Crowned by Grace: From Daddy’s Love to the Father’s Embrace - Part One

If you ask my mother, she’d tell you without hesitation: I was inseparable from my father. Nao was his name, and to me, he was everything. He was my world, my hero, my safe place.

I still remember those late nights in our little Bronx apartment. The soft hum of the television filled the room as I fought sleep, determined to stay awake long enough to hear the familiar sound of his key turning in the door. The moment he walked in, I’d scramble onto his lap, resting my head on his chest as he rewound and played back his beloved Blue Jays games on the VCR. That VCR—most likely taped over one of my mom’s cherished home videos—was a symbol of our stolen moments, moments I claimed for myself.

“Nao’s little shadow,” they used to call me. Where he went, I followed. If you caught sight of my dad, you knew I wouldn’t be far behind. My tiny hand in his, my eyes lighting up with a smile that was reserved just for him. He was mine.

But life has a way of shifting the ground beneath you, especially when you least expect it.

When I was five years old, my family decided to move to New Jersey, a chance to be closer to my dad’s side of the family. I didn’t know then that life was about to change in ways I couldn’t have imagined. After a short time in Jersey, my dad and I packed our bags for a trip to the Dominican Republic. Just the two of us.

Five-year-old Kassie could hardly contain her excitement. A whole trip alone with my dad? It felt like a dream come true. I had no idea that this trip was more than just a vacation—it was the beginning of a story I was too young to understand.

The Dominican sun was hot on my skin as I played on the beach that day, surrounded by laughter, sand, and the warmth of my father’s presence. I don’t remember all the details, but I remember him. His voice, his smile, the way his arms felt as he scooped me up and carried me to my aunt’s car.

Something felt off.

There was a rush in the air, a heaviness I didn’t understand. My father held me tightly, whispering, “Te amo, mi cielo,” as I clung to him. His eyes, usually so full of light, held a sadness I couldn’t place. He kissed my forehead, lingering just a little longer. I didn’t know it then, but that was goodbye.

That night, I slept alone for the first time in weeks. The bed felt too big, the room too quiet. My dad was gone, and though no one had told me yet, I could feel it in my bones. Something was wrong.

The next day was chaos. Adults whispered in corners, their voices hushed but their emotions loud. Faces I didn’t recognize appeared and disappeared, trying to distract me with toys and games. I wasn’t interested. I wanted my dad.

“¿Adónde está mi papi?” I asked over and over.

Tears filled their eyes, and they’d say things like “Pobrecita,” patting my head but never giving me the answer I was looking for.

My stomach twisted into knots as the truth I couldn’t yet name settled in. My uncle handed me lime and salt, a tried-and-true Dominican remedy, but nothing could ease the ache in my chest.

When my mom arrived on a direct flight, I ran to her, expecting answers. But the mom who held me wasn’t the same. Her arms wrapped around me, but her mind was somewhere else. I saw it in her face—grief had taken her too.

And just like that, my world shattered.

The funeral was the very next day. They told me my dad was sleeping, that he had gone to be with God. I stared at him, his face peaceful, his hands still. He looked so much like himself, but he wasn’t.

I didn’t understand. Why would God take him? Didn’t God know he was mine? The adults told me that “God called him home,” but their words felt hollow. Why did God want my dad when I needed him so much?

That question stayed with me for years, twisting into anger and confusion. God became my enemy. I prayed to Him, but only to yell. I cried out, but only in blame. I couldn’t understand how a God who was supposed to love me could take away the person I loved most.

That August day in 1999 defined my life in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time. Grief swallowed me whole, and for the next 13 years, it dictated my relationship with God.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Grief has a way of reshaping us, even when we resist it. While I couldn’t see it then, God wasn’t absent. He was there—in the whispers of my broken heart, in the quiet moments of my tears. He waited patiently for me to find Him again.

Next week, I’ll take you deeper into that journey: what grief looked like, how coming back home was never the same, and how the seeds of healing were planted when I least expected it.

For now, I leave you with this:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

If you’ve ever felt abandoned by God, know this: He can handle your anger. He can take your questions. And even when you push Him away, He never lets go.

Once in his arms, forever in my heart. July 1999