The Morning Everything Changed

I woke up this morning not knowing I’d be typing away at my laptop. I had a plan for today—take care of my baby, clean the house, grill the turkey I bought yesterday, and finish a novel. I still plan to do all that, but first, I must write to you.

On this day eight years ago, I woke up to the worst news of my life. I was in my school hostel when my phone rang that sunny Friday morning. It was my uncle. He had never called me before. He asked me to come to his house for the weekend. I was confused. As we spoke, my suspicion was roused, but I didn’t know what to think. Then my brother-in-law called a few minutes later. After some forced small talk, he also asked me to come to Lagos from Ibadan for the weekend. Two invitations in thirty minutes. At that point, I knew something was wrong.

I dialed my mum’s number. It rang, but no one picked up. I called again—still no response. Then I called my dad’s line—switched off. I called my mum once more. This time, her cousin picked up and gave me an incoherent reason why my mum couldn’t come to the phone. Still unsatisfied, I called my sister. She picked up immediately, sounding like she had a cold. But her tone was calm and helped ease my anxiety a bit. I tried my mum again, and this time, another person picked up—her friend. She also gave a vague response. I asked if my dad was nearby, but she deflected and quickly hung up. I tried calling my dad again. Still off. Then my brother-in-law called once more and encouraged me to leave for Lagos immediately. As I walked out of the hostel with my hastily packed luggage, I knew. But I didn’t want to believe it.

I don’t remember the two-hour bus ride to Lagos, but I got there late in the afternoon. My brother-in-law took me into a room and explained that my dad had transitioned to heaven around 4 a.m. that morning. I can’t recall exactly how I felt—I didn’t cry. I think I was in shock. Even though I already suspected, the news hit me like a brick. So much happened after that day that I can’t remember. I stayed in Lagos for a week, leaning on my family for support. Then I went back to school and traveled home for the funeral three weeks later.

My dad—larger than life, brimming with joy and mischief, quick to tease and laugh with reckless abandon—lay in a wooden casket, dressed in the clothes he was meant to wear for my sister’s wedding. My best friend, my partner in adventure and street food, my first storyteller and chief encourager, the one I expected to walk me down the aisle and tell stories to my grandkids—was gone. All that remained was a decaying body about to be committed to the earth. I’d never see him again. At least not on this side of eternity.

Our last conversation, just two days before he died, kept replaying in my mind. I don’t think I’d ever felt that kind of ache in my soul. My heart darkened with grief. My body was overwhelmed by pain. I lost sleep. Nightmares became a companion. And I shook my fist angrily at God.

How could You? Why didn’t You? Couldn’t You? How did cancer win this round? But he was getting better. I prayed, Jesus! I prayed more than ever. Why? Why me?

I didn’t even realize the depth of my anger toward God until three years later, when the pandemic hit and I was home for the first time since the funeral. Home without my dad. Just my mum, me, and two others living with us. The weight of my loss hit afresh. It felt like some measure of joy had been sucked out of our house. It truly wasn’t the same without him. Yet life refused to wait. The days kept going, and I had to confront my grief or be left behind, carrying an intense sorrow that threatened to swallow me whole.

So, I finally spoke to God.

Mind you, after my dad died, I kept going to church, praying, reading my Bible—but I refused to share my grief with God. That part of our relationship was off-limits. But not anymore. I was ready to throw my hard questions at Him, to question His goodness to His face, trusting that He’d understand and hold me together.

I did have some questions answered, thank God. I now have more clarity about why it happened the way and when it did. But I don’t think there’s any explanation in this life that will fully satisfy anyone who’s lost a loved one.

More than answers, though, God gave me healing.

It’s been five years since I finally broke down before Him. Eight years since I lost my father. I can’t say I’m over it, but here’s what I’ve learned:

God is always good.

When the loss was fresh and my heart ached relentlessly, I couldn’t say that and mean it. But now, looking back over these eight years, I can say without a doubt—I serve a good God. At first, I was mad at Him for not preventing my loss, but He has shown me such comfort and grace that I could only have experienced in this space of sorrow.

In the midst of what I thought would break me, the Lord has put me back together. He has seen every tear, every burst of pain, every overwhelming thought. Jesus has walked with me through it all.

As I reflect today, there’s no pain in my heart. Yes, I miss my dad. More than ever. I wanted him to meet Yomi, to carry my son (his namesake), to experience Canada’s winter with me—so we could laugh and complain about the cold together. But I don’t have that and never will. And it’s okay. I have my mum and sisters. I have my own family. I have the best memories. It’s honestly okay.

And even if I didn’t have all that, I have God—and He is enough.

He is good, even in the darkest seasons. He is there, even when I can’t see or sense Him. While I may not be able to prevent bad things from happening, I can trust God’s goodness. I can trust His mercy.

God is so good.

Today, I don’t mourn as those without hope. I rejoice in the assurance of resurrection. My heart overflows with gratitude to the One who’s seen me through it all. Time has passed and my grief has dulled, but God has been my greatest comfort.

Blessed be God.

---

This is one of the rawest things I’ve ever written. Forgive me if my thoughts are all over the place. I didn’t want to edit it too much. I wanted to capture the thoughts straight from my heart.

To anyone dealing with loss of any kind, I pray that God comforts you as He has me. I hope in my story, you’ll find the same comfort I’ve experienced. I pray your testimony will be anchored in the goodness of God above the weight of your loss.

Cheer up, Jesus is alive! Your hope is intact!

Here’s a song that’s been on my heart for today - Never Forsaken by Hillsong

All my love,

Eniola

8 years later, God is good!