Christmas Calls; The Little Black Book – Todd Van Beck

Introduction

Some stories never leave you.

They linger not because they are dramatic, but because they are true. Because they reveal the quiet character of a profession at its very best. Because they remind us why we chose this work in the first place.

The essay that follows was written by my dear friend Todd Van Beck; a gifted funeral director, teacher, thinker, and fellow Iowan. Todd was one of those rare voices in funeral service who could articulate what many of us felt but struggled to put into words. He understood that our profession is not sustained by policy manuals or procedures alone, but by human kindness practiced consistently, often unseen.

We lost Todd far too early. His absence is still felt deeply across funeral service, not just because of what he accomplished, but because of how he carried himself. Todd believed in the power of story as a teacher. He believed that funeral directors are custodians of meaning. And he believed that when we do our work well, we give people something to believe in during their darkest moments.

This essay, The Little Black Book, is quintessential Todd Van Beck. It is simple, profound, and quietly challenging. It does not lecture. It invites. It reminds us that greatness in funeral service is rarely loud, often private, and almost always rooted in compassion.

I share it here not only to honor Todd’s memory, but to ensure that his wisdom continues to shape future generations of funeral professionals. Read it slowly. Let it sit with you. And perhaps, like Todd hoped, let it inspire you to keep your own little black book.

— Jay Jacobson

Christmas Calls;

The Little Black Book – Todd Van Beck

One of the most poignant examples I have ever witnessed of a funeral professional giving people something to believe in comes from early in my career.

Many years ago, I worked for a man whom I now call a great American funeral director. He was a gentle soul, one of those unforgettable characters whose presence alone elevated the room. He came from the old school of funeral service, where the work was never about convenience or profit, but about people. His lifelong motto was simple and unwavering: “Families first, no matter what.” He lived that belief with a consistency few people ever achieve.

The funerals he conducted were flawless. Families trusted him implicitly, and the community genuinely admired and respected him. He was, in every sense of the word, a grand person.

One of the most intriguing things about him was his “little black book.”

It was small, worn, and locked, and it never left his side. If you walked into his office, it sat neatly on his desk. At funerals, he would occasionally pull it from his pocket and scribble a brief note. Not every service; just once in a while. If you lifted his suit coat, you could feel the weight of the little black book resting there.

Naturally, speculation flourished.

You can imagine the gossip that circulated in the funeral home coffee room. On my very first day, the embalmer warned me to keep an eye out for the book. Sure enough, before long, I saw my employer jot something down in it.

Later that day, curiosity got the better of me. I asked the embalmer what the book was for. He gave me a knowing look.

“Well,” he said, “what do you think is in the book?”

I replied honestly that I had no idea.

“Oh, come on, farm boy,” he laughed. “That’s where he keeps his list of girlfriends.”

I was stunned.

Not long after, I asked the receptionist about the mysterious book. She told me it was where he kept track of the horses he bet on at the racetrack. Once again, I was stunned. In my young mind, my dignified employer had somehow become a womanizing gambler.

For nearly three years, the saga of the little black book continued. The stories grew more elaborate, the gossip more dramatic, and the mystery deeper with each passing day.

Then one afternoon, while we were conducting a funeral, everything changed.

As we were placing the casket into the funeral coach, my boss suddenly collapsed. He suffered a massive heart attack and was gone before he hit the ground. I was crushed.

Four days later, we held his funeral.

It was grand and fitting. He lay in a solid bronze casket. Flowers filled the room. When we arrived at the church, it was packed wall to wall. The governor of the state sat in the front row.

I stood in the back of the church, assigned to the church truck, listening as the minister spoke eloquently about what a remarkable man my employer had been. He spoke of how simply knowing him had made all of us better people. I could not have agreed more.

Then the minister invited my boss’s widow to come forward and speak about her husband’s character.

As she rose from her seat, my heart nearly stopped.

In her hands, she was carrying the little black book.

My tears of grief instantly turned to cold sweats of terror. What is she going to say? I wondered. What does she know?

She approached the pulpit with dignity and calm and thanked everyone for being there. Then she said, “I would like to share a secret about my husband’s character.”

I braced myself.

Holding up the book, she continued, “Most of you know he carried this with him at all times. I would like to read the very first entry.”

• She read:April 17, 1920: Mary Flannery — she is all alone.

• Then the next:August 8, 1920: Fred Pritchard — he is all alone.

• Then another:November 15, 1920: Edna Gale — she is all alone.

She looked up and explained, “Whenever my husband made arrangements with someone he knew would now be alone because of death, he wrote their name in this book. Then, at Christmastime, he would choose a few names — maybe three or four each year — and invite those people to our home to share Christmas dinner with our family.”

She paused, then said, “This was the true character of my husband. He was concerned, compassionate, and deeply caring. And I want you to know that he did this for 56 Christmases.”

There was not a dry eye in the church.

And in that moment, I remember thinking, I knew that book wasn’t about women or horses.

Now, many years after his death, I still reflect on the spirit that motivated that funeral director to do what he did. During his lifetime, he gave humble, ordinary people something profoundly meaningful to believe in.

May that belief — in kindness, thoughtfulness, and compassionate action — guide each of us in our work. And just imagine the possibilities if every funeral professional kept their own little black book.

The results of believing in human kindness, and acting on it, would be staggering.