Carrying the Ones Who Carry Others

Conversations from the front seat of the hearse

There is a moment that happens in the front seat of the hearse that most people never see.

The service is over. The church doors have closed. The family follows quietly behind. Somewhere between the church and the cemetery, the weight of the moment finally settles in. The urgency is gone. The public role is finished. And what remains is real.

I’ve had the rare and sacred privilege of sitting in that front seat with clergy from many faith traditions. In that space, the collar loosens. The manuscript is gone. The expectations fall away. There is no audience left to impress and no need to have the right answer.

What’s left is honesty.

More than once, a pastor has stared out the windshield and said quietly, almost to themselves, “That was the hardest sermon I’ve ever preached.”

They’re right.

Funerals do not allow for abstraction. Loss refuses tidy explanations. Whatever theology a pastor carries is tested not in classrooms or books, but in front of a casket, surrounded by people whose lives have been permanently altered. Words have to be true. Not polished. Not clever. True. They must honor pain without trying to explain it away. They must leave room for sorrow while still offering something sturdy enough to lean on.

And yet, those sermons are often the most impactful a pastor will ever preach.

Families may not remember every verse or phrase, but they remember how they were met. They remember whether their grief was rushed or respected. Whether hope was forced or offered gently. When a pastor is willing to stand honestly in that tension, the message does more than comfort. It carries people.

What most congregations never see is what happens after the benediction.

Clergy carry a burden few outside the role fully understand. Confidentiality is not simply a professional guideline; it is a daily reality. Pastors cannot casually process a death, a family fracture, a private confession, or a moment of doubt with the very people who depend on them. The ones who know them best are often the ones they must protect from knowing too much.

For rural pastors especially, this burden is compounded. Many serve smaller congregations with limited staff, fewer resources, and few peers nearby who truly understand the work. They are preacher, counselor, administrator, and community presence all at once. Research consistently shows what these quiet conversations reveal; many remain deeply committed and hopeful, yet isolated, stretched thin, and without safe places to set the weight down.

That is where funeral professionals quietly enter the picture.

More times than I can count, the front seat of the hearse has become one of the few places where a pastor can speak freely. On the drive to the cemetery, or during the quiet return afterward, they talk. About the sermon that nearly broke them. About the family they are worried about once everyone goes home. About doubt that surprised them. About the exhaustion that comes from always being the strong one.

Nothing needs to be fixed in those moments.

No advice. No solutions. Just presence.

Listening without interrupting. Holding what is shared without repeating it. Allowing silence to do its work.

As funeral professionals, we are uniquely positioned for this role, whether we name it or not. We already operate within strict confidentiality. We already stand at the intersection of grief, faith, and responsibility. We already understand the emotional gravity of these moments. Being a trusted, discreet presence for clergy is not an additional task. It is an extension of the care we are already called to provide.

When we do this well, we help carry a burden that is too often carried alone.

And the impact extends far beyond the individual pastor.

A clergy member who has been heard is better able to listen. One who has been supported is better able to remain steady when families are unraveling. By quietly supporting clergy, we strengthen the communities they serve. We help ensure that hope is offered with integrity, not exhaustion, and that compassion has not been depleted before it reaches those who need it most.

In supporting the ones who carry others, funeral professionals serve the entire community.

That lesson has followed me far beyond the front seat of the hearse. Leadership, at its best, is rarely loud. It is presence. It is restraint. It is knowing when to speak and when to sit beside someone who is carrying more than they can say.

These moments rarely draw attention. They are not posted or praised. But they shape people. They shape leaders. And they shape communities.

Because when care is layered with care, the message does more than comfort. It carries people forward, one quiet mile at a time.

About the Author

Jay is a licensed funeral director, speaker, and author who has spent his career working at the intersection of leadership, grief, and human presence. Through thousands of services and countless quiet moments behind the scenes, he has developed a deep appreciation for how leadership shows up when words are insufficient and outcomes are uncertain. His work focuses on the unseen moments that shape trust, resilience, and community, especially in times of loss.

Jay is the author of Lead by Legendary Example, a story-driven exploration of leadership grounded not in theory, but in lived experience. He writes and speaks for leaders, professionals, and caregivers who understand that the most meaningful influence is often exercised quietly, through consistency, humility, and presence. His writing reflects a belief that leadership is less about position and more about how we carry others when it matters most.