The Most Unusual Funeral Requests I’ve Ever Received

I’ve been in the death care industry for just about twenty years, and I’ve learned one very important thing: people are endlessly creative when it comes to love.

Every family I meet has a story, and sometimes, the way they choose to honor that story is unlike anything I could have imagined.
Some requests are funny, some are touching, and a few are downright unconventional — but each one carries the same truth: there’s no “right way” to say goodbye.

So today, I want to share a few of the most unusual funeral requests I’ve ever received — moments that made me smile, pause, and remember why I chose this work in the first place.

The Harley-Davidson Procession

The first time I saw a full line of Harleys roaring through the cemetery gates, I could feel the vibration in my chest before I even stepped outside.

“Karen,” one of the sons told me, “Dad said if he can’t ride into heaven, he wants to hear it.”

He wasn’t joking.

We arranged a motorcycle escort instead of a traditional funeral coach procession. Each bike was polished to perfection, the chrome catching the morning light. The riders wore leather jackets embroidered with his club’s name. His cremains rode in a custom-made saddlebag on his best friend’s bike.

I remember standing by the open grave as they rolled in — the sound was thunderous, but somehow reverent. When the engines finally cut off, there was absolute silence. One of the bikers removed his helmet and said, “We made it, brother.”

That day taught me something I’ll never forget: a funeral doesn’t have to be quiet to be meaningful. Sometimes love sounds like an engine and smells like gasoline.

The Family Who Wanted a Picnic

There was a family who came to me with a simple but unusual request:
“Mom didn’t want anything formal,” the daughter said. “She wanted a picnic.”

So we planned one.

We held the service at the cemetery under a big oak tree near her mother’s resting place. We spread quilts and picnic blankets, set out baskets of her favorite foods, and played the music she used to hum while cooking. The grandkids ran barefoot in the grass, chasing bubbles and laughter through the air.

It was the opposite of somber — it was radiant.

I sat off to the side for a moment, watching the family share stories over homemade chicken salad and lemonade. There were tears, of course, but there was also joy. That day, grief looked a lot like gratitude.

And I thought to myself: This is what funerals are supposed to do — bring us back to the living.

The Woman Who Wanted Glitter

Then there was Eleanor.

Eleanor was ninety-three years old, and I’d known her for several years before she passed. She used to joke that she wanted “one last sparkle.” When she came in to pre-plan her arrangements, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Promise me I won’t go out dull.”

I promised.

When the day came, her daughters brought a small bag of cosmetic glitter. We mixed it into her setting powder — a soft shimmer across her cheeks and eyelids, subtle but unmistakably her. Her outfit was her favorite lavender suit with rhinestone buttons.

When her family entered the chapel, they gasped — not from shock, but from delight. “She looks like herself again,” one daughter said, tears glimmering just like her mother’s cheeks.

That moment reminded me that beauty doesn’t stop at death. Sometimes, honoring someone means leaning into what made them shine.

The Dog Who Attended Every Visit

Animals grieve too — I’ve seen it.

Years ago, a man named Paul passed away. He and his golden retriever, Daisy, had been inseparable. His wife asked if Daisy could come to the visitation. She said, “She used to wait by the door every evening when he came home. She deserves a goodbye, too.”

We made it work.

I’ll never forget that scene: Daisy walked in on a leash, tail low, sniffing the air. When she reached the casket, she lay down beside it, resting her head on the edge. She stayed there for the entire visitation. Family and friends took turns kneeling beside her, petting her gently. It was heartbreaking and beautiful.

That day, everyone cried — including me.

I learned that love, in all its forms, deserves space to say farewell. Even a dog knows when the world has shifted.

The Fisherman’s Send-Off

Another family came to me with an unusual idea for their father, a lifelong fisherman. “Dad always said if he could choose heaven,” his son laughed, “it’d be stocked with trout and quiet.”

We turned the cemetery’s small pond into his symbolic fishing spot.

They brought his old tackle box, his favorite hat, and a folding chair that still had a little duct tape on one leg. We placed it near the water’s edge with a simple floral arrangement shaped like a fishing reel. Instead of a formal recessional, we ended the service with everyone tossing a single stone into the pond.

The ripples stretched outward, circles touching circles — much like grief itself.

It was quiet, humble, and completely him. And as they stood there watching the water, I realized: the most personal funerals aren’t elaborate; they’re specific. They feel like the person you loved.

The Star Wars Funeral

Some requests make me laugh before they make me cry — like the time a family asked, “Can we play the Star Wars theme?”

Their father had been a lifelong fan — light sabers, collectibles, movie marathons, the works. He’d told his kids more than once that when his time came, he wanted to “join the Force.”

We didn’t just play the theme; his grandsons came in wearing Jedi robes. The urn was displayed with his favorite action figures, and we used a simple phrase on the memorial card:

“May the Force be with you, always.”

It was lighthearted, yes, but when the music swelled and everyone stood together, I saw tears streaming down faces — because it was still a goodbye.

That’s the secret about unusual requests: they’re rarely strange once you understand the why behind them. They’re simply love, expressed in a different language.

The Bagpipe Parade at Dawn

One morning, I was standing on the cemetery lawn just before sunrise, waiting for a small private service. The air was cool, the grass damp, and fog hung low over the headstones.

Suddenly, the faint sound of bagpipes broke the stillness — deep, haunting, beautiful.

The family had arranged for a single piper to walk through the mist, playing “Amazing Grace.” Their mother was of Scottish descent, proud of her heritage, and had made one specific request: “If I can’t have Scotland, give me the sound of it.”

As the sun rose, golden light cut through the fog, illuminating the piper and the family standing arm-in-arm. It was one of the most breathtaking sights I’ve ever seen.

Funerals are often remembered for what they sound like — the songs, the laughter, the silence. That morning, it was the sound of peace.

The Family Who Asked for Ice Cream

After a long and emotional funeral arrangement, a family once looked at me and said, “Mom would want ice cream at her funeral.”

I smiled. “Then let’s make that happen.”

We contacted a local creamery, and they set up a small cart outside the chapel, serving vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate — her three favorites. Instead of somber organ music, we played her playlist: Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald.

Everyone left the service with sticky fingers and lighter hearts.

Sometimes people think funerals have to be sad, structured, or traditional. But the truth is, funerals are about comfort — and if comfort comes in the form of ice cream and laughter, then that’s exactly what it should be.

The Man Who Wanted a Parade

Then there was George.

George was a local band director for nearly forty years. His students adored him. He’d once told me, during a pre-planning appointment, “When I go, I don’t want quiet. I want a parade.”

And he meant it.

When the time came, his former students showed up — hundreds of them — each carrying an instrument. They lined the street outside the funeral home, and as we brought the hearse out, they began to play.

It started softly — the low thrum of drums — then swelled into a full marching band rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

It was joyous chaos: trumpets, trombones, tears, laughter, all blending together. As the hearse rolled down the road, I stood there thinking how perfectly it captured the man’s life. He’d spent decades leading others in rhythm, and now, they were leading him home.

The Christmas Funeral

One of the most memorable services I ever arranged took place in December, just days before Christmas.

The deceased, a woman named Marie, had been obsessed with the holidays. Her family joked that she decorated before Halloween every year. When she passed, they said, “We can’t imagine saying goodbye without Christmas.”

We turned the chapel into a beautiful winter wonderland — pine garlands, twinkling lights, a small tree covered in ornaments she’d collected over the years. Each family member hung one ornament before the service began.

Her grandchildren sang Silent Night, her husband placed a single star at the top of the tree, and when the service ended, everyone took home one ornament to remember her by.

That day, I learned that grief and celebration can live in the same room. Christmas didn’t cancel the sadness — it softened it.

Why Unusual Requests Matter

Every time I help fulfill a unique request — whether it’s glitter or motorcycles, ice cream or bagpipes — I’m reminded that funerals are not just about endings. They’re about identity. They tell the story of who we were and how we loved.

What might sound strange to one person often makes perfect sense to another. These personal details become the heartbeat of the service — the part everyone remembers, the story that gets retold at family dinners for years to come.

The “unusual” requests are, more often than not, the most human ones.

They remind me that there’s no such thing as a “normal” goodbye. Every family writes their own language of loss.

Final Reflections

When people ask me what my job is like, I usually smile and say, “It’s never boring.”

But beneath that humor is something sacred. The most unusual funeral requests I’ve ever received weren’t really about spectacle or surprise — they were about connection. They were families trying to find one last way to say, This was who they were. This is how much they mattered.

Sometimes that means motorcycles and glitter. Sometimes it means bagpipes and barefoot feet. Sometimes it means ice cream and laughter through tears.

Every one of those moments has stayed with me.

As funeral directors, we’re not just event planners for the departed. We’re storytellers for the living. We take the memories, the quirks, the favorite songs, the inside jokes — and we build something beautiful out of them. Something real.

Because at the end of the day, love doesn’t have to fit inside a casket or a chapel. It can roar like an engine, shimmer like glitter, taste like ice cream, or echo like a song across the moors.

And that’s the most extraordinary part of all.