When I lived in Pasadena, California, in a retirement community caring for my elderly aunt I met Bonnie — somewhere in her 80s. She’d worked as a nurse overseas in medical missions. One day she told me a story.

She’d boarded a plane to find she was seated next to a tall black man. He had some sort of brace or bandaging on his knee. Being a nurse she was interested in how he’d injured his leg. He told her it had happened playing professional sports.

Bonnie asked what team he played for. He answered, “LA Lakers.” This kindly white-haired woman with silver rimmed glasses looked up at him and asked, “Is that a football team?”

I’ve often thought how Kobe Bryant must have smiled every time he recalled that conversation.

Like many — though I don’t follow professional basketball — I was shocked and saddened to learn of the helicopter crash in which he and his daughter Gianna and seven others were killed. It seems all but two of the nine fatalities involved multiple family members.

We’re hearing a lot about Kobe’s life because he was known to so many people. Somehow knowing about someone, even without actually knowing them, gives a familiarity that allows a measure of grief.

And so Kobe tales are slam dunking the news. He put up life stories in his four decades that traveled the globe. Acknowledging ones that shouldn’t have happened and celebrating the many that inspired.

Then there are the others aboard the helicopter — John and Keri and Alyssa, Sarah and Payton, Christina, Ara. Not as prominent in the reporting — barely known compared with Kobe — but I find myself interested in them — wanting to learn all I can. To not leave their lives a mere footnote in the tragedy.

I believe identity is God-given. Cherished in our Creator’s eyes. A gift to set us each apart. To bring us joy in being. Meant to last. If God names the stars in the heavens, as the psalmist says, how much deeper the meaning in a life named by Him.

There were nine that morning — each with his or her own identity. And I feel the loss of them all.