154 Minutes

Saturday we joined with family and friends to memorialize the life of Weston Aiden Faith.

Weston was born the previous weekend and lived for 154 minutes.

That isn’t long.

It was miraculously long for Weston though. He was nurtured in the womb without the luxury of amniotic fluid and some of his organs didn’t mature enough for him to endure outside the womb for long.

His parents, Kris’ cousin and her husband, along with a host of friends and family prayed for life, they prayed for the breath of life, that Weston would not just live, but that he would enjoy the life he would encounter.

For over two and half hours, God showed eloquent mercy. Delicate fingers reached and tightened around the hands that had prayed for him. Songs were sung to ears that heard, faces were seen by eyes that connected and Weston lived those minutes perfectly surrounded in love. His coos and grunts were never talked over, ignored or tuned out, each little noise, each breath, each sign of life was celebrated.

On Saturday we saw him lying in that miniature casket. Tiny man in white cap, perfect representation of purity and yet a perfect representation of flesh. 154 minutes, the pastor said, a snapshot of the Christian life.

Nothing within the skin stays, it seems to betray us in leaving too soon. I am unconvinced that betrayal is at all the aim though. Instead I looked around and saw the shimmer of silver that encased the cloud of witnesses still among us. Tears fell freely, yes, they cleanse and ease our hearts by spilling out the emotion we feel, but joy was flowing faster, fuller, farther than the tears ever could.

Stubborn, stubborn joy. Laughing in the midst of sorrow. Such audacious and impertinent a fellow to warm us when the cold had just come in. How dare he? How dare we?

But we were not ignoring death, we were aware of it’s theft, feeling fully the vulnerability of having lost something so personal. How did it get in here? How did it enter such a protected place as our hearts? No, the pain and persistent ache were not ignored, rather they were shared. Passed around the room, in echos of testimony and honest confession. We hurt, we mourn, we sorrow, but we do not compress neath the weight. Instead we were somehow standing higher, our perspective enlightened by the firmness of faith, the power of peace, the underpinning of truth and yes, that audacious joy. How it continues to surprise.

Worship filled the room and caused us to look up instead of around. Around brings dizzying results, while up stays us.

The song of the redeemed echoed in the room and it was almost visibly marking the quiet observers. Those young souls who entered the room to comfort and support, to do the right thing, but found themselves being wrapped up in the shocking fullness of Christ. Our Lord, the Rabbi was present, teaching through tears, through boldness, through flesh that held sorrow but poured out praise and His presence in those vessels spoke volumes of simple faith.

They were watching their leaders. Learning from them how to do the simple unthinkable. To stand when the blow was intended to crush, to sing when the music had died, to smile, laugh and most amazingly to hold up others, when the world spun a little too fast. These people had lost something, but they were helping others to see more clearly where something greater, the pearl of great price, could be found.

The family ate together, prayed together, the children played together and we absorbed it through eyes, straight to heart. What blessing there is in the harmony of saints who sorrow with you but rejoice in Him. No greater comfort, I believe, is found on earth. Witnessing hope in those who understand how dark your pit is. Hearing grace from those who feel the weight of your emptiness and carry it for you as far as they can.

We gathered at the grave site, cold wind leaking through the corners of the funeral tent. Little boys of mine complaining but able to be stilled, questioning but able to observe the answers. We listened to each other, hearts deeply affected testifying aloud of God’s unchanging goodness.

After praying together we stepped out of the tent and gave the children each a balloon to send to the sky. They laughed as they blew quickly out of reach, but not out of sight. Billowing into gray cloud they danced on currents and grew smaller, smaller, smaller with each moment. We dared not blink lest we miss the last sight of them.

Such a small thing. Such a measurable span of time. Yet, we were witnessing immeasurable hope. Once again, we were looking up. The earth still spun beneath our feet, bidding us cling to what we know, but faith lifted us to see the miracle of a fullness lighter than breathable air.

The breath of God still enters man, quickening the Spirit, connecting us to eternity where Weston now praises without need of the faith to see. His joy the same as mine, but without the need for impertinence.

Shocking, childlike, joy as even Aron said, loud and innocent, in the middle of the graveside service at the mention of knowing Christ.

“I know Jesus!” he said, and our tears slipped from our cheeks into open mouths of joy.

“Little children, little children who love their Redeemer,
Are the pure ones, are the bright ones, His loved and His own.

Like the stars of the morning, His bright crown adorning
They shall shine in their beauty, bright gems for His crown.” – William O. Cushing