designed the gravestone that will one day bear his name beside my mom’s. And later, over lunch, we met with the cremation company so he could prepay for his services and document his final wishes.

On paper, it was a day about death.
In reality, it was a day about love.

It was emotional, absolutely. Vulnerable, yes. But underneath the heaviness was an unmistakable truth: My dad was giving us a gift. A gift of peace, clarity, and preparation. A gift he knew we would need someday — and one he was brave enough to give while he was still here.

The plot with the sunny ‘neighborhood’

My mom passed a couple of years ago after an unexpected ALS diagnosis. She was healthy, vibrant - the last person anyone thought would leave us first. Her death altered our understanding of preparation in a way nothing else could have. It also shaped how we approached this day — our unusual family outing to choose a future resting place for our parents (my mom’s urn currently rests on dad’s mantle).

Despite the emotional weight, we found ourselves laughing in the way only families who love each other deeply can. My mom was incredibly social and full of life, so as we walked through the cemetery looking at potential plots, we joked about wanting to choose one in a “good neighborhood”—you know, a fun group of couples for Mom and Dad to hang out with for eternity.

We wanted sunlight too. Mom loved the sun. She loved tanning. So of course, her spot needed sunshine. It was ridiculous and tender at the same time, us trying to make sense of a moment that was both profoundly sad and strangely intimate.

Only a family that knows how to love through loss can laugh while standing in a cemetery.

The prayer that captured everything

Eventually, we found a section of the cemetery called “Peace.” It felt right immediately, but it wasn’t until we noticed the statue nearby that the meaning of the day really landed.

On the statue was the prayer of St. Francis:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.

I read it once, then again. Each line hit me deeper - because that’s exactly what my dad was doing for us.

He was sowing love through preparation.
He was giving us faith that his wishes would be honored.
He was offering hope that someday, when the time comes, the logistical burden won’t overshadow our grief.
He was shining light on something most families only face in the dark.
And he was giving us joy, odd as that sounds—joy in knowing we would not carry the confusion or stress that so often accompanies loss.

Standing there in the Peace section, I realized:
This wasn’t just a plot. It was his final act of protection.

The wallet card we never knew about

After choosing the plot, we drove back to the cemetery office to design the gravestone. That part felt especially surreal — selecting fonts and layouts for something that won’t be used for years, maybe decades. But my dad approached it with calm practicality, the same way he does everything.

And then something unexpected happened. As we were finalizing the design, my dad suddenly remembered a small, engraved metal card my mom had once given him. He pulled out his wallet, and there it was — worn from years of being carried, but still legible.

He read the final line: “My best friend, my soulmate, my everything.”

My sister and I had never seen this card. We never would have included this line on the gravestone — could never have known to. But in that moment, my dad gave us a piece of their love story. A piece that will now live in stone. A piece of them, and we added it immediately.

And even he seemed relieved — maybe proud — to know that this sentiment, one my mom gave him in life, will carry forward into memory.

This is the kind of detail planning now allows.
This is the kind of meaning families miss when decisions are made in grief.

Lunch and the second layer of his gift

After leaving the cemetery, we had lunch with the people from the cremation company. Here is another step most families avoid thinking about until they are forced to: my dad prepaid for the company’s services — taking another weight off our future shoulders. He’ll complete a document outlining his final wishes, ensuring we’ll never have to guess. We won’t have to wonder what he wanted. We won’t second-guess ourselves. We won’t worry whether we’re doing something wrong.

He is removing the load before we ever have to carry it.

The red file folder

What strikes me most is that this day wasn’t a one-time act. It’s part of a larger pattern of love and preparation he has carried out since my mom died.

My dad is a planner, but he is also incredibly loving. Those two qualities together have resulted in something remarkable: a bright red file folder containing everything his daughters might need someday, including a list of all his financial accounts, points of contact, power of attorney documents, his will and instructions.

He walked us through it — where it’s stored, what’s inside, what to do. It was equally heartbreaking and comforting. That folder is his way of continuing to parent us, even when he won’t physically be here to do it.

And let me tell you: few things bring more relief than knowing your future self will have answers during a time when you desperately need them.

Losing mom changed everything

When my mom was diagnosed with ALS, none of us saw it coming. She had always been healthy, the one we all assumed would outlive my dad by years, maybe decades. Life doesn’t follow our assumptions. It throws curveballs we never saw coming, and it rarely asks permission first. Her illness and death taught us a painful truth: We do not get to choose the timing. But we can choose the preparation.

My dad understood that, and he chose to act.

What I felt most strongly: relief

I expected sadness and heaviness. What surprised me was the overwhelming sense of relief.

Most families make these decisions while drowning in grief. Emotions are raw, time is short, and everyone is terrified of making the wrong choice.

But because of my dad’s gift, we won’t have to do that. We will not face a dozen impossible decisions on the worst day of our lives. We will not wonder what he would have wanted.
We will not spend our early grieving days in conference rooms, choosing things we wish we weren’t choosing.

We will get to grieve. Fully, honestly and without chaos.

That is the gift.

Why I’m sharing this: A call to action

I’m writing this because I want others to feel what we felt that day — not the sadness, but the clarity and empowerment. The quiet sense of peace that comes from knowing the future will not be a mystery.

These conversations are difficult, and these decisions are emotional. No one wants to imagine the day their loved ones will need this information. But it is worth it. I can tell you, it is incredibly, profoundly worth it. The gift of preparation is one of the greatest acts of love you can offer your family.

Have the conversations sooner.
Make the decisions sooner.
Fill the folder.
Choose the plot.
Write the wishes.

Do it while you can bring humor, memory and intention into the process. Don’t wait for a crisis to make the choices for you.

A day of peace, a legacy of love

As we walked back through the “Peace” section of the cemetery that day, the prayer of St. Francis stayed with me. Each line mirrored what my dad had just given us — love, faith, hope, light and even joy. His preparations were not about dying. They were about living —living in a way that protects his daughters long after he’s gone. And that, I’ve learned, is what love looks like at its most unselfish. A gift of peace when your loved ones will need it most. And my dad gave us that gift long before we’ll ever need to use it.

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