John Foster Comforts Grieving Coach After Daughter’s Tragic Death in Texas Flood

In the world of college football, Coach Wade Lytal is a name that commands both respect and admiration. Known for his unwavering commitment to discipline, his belief in grit, and his ability to pull the best out of young men, Lytal has long stood as a pillar of strength on and off the field. But no amount of strength training, mental toughness drills, or halftime speeches could have prepared him for the heartbreak that would find him in late June.

His 8-year-old daughter, Kellyanne, was one of several children attending a summer session at Camp Mystic in Texas—a place known for laughter, riverside songs, and childhood memories. On a day that began like any other, skies darkened and rain fell hard and fast. The Guadalupe River swelled beyond its banks, catching counselors and children off guard. What followed was a devastating flash flood that swept away cabins and hopes alike.

Lytal, hundreds of miles away, received the first call with the news that Kellyanne was missing. He dropped everything. Practices were canceled. Meetings were forgotten. He boarded the first flight out, whispering silent prayers into clenched fists, desperate for news, clinging to the sliver of hope that his little girl—brave, curious, full of questions and morning songs—would be found huddled somewhere, scared but alive.

But the call came.

The one that changes everything.

Kellyanne’s body had been recovered downstream, her life cut short not by illness or time, but by the random cruelty of nature. For a man who had spent years guiding others through loss, injuries, and tough seasons, Coach Lytal was suddenly a father crumpled under the weight of grief no playbook could address.

In the midst of the outpouring of community support—flowers left at the gate, prayers from alumni, and teammates posting childhood photos of Kellyanne in team jerseys—there was one moment that stood apart. One gesture, quiet and deeply human.

John Foster, former linebacker turned pastor and now a father himself, showed up not as a public figure, but as a man who had once buried a child, too. There were no reporters. No cameras. No press releases. He didn’t call ahead. He didn’t wear his collar or prepare a sermon.

He simply sat beside Lytal on the porch of the family home in silence for nearly an hour.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady. “You don’t have to get through this strong. You just have to get through it,” he said. “There’s no play you can call for this. You just breathe. And when you can’t, I’ll breathe for you.”

The words were not poetic, nor practiced. But they landed with more weight than any tribute from a podium ever could. In that moment, Foster was not a former athlete, not a spiritual leader—he was just a father who knew.

For days, Coach Lytal hadn’t cried in public. He greeted supporters with a clenched jaw and firm handshake, thanking them for their kindness. But on that porch, with the sun setting and cicadas beginning their nightly song, he wept—loud, heavy sobs that came from the center of a man shattered by loss.

Foster stayed until night fell. They didn’t talk about football. They didn’t talk about next steps. They just shared the silence that only fathers of lost daughters truly understand.

In the weeks that followed, Foster’s visit became something of a whispered story among the coaching staff. No one posted about it. No one took a photo. But those who knew said it marked the first night Coach Lytal allowed himself to grieve without shame.

Kellyanne’s funeral drew hundreds—teammates, players, rival coaches, and fans. But Foster didn’t attend the service. “That moment on the porch was the only one I needed to be part of,” he later said.

Sometimes, comfort isn’t loud. Sometimes, it doesn’t come in sermons or songs, but in the simple presence of someone who has walked through the same fire—and is still walking.

For Coach Wade Lytal, the road ahead is still raw and uncertain. But one thing is clear: in the darkest night of his life, a quiet voice reminded him that even grief, when shared, becomes just a little more bearable.