3 Things My Aunt Did That Made Saying Goodbye a Little Easier

Note: This is a guest post from Joe Darago, Executive Director of The Hope Effect, and a friend of mine for over 30 years.

I come from a big family—five sisters and me—filling every corner of our modest home in Northeast Ohio with laughter, noise, and life. There was never a dull moment.

My dad’s side looked a little different. He was the only son of Joseph and Teresa, raised alongside two sisters who never had children of their own. But what they may have lacked in children, they made up for in presence.

Aunt Marilyn and Aunt Liz were constants in our lives. They attended every holiday, came to many sporting events, and had a saved seat at our six graduations. They took turns investing in us—quietly and consistently.

Even when I left home for college and eventually moved out of state, the rhythm of connection continued. Birthday cards arrived on time. Calls were never forgotten. Milestone moments always brought a message or a visit. Their love was steady—minimal in flash, but immense in weight.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so passionate about family—a value that has shaped so many of my life choices.

About a decade ago, both Aunt Marilyn and Aunt Liz began facing health challenges. In a beautiful act of mutual care, they moved into the same home to help one another recover and reduce expenses.

One thing they didn’t reduce, however, was their belongings.

Our family has never been great at letting things go. Boxes in the sunroom held documents from our great-grandfather. Furniture from Grandma’s house crowded every corner of the living room. And the musty basement was packed with remnants from the old family store—items long unused but still quietly taking up space.

This past weekend, I traveled back to Ohio to say goodbye to Aunt Liz. As the family pastor, I had the honor of overseeing the funeral for the last of my two aunts.

The service was deeply meaningful. Friends and family came to pay their respects, share stories, and support one another through our grief. As I stood there, listening and leading, I was reminded—once again—of what truly matters in life.

No one mentioned her possessions. Not once.

But everyone spoke of how she made them feel.

How present she was.

How faithfully she encouraged others, even in quiet ways.

Of course, while no one mentioned her possessions during the service, she and my other aunt left behind plenty of material things to sort through. My sisters and I have been tasked with handling these in a way that honors both our family and her wishes.

Thankfully, Aunt Liz sensed the end was near about a year before she passed. And in that final stretch of time, she made some intentional choices—quiet but impactful—that have made all the difference.

Here are a few things she did that were incredibly helpful, and I share them in hopes they might serve others walking a similar road:

3 Things My Aunt Did That Made Saying Goodbye a Little Easier

1. She Set Up a Trust

Aunt Liz owned two homes, held several retirement accounts from past jobs, had a life insurance policy, and was a dedicated coin collector. Knowing how complicated this could become, she worked with a professional to establish a trust, appoint an executor, and clearly document who would receive what.

This one step saved my sister—who served as the executor—countless hours and headaches. More importantly, it helped us avoid confusion or conflict about finances. Money has a way of straining even the closest families. Because Liz planned ahead, we were free to grieve without tension.

2. She Simplified Where She Could

My aunt was the keeper of our family’s history and secrets. She took great pride in our heritage, always sharing stories of the past—names, places, and moments most of us would have forgotten if not for her. In many ways, she was our family cloud.

Because of that, her home was crowded with the artifacts of generations—photos, furniture, letters, and keepsakes she couldn’t bear to part with.

And yet, in her final year, something shifted. While her home still held plenty, it was clear she had begun to simplify. Closets were partially cleared. Papers were filed and labeled. Some items were gently set aside for donation.

These small acts of preparation made a significant difference. They lifted a burden from our shoulders—and served as a quiet reminder that even a little intentionality can have a lasting impact.

3. She Talked About What Matters

Perhaps the most meaningful gift Aunt Liz gave us was her willingness to talk about death—openly, honestly, and with peace. She had personal conversations with each of us, asking us to consider taking on specific responsibilities after she was gone.

One of us would care for her aging pets. Another would carry on the family Christmas tradition she had lovingly kept for years. And someone, she said, would need to pick up the mantle of family historian.

I gladly accepted that role—and in the months that followed, she began setting aside items for me as she came across them. Old photographs. Handwritten letters. Notes explaining why something mattered.

None of us enjoyed those conversations. But all of us are grateful we had them. They spared us the pain of guessing what was important to her and brought clarity to the difficult process of sorting through what was left behind.

I know I’m not alone in this experience.

Many of us have aging parents, relatives, or lifelong friends who will one day leave behind more than just memories. Along with grief, they may leave behind decisions—about possessions, finances, pets, traditions, and legacies. And it will fall to us to sort through what remains.

The question is: how can we prepare now for what we know is coming?

3 Simple, Loving Steps We Can All Take

1. Initiate the conversation.

It might feel awkward at first, but starting the conversation is a gift to everyone involved. Begin gently. Ask thoughtful questions: Is there a will? A power of attorney in case of health challenges? What are their hopes if the unexpected happens?

These are not easy topics, so approach them with compassion. The goal isn’t control—it’s understanding what matters most and honoring it.

2. Listen to the stories.

Behind every item is a memory. Often, the story is more important than the object itself. Ask why something matters. Don’t be afraid to ask open-ended questions that invite storytelling. 

Questions like: What’s the story behind this? Who gave it to you? Why did you keep it all these years? can unlock important family history.

For photos: Where was this taken? Who are these people? What happened that day?

For letters or heirlooms: Did this belong to someone else in the family? What does it remind you of?

Listening patiently, without rushing, honors the person and gives meaning to the objects left behind. 

Pro tip: write names on the backs of photos. Aunt Liz didn’t do that, and now I’m piecing together clues from extended family members.

3. Don’t wait to share your feelings at the funeral.

At my aunt’s service, I invited others to speak. The room filled with beautiful memories and heartfelt words. But as I listened, I couldn’t help but wonder—had Liz heard these things while she was still alive?

Don’t wait. Tell your loved ones what they mean to you now. Say the words. Let them hear your gratitude, your admiration, and your love while they’re still here to receive it.

Minimalism isn’t just about letting go of stuff. It’s about living with purpose and preparing with love. The intentional steps Aunt Liz took in her final year didn’t just ease our burden—they reminded us of what really matters.

May we all be brave enough to start the conversation, kind enough to preserve the stories, and wise enough to speak our love while there’s still time.

***

Joe Darago has served as the Executive Director of The Hope Effect since its founding in 2015. He and his Christie live in Edmond OK where they enjoy parenting their four adult children and grandparenting two + one on the way. He is passionate about changing the way the world cares for orphans… because every child deserves a family.

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