#HomilyFromThePew

Text: “ìnà kú, ó f?? rú b??jú; ògèdè kú, ó fi ?m? r?? ropo; ojó a bá kú, ?m? ?ni ni ń w?lé dé ní.”

“The fire dies, yet it still produces ashes; the banana plant dies, but it replaces itself with its offshoots; when we depart this world, it is our children, fully nurtured and matured, who will hold the fort.”

I find myself reflecting deeply on recent tragedies in our nation and across the globe. The heartbreaking case of a two-year-old who died in school and the devastating stampede that claimed the lives of 35 children in Oyo State have weighed heavily on my mind. These deaths were avoidable, preventable if proper precautions had been taken. They stand as stark reminders of how profoundly society continues to fail its children, shedding the blood of its future.

We can, and must, do better in protecting them. Every child lost is a dream unfulfilled, a promise cut short, and a family forever altered. To me, the killing of a child is nothing less than cutting short humanity in its embryonic form, a stage where the seed of greatness resides, full of untapped potential and promise. Let these tragedies serve as a collective call to action, compelling us to safeguard the lives of our most precious treasures, our children.

I don't think there’s any culture where the loss of a child isn’t deeply mourned. Across all societies, it is an unspoken expectation that children should outlive their parents. When that natural order is disrupted, it is met with a profound and indescribable sense of loss. Whether a child is lost at a young age or later in life, the devastation remains immense.

For my family, the loss of our first sibling, our parents’ first child, left an indelible mark. She was a stillborn, a baby girl who died at birth. My parents carried that loss for years. Even though they went on to have my brother and me as twins immediately after her, followed by four other children, there was always a shadow of that grief, an unspoken ache that no amount of time could completely erase. My mother would occasionally speak of her, the daughter she never had the chance to hold or know. That sense of loss lingered, manifesting in moments of reflection, a sadness that felt both distant and ever-present.

My mother named me Oluwawemimo, meaning "The Lord has rolled away my reproach," and my twin brother Olubunmi, meaning "A gift from God." Perhaps these names were her way of finding hope amidst pain, but even as she embraced us, I believe she never fully found closure. How could she? Losing a child, no matter the circumstances, leaves an emotional scar.

The grief of losing a child is compounded by the haunting "what-ifs." It’s human nature to wonder if something could have been done differently. Maybe I could have tried harder. Maybe if I had acted sooner, or done this or that, my child would still be here. For mothers especially, who carry a child within them for nine months, the bond runs deep. That child is a part of their being, intricately woven into their identity. When a child dies, it’s as though a piece of the mother is taken away, leaving a void that nothing can fill.

Fathers, too, bear the pain, albeit differently. They experience the pregnancy through their partner, share the anticipation, and nurture their dreams for the future. The loss hits them just as hard, yet society often overlooks their grief. The unpreparedness for such a tragedy, the mere thought of burying a child is what makes it so unbearable. No parent expects to send their child off to school or anywhere else and have them returned as a lifeless body.

The quest for closure becomes a lifelong struggle. Even if there is justice, if those responsible are held accountable, it doesn’t bring the child back. It doesn’t erase the memories or fill the silence that their absence creates. A recent and heart-wrenching example is the tragedy of Sylvester Oromoni, the young boy who died under heartbreaking circumstances at school. Not long after, his mother also passed away, seemingly unable to bear the weight of her grief. It was a stark reminder of how profound and far-reaching the loss of a child can be.

I recall visiting a woman who had experienced the unimaginable pain of losing two children in her lifetime. She had just lost her second child, and the weight of her grief was palpable. In moments like these, I don’t speak; I simply offer my presence. Words often feel inadequate. What could I possibly say to ease such profound pain? Unless divinely inspired, I remain silent, trusting that my presence alone is enough to provide comfort.

During that visit, someone attempted to console her, saying, “May God grant you the fortitude to bear the irreparable loss.” Her response, however, struck me profoundly:

“No, I didn’t lose my child. My child departed. She lived, she touched lives, she left an indelible mark. She’s not lost because her life continues in the lives of those she impacted. Though she has departed, I will see her again.”

Her perspective was deeply philosophical and rooted in faith. It reshaped how I approach grief and even how I pray for those experiencing loss. It reminded me of the hope expressed in 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14:

“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”

Research shows that losing a child often places immense strain on couples. The blame game ensues, whether spoken or unspoken. Maybe it was something the mother or the father did, or didn’t do. These thoughts creep in, driving wedges between parents, and in many cases, even leading to separation. The situation is even more heartbreaking when a child’s death results from suicide. Parents are left questioning: What did we miss? How did we fail our child? These questions are excruciating and often lead to unbearable guilt.

The pain of losing a child resonates deeply with me, particularly when such tragedies occur in places where children are supposed to be safe. Schools, for instance, are trusted spaces where parents leave their children with the expectation of protection. Yet, when this trust is betrayed, and a parent receives their child’s lifeless body instead, it is a pain beyond comprehension.

Another dimension of this loss is the unquantifiable impact on society. When children die prematurely, we lose more than their potential; we lose what they could have contributed to the world. Imagine if individuals like Nelson Mandela, Wangari Maathai, or Mother Teresa had died in childhood, what would our world have missed? Every child represents not just a dream for their family but a possibility for the world. Their loss leaves a void that affects us all.

These are not just random musings; they are reflections born from witnessing and understanding the depth of this pain. It is a call to action for a society that owes its children not just life, but a life safeguarded by care, love, and protection. As Psalm 127:3 reminds us:

“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.”

It is our sacred duty to protect them, cherish them, and ensure they live in a world where they can thrive.

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