Someone died, and between the phone calls and the funeral home there are suddenly two documents due: the obituary, often by tomorrow, and maybe a eulogy, due at a podium in front of everyone you love. You're supposed to write them while grieving, and the blank page is winning. This page turns both jobs into fill-in-the-blanks: the five parts every obituary has, the five moves every good eulogy makes, two small tools that draft your first version as you type, the traps to skip, and what to do when you're simply too close to write. Nothing is stored or sent — it's just you and the page.
The 60-second version
You don't have to summarize a whole life. An obituary is a notice, not a verdict. A eulogy is one window, not the whole house.
The obituary has five parts: the announcement, the life in a paragraph, the people, the service, the memorial line. Fill them in below, one sentence at a time.
The eulogy has five moves: who you are, one word for them, one true story, what they gave you, the last line. Three minutes is perfect — about 400 words.
You never have to say how they died. "Passed away" is a complete sentence, and so is silence about the cause.
Funny stories are allowed. The laugh at a funeral is the sound of love arriving on time.
Write it all down, print it big, on paper. Bring water, and hand a copy to a backup reader before you stand up.
Crying is allowed. Pausing is allowed. Nobody came to judge your composure.
The deadline trick: the funeral home and the clergy do this every week. Hand them your rough draft and say "can you help us finish this?" — they will.
Prints as a compact handout — the on-screen tools hide themselves. No analytics, no network requests, nothing stored; it works offline. Conventions vary by family, faith, and community: this page is the common pattern, not the law — when in doubt, the funeral director and the clergy are kind about questions.
The obituary starter
Five blanks and the page drafts the notice. Every field is optional except the name — fill in what you know and the draft appears as you type.
Your first draft
Start with their full name and the draft begins. Announcement, life, people, service, memorial — one sentence at a time.
Paste it into the funeral home's form or the newspaper's email — their editors finish the formatting. Before it goes, ask one other person to check every name's spelling: that's the mistake that echoes.
The eulogy starter
Six small answers and the page drafts a three-minute skeleton, stage directions included. Fill in what you can — every field is optional.
Your skeleton
Start with who you are and their name, and the skeleton appears — the five moves, with the stage directions in brackets.
Then read it aloud once and time it — three minutes is about 400 words. Print it at 16-point, double-spaced, on paper (phones die, hands shake, screens dim), and hand a copy to your backup reader before you stand up.
The obituary, part by part
The announcement. "Ruth Ann Delgado, 84, of Milwaukee, died on July 30, 2026." That is the whole first sentence — name, age, city, date. "Peacefully," "suddenly," "after a long illness" are all optional; leaving the cause out entirely is also fine. If the death was by suicide or overdose, the family owes no one an explanation — not in print, and not at the podium.
The life in a paragraph. Not a résumé. Pick three or four true things — the work, the loves, the thing everyone knew them for. "She was a nurse for 38 years, a fierce pinochle player, and the reason the whole block grows tomatoes" says more than a page of positions held. This is the paragraph people read twice.
The people. Survived-by lists follow a loose convention — spouse, children with partners, grandchildren, siblings — and "preceded in death by" is optional. Then ask one other family member to check every name's spelling: a misspelled grandchild is the mistake that echoes.
The service. Date, time, place, and whether all are welcome. "A private family service will be held" and "a celebration of life will follow in the spring" are both complete sentences and both complete obituaries.
The memorial line. "In lieu of flowers" plus one cause they actually cared about — or "flowers warmly welcome." Either is correct. If donations, name the organization specifically; vague generosity disappears.
The practical part. Newspapers usually charge by the line and want it early; the funeral home almost always publishes it free online and will edit for format. Their staff does this every week — "can you help us with the obituary?" is a sentence they know exactly how to answer.
The eulogy, move by move
Say who you are in the first line. The room needs to place you: "I'm Mike, his son." One sentence, then straight to them.
Give them one word, then prove it with one story. Specific beats comprehensive: "he returned my library books — renewed first" beats "he was thoughtful." If your word is "stubborn" and your story is loving, you're doing it right.
One thing they taught you or gave you, in one sentence. First person plural is fine: "everyone in the shop learned…"
End by talking to them directly if you can — "Thank you, Ruthie" — it's the moment the room is waiting for. If you can't, end on the story's last line and stop.
Length: three to five minutes, which is 400–700 words. Shorter is kinder — to the room, and to you.
Delivery: print it at 16-point, double-spaced, on paper. Bring water. Pick a backup reader and hand them a copy before you start, with permission to finish it if you can't.
Crying: pause, breathe, keep going when you can. The room is with you. Stopping is allowed too — that's what the backup reader is for.
The traps to skip
Don't settle scores, and don't share secrets the family wouldn't want in the room. The podium is not the place for the first airing of anything.
Don't make promises from the podium — "we'll take care of Mom" — that you haven't cleared with the people who'd have to keep them.
Don't make it your story. Your grief belongs in it; the spotlight stays on them.
Skip the jokes that need explaining, the exes, the family feuds, and the medical details.
Clichés are allowed when they're true of this person — "she'd give you the shirt off her back" is a cliché everywhere except in a eulogy where it's a verified fact.
You never need to mention how they died. Not in the notice, not at the podium. "Passed away" is a complete sentence.
Skip "they would have wanted us to celebrate" as an obligation. Some families celebrate, some weep straight through it — both are doing it right.
If you're too close to write
Hand this page to someone a half-step further from the loss — the organized cousin, the nephew, the family friend. The fill-in parts work when someone else fills them in.
The funeral director and the clergy do this every single week. "Can you help us write the obituary?" is a request they hear daily and answer kindly.
A simple obituary is a complete obituary: announcement, three true things, the people, the service. Done.
The eulogy itself is optional. One honest minute beats five polished ones — and if no one can speak, a poem or a reading is a complete tribute.