Sellars Funeral Home At Hendersonville Obituaries

Let’s be honest: nobody wakes up thinking, “Gosh, I hope I get to browse obituaries today.” It’s one of life’s less glamorous errands, right up there with changing the furnace filter or that awkward conversation with your mechanic. But if you live anywhere near Hendersonville, Tennessee, and you find yourself in need of a good obituary (or just a fantastic story), Sellars Funeral Home at Hendersonville has somehow turned a grim task into a delightful, surprise-filled adventure.

Think about it. Obituaries are usually tiny, sad little blurbs with a grainy photo of someone from 1985. They say things like “He loved fishing and was preceded in death by his cat, Mittens.” But Sellars? No way. Their obituaries read like a stand-up comedy routine mixed with a family reunion gossip session. You’ll find someone who “finally beat that stubborn lawnmower,” or a grandmother who “left us because her angel wings were ready, but her bingo card was not.”

The Unexpected Art of the Death Notice

I discovered Sellars Funeral Home obituaries purely by accident. I was looking for a friend’s dad, and I accidentally clicked on one for a man named “Bubba.” The headline said: “Bubba Checked Out. No, He Didn’t Pay the Tab.” I laughed out loud in a crowded coffee shop. People stared. I didn’t care. Here was a man who, according to his family, “could fix a lawnmower with a paperclip and a prayer, but couldn’t for the life of him keep a goldfish alive past Tuesday.”

The surprising fact is that Sellars doesn’t just post these—they curate them. Their staff clearly asks the family, “What’s the weirdest thing they ever did?” One obituary mentioned a woman who “fed every stray cat in the county, but once fought a possum for a bag of chips and won.” Another noted a man who “never met a bad buffet, but drew the line at mayonnaise-based salads.” It’s like a brilliant, morbid comedy club where the audience is a little misty-eyed but also snorting into their tissues.

Why They’re the Best Thing in Hendersonville

I’m convinced the team at Sellars has a secret contest: “Who can write the most outrageous obituary without getting sued by the deceased.” One recent standout: a woman named Marge. Her family wrote that she “went home to heaven to reorganize the angel choir because frankly, their harmonies were lacking.” It went on to say her final wish was for everyone to “eat a whole pie” at the reception, because “life is too short for half-pie decisions.”

Now, you might think I’m exaggerating. But I promise you, these are real. I started reading them for the humor, but I kept coming back for the humanity. You learn that people loved things fiercely. One crocheted 400 afghans for squirrels. Another was a self-proclaimed “professional napper” who could “sleep through a tornado and a ringing phone, but would wake up instantly if someone whispered ‘dessert’.”

And here’s the kicker: the funeral home itself is just as charming. I visited once (not for a funeral, just to ask a question—don’t judge me). The staff didn’t wear sad gray suits. They wore colorful ties and offered me coffee and a cookie. “We’re celebrating a life, not mourning a loss,” one director said, grinning. “Our obituaries are just the first chapter of the party.” Dude was dead serious (pun intended).

The Internet’s Favorite Guilty Pleasure

I’m not alone in my obsession. There are entire Facebook groups dedicated to Sellars Funeral Home obituaries. People screenshot them and share them like rare Pokémon. One post went viral last year: a man’s obituary said he “died doing what he loved: arguing with the television.” It added that his family “kindly requests that no one play country music at the service, because he hated it, but also, we’ll turn it on real low just to annoy him one last time.”

This is the magic of Sellars. They take the stuffy, clinical nature of death and make it… relatable. They remind us that your final public statement doesn’t have to be a boring list of dates. It can be a punchline. It can be a confession. It can be a plea for your family to “please, for the love of God, bury me in those comfortable sweatpants, not the itchy funeral suit.”

What We Can Learn From Them

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: Your obituary is your last chance to tell the truth. Sellars Funeral Home gives families the courage to do that. They let grandmas admit they hated casseroles. They let uncles confess they were secretly terrible at golf. They let everyone know that you were the one who pranked the neighbor with the flamingo lawn ornaments.

So next time you’re procrastinating at work, skip the cat videos. Go read a Sellars obituary. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll question why you ever thought a standard obituary was enough. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll start drafting your own, complete with a joke about how you finally get to see if heaven has free Wi-Fi and a good brunch menu.

After all, death is a downer. Dying can be hilarious—if you write about it right. And nobody writes it better than the folks at Sellars. They’ve made saying goodbye the most entertaining part of the week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check their website. I heard a man named “Skip” just passed, and his family hinted he once tried to teach a raccoon to play checkers. I need to know who won.