In Korean society, everyone refers to each other in familial terms. Words like, “Brother,” “Sister,” “Uncle,” and “Aunt” are so common it’s simply ingrained into how you view others. The people in a korean community are a part of one family. We are all members of a collective, affecting and reflecting each other.
There is a similar sentiment in Nigerian culture. Family is extended beyond the American nucleus. Homes are filled with cousins, even if they aren’t tied by blood. Everyone is a part of the family.
And so, when I married Ariel, I married into a Nigerian family as well. She had been unofficially adopted into the Olateju family in college and Yemi, the matriarch, continuously referred to her as her “white daughter” - the explanation for why an Italian, red-headed New Yorker was running around with her six children during vacations and holidays.
Several members of the Olateju family participated in my wedding. Yemi and her husband, Sunday, made a promise to support us in our marriage. Lola, their oldest daughter, was one of the bridesmaids. And on that day, I embraced six new siblings.
But on May 29, in a moment of confusion and utter despair, our youngest sister took her life.
Tinu was 15. She was a deeply passionate Christian whose faith was expressed well beyond Sunday mornings. She fought against the social pressures of High School, prayed fervently, and helped others pragmatically experience love. Being one of a few African American girls in her school, she knew what it meant to be an outsider. But even in her popularity, she didn’t tolerate the division often found between those who are and aren’t socially accepted. She was a peacemaker, a true testimony of her grace.
The shock of her death hits us in different ways, but we knew how her parents would react. When a child dies in a Nigerian family, the parents don’t participate in the funeral. They mourn at home with their family. Others step in to make the arrangements. And Ariel and I stepped in to bury our sister. We bought jewelry for a corpse, wrote the obituary, mediated family conflicts, and solidified the necessary arrangements. We did all the things that come with death, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to celebrate the life she had lived. She had so much more to live for, so much potential, so much hope.
Despite our emotional turmoil, it’s in moments like these where the hope for resurrection is most meaningful. Knowing that God’s love refuses to control us so that we can truly be made in God’s image; knowing for true love to be expressed, the very worst had to be possible; knowing Jesus took on the worst so that we never have too; and knowing in Jesus’ resurrection we too will witness the defeat of death; there is only one fitting response.
At Tinu’s funeral, we sang these words: “Lord, you are good. And your mercy endures forever.” May we be reminded of these fundamental truths and never lose sight of God’s grace, even for those departed.
