For fourteen years, I’ve been selling Amish caskets out of a small shop in out in the county. It all started when I met him, a bearded craftsman with hands like oak, at his country shop. His caskets were simple—pine or walnut, no varnish, just the wood’s honest grain. I’d lost my job recently, and something about his work felt real, grounded. I asked if he needed a seller. He nodded, and that was that.

At first, it was strange. People don’t browse caskets like furniture. They come in raw, grieving, or planning ahead with a tight jaw. I learned to listen more than talk, to let the silence sit. The Amish don’t rush their craft, and I learned not to rush folks’ decisions. Each casket’s given attention, carefully built to cradle someone’s final rest. No shortcuts. Eli’s crew—his brothers, cousins—pour their faith into every board, and I feel it when I run my hand over the wood.

Business grew slow but steady. Word spread: our caskets were solid, affordable, no corporate markup. I’d drive them to funeral homes or families’ doorsteps, sometimes staying to hear stories about the departed. There was the farmer who wanted his casket plain as his life, or the woman whose kids picked walnut because it matched her dining table. Each sale felt like a trust, not a transaction.

Challenges came. Shipping’s a headache—handmade caskets don’t stack neat like factory ones. Some funeral homes pushed back, wanting glossier models. And Eli’s stubborn about change; try convincing an Amish man to take card payments. But we made it work. I handle the phones, the internet, while he keeps the saws humming.

Fourteen years in, I’m part of the rhythm. Eli’s kids are grown, some joining the shop. I enjoy it still, the drive, the deliveries, still feel the weight of each order. The caskets aren’t just wood—they’re a promise kept, a quiet goodbye. I don’t think I’ll ever quit. There’s something special in it—something memorable for us all.