The First Light
Chapter 9
If you are new here - welcome! I am working on a memoire that weaves together memories from my childhood with the becoming of the woman I am today.
There are moments in grief when the heaviness feels permanent…when it’s hard to imagine laughter or light ever breaking through again. And then one day, it did.
It didn’t erase the pain or undo the loss. But it reminded us that laughter could live in the same room as sorrow. That joy could slip in quietly, even when grief seemed to have taken up permanent residence.
This chapter is about that moment. About the first laugh. The first light. The beginning of something new that God was already writing into our story.
Thanks for reading!
Love,
Kaci
Chapter 9 The First Light
“Mmmm…this looks amazing. I’m starving!” Caleb says as we dig into the Father’s Day brunch of biscuits and gravy we made for him.
Christopher shoots back, “Hi Starving, I’m Christopher,” before launching into his ridiculous fake laugh. My eyes meet Caleb’s in time for our eyes to roll in sync. Then we look back at Christopher, who is now elbowing his brother while his cackle continues.
“Get it, Jack? He said he was starving, so I pretended that was his name.”
Jack’s face, blank at first at his brother’s stupidity, slowly cracks into a smirk. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my own face.
The meal goes quickly but hits the usual talking points.
“Mom, this gravy is almost as good as Grandma’s!” Jack says, clearly impressed by the skill I’ve developed by swapping the homemade version with the Country Gravy packet mix that I just have to add water to. Yep…nailed it.
“Dad, what did you learn about being a father this year?” Christopher asks in a false-genuine voice…his joke at my expense for all the times I’ve ruined perfectly fine moments by making them reflect on their “growth.”
“He’s learned how to put up with you for another year,” Jack says, looking at his brother, a full grin on his face.
Christopher pauses, stares at his little brother, then bursts into his fake laugh again. We all join in until Caleb and I have to pivot, shouting at him to let Jack go from a sudden chokehold.
I get up, grab my plate, and take it to the sink. With the boys still laughing, I call out loudly, “Y’all clean up, please!”
With my back to them, I hear the chairs scrape, the scuffling start again, Caleb laughing even as he tells them to knock it off.
Whenever Christopher is home, I’m amazed at how the energy of the house rises with his presence. I take a deep breath and smile, watching them. They’ve moved into the kitchen, which is now loud, chaotic, full of life and laughter.
Craving a moment of quiet, I slip out to the porch, phone in hand, and open WhatsApp to make a video call.
“KACI!” he booms the moment he answers, his face filling my screen with the same warmth I’ve known and loved for decades.
I smile widely as a giggle escapes me. “Happy Father’s Day, Pop! Did you have a wonderful day?”
He recaps it in the way only Pop can, details about his church’s service, a funny story, a moment he thought of me, a spot-on impression of a person he met that day. As I listen, my heart swells with that familiar gratitude. What a strange and sacred thing…how this man, who entered our lives as a stranger, became my dad.
1990 — 8 years old | Pasadena, TX
Since the funeral, we’ve been staying with Mimi and Papa, my mom’s parents, in their big red brick and blue siding house on a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. Their home is beautiful, with plenty of space upstairs for Mom, Jeremy, Zachary, and me to spill into.
Grief lingers beneath the surface, even as we try to rebuild a sense of structure and normalcy. The house still shows evidence of casseroles and condolences. Visitors come in waves. Some stay too long. Some cry too hard. Some drop off hand-me-down clothes for me and my brothers. I feel like I’m performing: smiling when I don’t want to. Hugging people I don’t know.
Jeremy and I are enrolled midyear at the neighborhood school within walking distance. On the first day, I introduce myself to my new teacher.
“My name is Kaci. My dad died.”
No emotion. Just facts.
With each introduction to someone new, this feels like a part of me that needs to be shared upfront, because I’m certain they can see there is something wrong or different about me. As if this new part of my identity is worn on my face for all to see. How could it not?
I see my teacher’s face drop in shock, then soften with sadness and care. “I’m sorry that happened, Kaci. I bet that was hard.”
Her gentleness makes my throat ache. I clear it quickly, pushing the emotion away. Instead of letting the awkward revelation derail her, she squeezes my hand and guides me toward a new friend she knows will take care of me.
Each school day brings new people, new spaces, new routines to learn. But I find comfort in my grandparents’ house. Mimi is my mom made over, the picture of active love, found in every snuggle, every meal served, every loving look she casts my way. Papa brings comfort and strength in the way he pulls me close for a squeeze, in how he lets me “fly” with my belly balanced on his feet while he lays on the living room carpet.
Their presence, their home, grounds me and makes me feel safe. And goodness, do I need that. So does my mom, who I can’t help but notice has been spending more time in bed and whose smile never reaches her eyes anymore.
One day, Jeremy and I run through the back door of Mimi and Papa’s house and nearly bump into two visitors sitting in the kitchen.
“This is Uncle Bill and Aunt Evelyn,” Mom says respectfully. “They are missionaries in West Africa too.”
We stop in our tracks and annoyance flares in me that these visitors are interrupting our play. Great. More visitors. The thought drips with sarcasm as I brace myself to perform again. Jeremy and I mumble polite hellos, wondering how long they’ll stay.
But before long, I’m smiling at Uncle Bill and his lighthearted teasing and silliness with me and Jeremy. I even want to sit and listen, because these people know us and our situation better than I expected.
Mom looks at us and explains. “Uncle Bill and Aunt Evelyn were Mommy and Daddy’s bosses in West Africa.”
Her voice shifts…warm, respectful. She goes on to explain that Uncle Bill was with her when the doctors gave her the news about Daddy in Africa.
“He stayed with me through it all,” she says, her eyes filling as she smiles at Bill. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”
“Oh goodness, I was just thankful I could be there to support you in any way I could,” Uncle Bill says, kindness in his eyes as his look passes from my mom, to Jeremy, to me.
Aunt Evelyn, beautiful and gentle, adds, “I can’t even imagine. But it is so good to see you all here with your parents. I know their support has been a gift to you.”
She looks at Mimi and Papa, and I notice an unspoken thank-you pass between them…gratitude for the roles they’ve each played in carrying our family.
Then the doorbell rings again. I look at Jeremy, wondering who else could be visiting. As we go to the door, I overhear Aunt Evelyn say, “Oh, that must be him!”
And in walks Bryan.
Bill and Evelyn’s son hugs his parents, then shakes the hands of Mom, Mimi, and Papa. He shares that he lives in Azle, Texas (near Fort Worth) and came down to see his parents while they were in the States.
I immediately like him. He’s young, working as a youth minister at a church in Azle, and he knows exactly how to connect with us kids. Within minutes, the air in the room has changed. His presence isn’t heavy. It’s light. It shifts the whole room.
He pokes my cheeks and makes a high-pitched noise with his mouth. Then he launches into an impression, and before I know it, we are laughing. Real, full-belly laughing.
It’s a short visit, but as Bryan walks out with his parents, he makes one more quip that leaves us all giggling.
And then I hear something that makes time stand still. I look around to see where it was coming from. Then I see her.
Mom.
She is laughing. Not the small smiles she gives visitors. Not the polite chuckles at church.
This is different.
This laugh is real. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her shoulders bouncing, her whole body shaking with it. I freeze, mesmerized. I haven’t seen that laugh in months. I let the sound wash over me. I revel in it, suddenly aware of how much I’d missed it.
And then, without meaning to, I join her. My own laugh rises, louder than before, weaving with hers until the whole room feels lighter. For the first time in months, it feels like grief has loosened its grip.
The laughter begins to die down and I look at him, the man who was just a stranger to us just minutes ago. Bryan smiles big at me and his eyebrows raise in animation one more time and I smile. And I can’t help but feel gratitude for the gift he didn’t even know he had given us just then.
“Well, I sure do love you,” I say as my call with Pop winds down. “And I’m so thankful you chose to be our dad all those years ago. What a gift you are to my life.”
I hang up, still smiling, and walk back into the house. Caleb is roughhousing with the boys, their laughter bouncing off the kitchen walls.
And I think to myself: What kind of man chooses to love a widow and her children in the wake of such loss?
The kind of man God sends to help them heal.
Because that’s what Bryan—now Pop—was for us. The first light after so much darkness.
Not a light that erased the pain or made us forget, but one that showed us love could return. That laughter could echo again in our home. That healing could take root in the cracks of grief.
And sometimes, even decades later, I still catch myself in awe of it: how God placed a stranger in our story and turned him into family. How He took a season that ended in loss and began writing a new chapter of love.
It was the first light of hope. The first light of laughter.
It was the first light of rebuilding what we thought was gone forever.
Kac, your Pop is a unique character, a tender-hearted man filled with love and compassion, and the ability to bring laughter in dark times. What a gift he has been to your family, and to all of us who know him!