Death in my family

When days are dark, sisters and brothers are light. This is what I felt when my sister died in May.

This was the first death in 40 years in my immediate family. When my brother called to announce the news of her passing, I had never thought death would steal one of my siblings.

When he asked me to speak to my parents, I declined. What was I to tell them? I couldn’t think of the words I have used to console so many bereaved families in my priestly ministry. I was afraid my parents might be expecting their son to answer questions which only God could answer.

My parents knew about my consolation ministry. They had on several occasions commended me for doing a good job in strengthening people whose hearts were broken. It has always been difficult to minister or preach when I knew my parents or other close family were around. To family and close friends I never consider myself a priest; I am a son, brother, uncle. I am not going to change that.

After I regained some of my senses, I called my mother intending to preach to her, and by extension to the rest of the family. But God never allowed that to happen. When my mother said: “Hello, my son” I just broke down and cried.

It was consoling to be ministered to by my own mother. I knew she would understand if I was going to miss the funeral because of distance and expensive airfares. I had almost accepted that I was not going to traditionally tlhoboga (satisfy myself that she is indeed gone, and see her face before she would be covered in a grave and say goodbye) my sister.

Meantime, hundreds of emails from all over the world were filling my in-box with messages of consolation. My American friends blessed me with their hugs and kisses. And in no time, some good Samaritans ensured that I was home in Mamelodi for tlhoboga and burial. I was strengthened when I saw so many priests and friends pouring their lovely hearts over my family. They had thought I would not be coming. This time, God allowed them to minister to my family, and to me.

It has not been easy for all of us in the family to accept that Mama-Karabo is gone. I know it will take us time to heal, especially our parents. We will continue to rationalise her passing—what psychologists term denial. We may blame others and ourselves for her going.

Death does not make sense. It is cruel, and has robbed us of a beloved daughter, sister, friend and mother. Death did not give us time to tell her how we valued and appreciated her life. No chance to prepare for her final journey.

As a priest I knew that most of those at the funeral Mass were from several other denominations and religions. And there were more people outside the church building, not for lack of space inside. I suspect they were there to avoid the unfriendly reminder that: “Only Catholics may receive Holy Communion”. Africans are more ecumenical than people from Europe and America. It is normal to find families, friends and neighbours with different spiritualities and religious practices.

While talks on ecumenism and religious unity belong to the bureaucratic and political life of the Church, I appreciate that most African people do not exclude or isolate those who are different because of religious or denominational differences.

If people are denied Holy Communion in church, they are certain there is communion in townships and villages. Ubuntu is not a philosophy but a way of life. That is why we thank God for all those who are present in times of need. Friends are indeed the human face of God.