The Inheritance

Why I’m Writing This Blog

I’ve spent most of my life listening.

Listening to families in moments they never expected to face. Listening to stories told through tears, laughter, long pauses, and sometimes complete silence. Listening to people trying to make sense of lives well lived—and lives that ended too soon.

After nearly five decades in funeral service, I’ve learned something simple but powerful:
stories matter.

They help us grieve.
They help us remember.
They help us laugh when laughter feels out of place—but somehow necessary.

This blog isn’t meant to teach lessons or offer answers. It’s simply a place to share stories—some from the funeral home, some from everyday life, some imagined, and some that refuse to stay quiet once they’ve been heard.

Some posts will be lighthearted. Others more reflective. A few may surprise you. All of them come from the same place: a belief that when we slow down enough to listen, we’re reminded of what really matters.

If you find yourself smiling, nodding, or pausing for a moment as you read, then this space is doing what it’s meant to do.

Thanks for being here.
There are plenty of stories to tell.

— Martin

March 24, 2026

The Inheritance

By Martin Thompson

When I began in funeral service on January 1, 1976, working alongside my dad, our funeral home was a well-oiled machine. We handled over 500 services a year, and there was a rhythm to it—a way things were simply done.

When a death occurred, the phone would ring, and it was almost understood what would follow. A traditional funeral. Several days of visitation at the funeral home. A church service—usually the same church the family had attended for generations. And then a burial in a local cemetery, where parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were already laid to rest.

It wasn’t just a process. It was a pattern. A tradition. An expectation.

Around that same time, a book began to gain attention—The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford. It exposed some practices in our profession that deserved scrutiny. And like any industry, there were those who didn’t always do things the right way.

But most of us did.

Most of us were—and still are—honest, hardworking people trying to serve families during one of the hardest moments of their lives.

Then something began to change.

By the time I graduated from college, we started seeing more families choose cremation. What had once been one or two families out of hundreds slowly grew—first to a handful… then to twenty-five… and it never stopped growing.

My dad wasn’t convinced.

“It’s a fad,” he’d say. “I’ve seen fads come and go.”

But this one didn’t go away.

And truth be told, our profession didn’t know what to do with it.

If a family chose cremation back then, they would come in, fill out the paperwork… and that was about it. No service. No gathering. No moment to mark the life that had been lived.

Just… an ending.

Eventually, families began to come back—sometimes for a second loss—and they would say,
“We still want cremation… but can we have some kind of service?”

Reluctantly at first, funeral homes began offering memorial services. And if a family wanted something that looked more like a traditional funeral—with their loved one present—they were often told they needed to purchase a casket… only for it to be cremated afterward.

Looking back, I think we were slow to understand something important.

We assumed cremation was about money.

And while it can be less expensive, after more than 50 years in this profession, I can tell you—it’s rarely just about that.

In my everyday life—talking with friends on the golf course, sitting around the club, visiting with families—I hear many reasons.

People move more than they used to. Families are spread across the country. The idea of being buried in one place, while children and grandchildren live somewhere else, doesn’t always feel right.

When I opened our funeral home in Grapevine in the late 1990s, it became very clear. Almost everyone I met wasn’t from Grapevine… and many weren’t even from Texas. Nine out of ten families had roots somewhere else.

For them, cremation made sense.

Others tell me they want something simple.
They don’t want the formality. The schedule. The weight of a traditional service.

And some see cremation as a more environmentally conscious choice.

There isn’t just one reason anymore.

There are many.

Today, cremation represents more than half of all services, and I believe that number will continue to rise.

Which brings me to The Inheritance.

If your decision is cremation, that’s okay.

But cremation should not mean, “Just cremate me and be done.”

Because what I see—more often than you might think—is families who still need something.
A gathering. A moment. A place to tell the stories.

A way to say… this life mattered.

Not long ago, I was playing golf with some friends when someone mentioned that a man we all knew had passed away the week before.

“Has anyone heard when the service is?” someone asked.

There wasn’t one.

So we stood there, talking about him.
The stories. The laughter. The years he spent with us.

And I couldn’t help but think—his family may never hear those stories.

There was no place for them to be told.

It just… ended.

And then there’s another side to this I see more and more.

I once met with a woman who told me she had a closet dedicated to cremated remains.

She said it with a bit of humor… but there was something underneath it.

Inside that closet were her great-grandparents, her grandparents, her father, her mother, step-parents… along with several beloved pets.

When we counted, there were nearly twenty sets of cremated remains.

She paused and said, half-joking,
“My kids are going to have to build a bigger house… or make some tough decisions.”

But it wasn’t really a joke.

Because one day, that becomes their inheritance.

And at some point, someone has to decide—what do we do now?

If there’s one thing I would encourage, it’s this:

Have the conversation.

Decide what you want done—not just with your service, but with your remains.

Cremation offers flexibility. It offers freedom.
But it still deserves intention.

Funerals have never truly been for the person who has died.

They are for the living.

For the stories.
For the memories.
For the healing.

Whatever form it takes—a church, a clubhouse, a backyard, a simple gathering—there should be something.

A moment to pause.

A moment to remember.

A moment to say… that was a life well lived.

Don’t leave your family with questions.
Don’t leave them with uncertainty.
And don’t leave them with an inheritance they don’t know how to carry.