I’ve kept this low-key, but I’ve just received a Matai chief title in Samoa.

Muliagatele Lee Malaulau.

It’s the first time a Matai title has come up in my grandma’s family, and my cousin and I are the first out of all our parents, cousins and siblings to receive it.

It felt humbling. Sacred. Weighty in the best way.

To sit there with our families. To step into something that hadn’t existed in our family until now. To honour our late grandma by being the first stepping into this role.

We weren’t raised in Samoa. We were born and bred in New Zealand.

So when my dad first asked if I would become a Matai for the family, I honestly didn’t want it to be symbolic or token. I didn’t want to “take a title” without carrying the heart.

And to be honest, I didn’t feel worthy. We weren’t raised in the Fa’a Samoa, in the woven rhythm of village life.

So at first, I didn’t accept.

But after months of thinking, praying, listening, and talking with people who understand the culture far better than I do, something shifted. I felt peace. I felt Jesus’ gentleness settling the dust of my doubts.

So, I accepted the honour.

We went to Samoa for five days last week—only my third time there. Everything was new. Watching how ceremonies are done in the village. Learning as we went. Feeling out of place, yet somehow at home.

We also got to witness our uncle Brian Lima's ceremony—yes, the internationally known "chiropractor" from the Manu Samoa rugby team. He’s our parents’ first cousin, and he received the main family title—Tuliaupupu—one that won’t be passed down again until he’s gone.

It was a huge moment.

I felt out of my depth. But the light and easy yoke of Jesus found me even there.

The ceremony begins with prayer to Jesus, followed by a sermon from the Scriptures, and then ministers laying hands on us and blessing us in Jesus’ name. I couldn't hold back the tears during the worship singing.

Part of the ceremony also involves drinking ‘ava—a plant drink symbolizing community, respect, and connection, served from coconut shells—and when you take it, you’re invited to share a few words. You can watch what I shared in the video below.

And I have to be honest, I’ve never felt pain like I did sitting for almost 4 hours. Hips, glutes, knees, ankles—all screaming.

Meanwhile all the elders and locals look like they could sit there for a week. Note to self: stay flexible, lol.

Then the garments we are wearing—which are full pieces of fabric, not to be cut—are given to the village. The village then uses them to make clothing for families.

My cousin and I came home feeling deeply grateful.

Grateful for what we experienced. Grateful for the sacredness of it all. Grateful that we got to honour our grandma in this way. Grateful for the family we reconnected with. And grateful for the quiet sense that God was honouring us too—not in status, but in stewardship, in servant leadership.

A title doesn’t make you a leader—but it can mark the moment God calls you to become one.

This feels like that for our family.

A call to steward, not to shine. To carry, not to climb. To lift, not to lord. And that is the essence of a Matai: to serve with integrity, faith, respect, and alolofa (love and compassion). To be like Christ.

We came home feeling like something ancient had touched something new—and Jesus met us right in the middle of it.

"Open up, ancient gates! Open up, ancient doors, and let the King of glory enter." — Psalms 24:9

It was emotional.
Spiritual.
Humbling.
And simply beautiful.

Fa'amanuia le Atua (God bless)