My brother Chidi was stealing from the offering bag and I was the one who had to decide

Five years ago I was still a young associate pastor in Enugu. My older brother Chidi came to stay with us for a few months. He said business was slow in Onitsha. I welcomed him, my wife welcomed him, my daughter loved her uncle.

Then I started noticing the offering count was short. Not every Sunday. But often. I told myself I was imagining it. You know how we do in Nigeria, we don't want to believe certain things about family.

One Tuesday evening I came back early from a hospital visit. I saw Chidi near the church office with the offering bag. The bag was open. He was counting. His hands were shaking. He didn't hear me come in.

He looked up and said, "Emeka, I can explain."

I sat down. He told me about the gambling. The debts. The men who were calling him. He said he intended to return it. But the amount had grown to something he could never repay.

I had a choice. Report him to the elders and watch my brother go to prison. Or cover it and carry the weight myself. I covered it. I paid back the money from my savings. It took me almost two years.

I don't know if I made the right choice. But I learned something about the cost of silence. Sometimes mercy is expensive. But it is still mercy.