(Written for the funeral of our son, Benedict Tobias Ford, who was born sleeping April 1st, 2026, at nearly 32 weeks.)
How does one go about writing a eulogy for a baby born sleeping? Usually, a eulogy would include details like birth date, death date, family specifics, school and work history, hobbies and personality quirks. But we have no birth certificate for Benedict, nor do we have a death certificate; he never took a first breath, nonetheless a last. His heartbeat was discovered to be missing before the day he was delivered from the womb. His life and death are shrouded in mystery, and the possibilities that could have been – that were desperately hoped and prayed for – are merely ashes in our hands and hearts.
We are confident the boy was strong. This broken world broke his body at the genetic level from day one, yet he fought bravely into the 3rd trimester, nearly to 32 weeks, staying longer inside his mother’s womb than his twin sisters managed to do. His condition, Severe Prenatal Hydrophosphatasia, stole his bones; shortening his arms and legs, cinching his little rib cage like vice around his heart and lungs, and overall causing his skeleton to decalcify and become soft, if not non-existent.
We all prayed for a miracle, but upon holding the broken body of our son, it was quite evident the precious boy had suffered enough, and had earned his eternal rest with Christ.
Benedict was delivered during Holy Week – an important detail, for in Lent and Holy Week, we reflect upon the sacrifice of Jesus. It was in these reflections that I realized something about our boy. Of course our beautiful Benedict was made in the “imago dei” – the image of God that all mankind bears. But more than that, our beautiful Benedict looked a whole lot like Jesus.
Isaiah 52:14b: “…his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance, and his form beyond that of the children of mankind…”
Isaiah 53:3: “He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.”
Isaiah 53:7: “He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth.”
Jesus, though innocent, was beaten, mocked, and crucified, his body mutilated, his face a hard thing to behold. He bore our sins within his very flesh. Innocent, but broken anyway.
So to Benedict, though innocent, was physically broken, his face a hard thing to behold. He bore humanity’s sins within his very flesh. Innocent, but broken anyway.
But where our son bore only the consequence of sin’s corruption of this world, the Son of God bore sin and death itself, breaking its grip upon the children of God. The fractured face of Christ is simultaneously the captivating countenance of hope.
And our baby boy looked like Jesus. Broken, and beautiful. Sorrowful, but not without hope. He may have come forth shrouded in death, but death is not the end of him. Christ is Toby’s hope, as Christ is ours today. And in this season of grief, Toby has pointed us to Jesus, drawing us to our knees before him, and causing us to cling to him in the midst of the storm.
I’ve learned in this season that Hope and Grief dance together in a baffling harmony. They are the same song; one the major theme and one the minor; the prior longing for what has been lost, while the former for what is yet to come. It’s the anthem of all creation, crying “Come, Lord Jesus! Come and make all things new! ” All creation longs for redemption while yet plagued with sickness, decay and death.
It is good to grieve. It is good to hope.
Benedict’s name means “Blessed”, and so he is. He left this earth innocent, truly pure of heart. Today, he sees God. His middle name, Tobias, means “God is good”, and so He is. He is both the rock that crushes and the rock we cling to. Yes, we begged Him for a miracle, but our hope was never in the miracle. Our hope is always in Christ. And though we’ve no doubt God is big enough to have healed our Toby – to raise him from these ashes even now! – God is also big enough not to. It is enough for us to hope in him, now and forever. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Toby, we miss you terribly. We sure wish we could have watched you grow up and become everything you could have been. But we praise God for your life, and for your life everlasting. And we praise God for Christ, in whom we hope in the midst of our grief, knowing we too will join you and all the saints in that glorious and blessed life everlasting.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
-SF
(Written 5/19/2026. Published 5/25/26)
Cotton Ribbons 