The Power of Presence: How Funeral Directors Shape the Future They Cannot See

By Jay Jacobson

Leadership is always teaching. The question is not if people are learning from you, but what.

I remember standing in the preparation room with a young intern watching closely. His hands were tucked into his lab coat, eyes tracing every movement. I explained each step as I worked, but later he told me, “What struck me most was how calm you stayed when something didn’t go as planned.”

He wasn’t memorizing procedure. He was studying presence. He was learning steadiness. That is what stayed with him.

And I know this to be true because I once stood in his place. I remember my own mentor showing me how to wash cars until they shone, how to line up chairs, how to keep the yard trimmed and the hedges neat. At the time, they felt like chores. Then he said, “We do this every day. Our families only bury their loved one once.”

That truth shaped me. It taught me that presence is not confined to the arrangement room or the chapel. It lives in every act of care, in every small detail that communicates reverence.

Your staff, especially those just beginning, are always watching. They notice how you respond when a family hesitates, how you listen, how you stand, how you breathe. Every gesture is instruction. Every moment is a classroom.

Presence is what they are learning: presence in work, in community, and at home. Each is essential. Each defines leadership.

Presence at work has always been the foundation of this profession. We learned by sweeping floors, setting chairs, and watching quietly from the back. At its best, that formed humility. At its worst, it reduced calling to chores without meaning.

Too often, apprentices are handed tasks without being told why they matter. The chapel is vacuumed, but no one explains the sacredness of the space. A hearse is washed, but no one calls it an act of honor. A phone call is made, but no one connects it to the peace it brings to a grieving family.

This is not neglect, but drift, the urgent pressing against the important until purpose fades. When meaning disappears, so does motivation. Apprentices lose heart. The profession risks losing its next generation.

I had another mentor who rarely lectured but always modeled. He never raised his voice, never hurried a family, and never overlooked the smallest detail. One day I asked why he spent so long arranging flowers before a visitation. He smiled and said, “Because someone will notice. And if one family member feels cared for in that moment, it is worth the time.”

Presence, I learned, is often measured in the details others overlook.

The answer is not to abandon tradition, but to renew it with intention, connecting every task to purpose. Presence at work means explaining why each act matters. Teams watch how leaders carry themselves under pressure, whether standards are upheld, whether calm or hurry defines the day. Every interaction teaches. The lesson they need most is how to stay grounded.

Some moments in history define what presence truly is. One of them was the crash of United Flight 232 in Sioux City. Funeral directors were called into a scene of unimaginable loss. There was no preparation, no rehearsal, only instinct and heart. Yet they showed up with quiet dignity.

It has been thirty-six years since that day, but its lessons endure. Those directors showed that presence is not simply being there. It is bringing calm into chaos, order into confusion, and dignity into tragedy. Their steadiness became the model for today’s DMORT teams who serve in disasters across the world.

That kind of presence changes how a community sees us. Families in Sioux City discovered that funeral directors were not just professionals behind closed doors; they were neighbors and leaders who appeared when it mattered most. The nation that watched saw the same truth, that our profession is defined not only by skill, but by humanity.

For young directors, the message is clear. Presence is not confined to the funeral home. It means standing beside your town at a parade, volunteering in a classroom, or walking into the aftermath of disaster. Presence in the ordinary prepares you for presence in the extraordinary. When you are present in both, you lead by example that endures.

Presence in community is learned through consistency. I once had a mentor pull me aside after a meeting and say, “The families you serve notice if you show up here. Your presence in this town is part of the care you give.”

I did not understand it then. Years later, walking in parades, attending Chamber luncheons, and sitting in high school bleachers, I understood. Presence in community is not extra; it is essential.

Community is built in ordinary moments. What people remember is not how much you speak, but that you showed up. Presence is not about standing out, but standing with. It tells families that you care about their lives beyond their losses.

I once substituted in a high school classroom. At first, the students ignored me. But when I chose to notice, to ask questions, to listen, the atmosphere shifted. A quiet student found his voice. That day reminded me that presence invites participation.

Funeral directors hold a sacred place in their towns. We serve in moments of loss, but we also build trust in daily life. Each civic event, grief group, or board meeting becomes an opportunity to model steadiness. Apprentices who see their mentors show up learn that service extends far beyond the walls of the funeral home.

Presence at home is the third dimension, and perhaps the most revealing.

There was a season when the work numbed me. I was physically home, but emotionally distant. It took time away to relearn presence where it mattered most. That season taught me what no classroom ever could: if you lose presence with your family, you lose the balance that makes every other kind of presence possible.

I remember a mentor who once stepped out of a late-night meeting to answer a call from his daughter. When he returned, he smiled and said, “She just needed to know I was listening.” That moment stayed with me. Presence at home is not measured in hours, but in attention.

An intern once told me that what shaped him most was when I sent him home early to be with his wife. He said it was the first time he understood that leadership is not about doing more; it is about knowing when to stop.

Staff watch how we live beyond our work. If they see us burn out, ignore our families, and never rest, they learn that exhaustion is the expectation. But if they see us honor those at home, they learn that presence is balance, and balance is strength.

Presence requires renewal. It is tied to lifelong learning.

I think of a teacher who once saw potential in me before I saw it in myself. She modeled presence through attention, through belief. That is what mentors do. They see more than we can yet imagine.

Apprentices need to see their mentors learning too, reading, asking questions, and growing. When leaders stop learning, staff assume growth ends with licensure. When leaders stay curious, staff learn that growth is the lifeblood of the profession.

Presence is not passive. It is a daily decision to stay engaged, to listen, to evolve. When your team sees you choosing growth, they learn that excellence is not a destination, but a posture.

Every action you take in front of your staff is a form of instruction. Every word, every pause, every gesture shapes the next generation of professionals. They are not only learning how to serve families; they are also learning what kind of leaders they will become.

The future of funeral service will not be sustained by nostalgia, but by renewal, renewal in how we serve, how we participate, and how we remain present at home. Renewal begins in the choices we make when no one seems to be watching, because someone always is.

The way you live today defines the profession you will have tomorrow. Presence at work teaches care. Presence in the community builds trust. Presence at home preserves humanity.

That is what it means to lead by legendary example. It is the standard worth striving for, the lesson your staff are already learning, and the legacy you will leave behind.