I’ve been thinking about death lately. One of our pastors lost his 22-year-old son a few weeks ago. He was on a missions trip to Ireland and simply collapsed one day. He died within an hour. As of this writing, I have not heard whether or not they even know why he died. He was planning on going to seminary in the fall and ironically had already planned his own funeral. At his young age he was aware of how brief life is, and then—it was briefer than he could have imagined.

Another friend’s cousin, a wife and mom, died in her sleep recently. I know of two young moms battling cancer right now. Babies all across America are being dismembered alive; their body parts sold for money; their short lives hidden and unknown. My grandmother is so old and frail her body is just a wisp of flesh now, waiting for the end.

I’m entering that time of life when everyone around you starts to die, and the awareness of your own mortality becomes more vivid with each passing year.

So what’s it all for?

We know we are created in the image of God, and we’re precious and have purpose. But, really? What’s the purpose of that 22-year-old’s life cut from all his potential just as he was being launched from his parent’s nest? What’s the purpose of a young mother who doesn’t live to see her offspring grow up? What’s the purpose of the millions of tiny babies nobody knew? What’s the purpose of all the old people who will die in obscurity, never having made history?

I just finished reading The Boys in the Boat (listened to it on Audible, actually.) It’s the incredible story of nine boys from Washington state who rowed in the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin and won gold against all odds. The story focuses more specifically on one particular boy named Joe who had a difficult childhood. If you like to underline good quotes, you’ll be in quote heaven with this one. I had chills more than once. When I came to the chapter toward the end that gave the play by play of the winning race, I paced back and forth, emotionally on edge, as if watching the race through a window in time.

Then came the epilogue. The author tells the reader what became of each rower in that infamous boat. Basically, they all lived their lives—and died. They took their place in history and showed the world what trust and character and grit could do in the face of cheating, lying, murderous empires.

Then they died.

Just like all the people in the Bible. Just like all the people in the middle ages. Just like all the people during the Reformation. Just like all the people who lived at the turn of the last century.

Just like we will when our time in history is over. Our short spark of time. The earth is thick with bones and sleeping spirits.

And then it hit me. Fireworks. Fireworks are brief and beautiful. They give pleasure. Each pin point flash of light coordinating with a thousand others in perfect time to create a spectacular splash of sound and color.

Fireworks are generous in their reckless abandon to the forces that hurl them into space. They give their life freely with a blast of transcendent energy—the colors exploding in a harmonious work of art.

And then they drift slowly down to earth, dying flickers of light sputtering downward and fading into the night, leaving thick silent darkness behind them. Their lives brief and over.

But what if…

…wherever a tiny black coal drop fell, a living creature rose up? This one with a sigh, another with a gasp, then five more here and a hundred over there. A multitude of millions stretching out as far as you can see. Living creatures laughing, shouting, moving around, finding life and love and joy. Spreading out and living forever and ever.

Sounds like a fairy tale. But isn’t that what God specializes in? Creating a trillion bazillion different forms of life? Raising them from the dead? Making babies in dried up wombs—or virgin ones? Killing giants with rocks?

So back to the question—What’s the point of a short life? I think the point is the same whether you’re looking at a life during it’s explosion of glorious love and beauty here on earth or looking at it after it’s hit the ground running through the span of eternity.

Each life is one of those points of light that briefly take their place in the universe, existing to reveal the extravagant glory of a joyful Creator. Each life, regardless of whether it lived for one hour or one hundred years, is a reflection of an eternal God.

So—short? As it turns out, not so much after all.