Grace in the Crumbs

Category: Christian motherhood

  • A Rainbow Reminder of God’s Nearness 🌈

    This morning at Mass, my little one tugged gently at my arm and whispered with wide-eyed wonder, “Look, Mommy, rainbows!”

    I followed her gaze toward the stained-glass windows, where sunlight streamed through, scattering bursts of color across the pews and floor. I’ve sat in that same spot countless Sundays, watching the light filter in. But in her eyes, it wasn’t just light—it was magic. A rainbow, alive and dancing in God’s house.

    Her joy stopped me in my tracks. She couldn’t look away, as if the whole world had paused just to give her this gift. I smiled at her excitement, but deep down, I felt the Lord whisper: “Do you see it too?”

    Children have this remarkable way of seeing what we adults so easily miss. To her, it wasn’t ordinary sunlight. It was a rainbow, a sign of God’s beauty and love. She delighted in it fully, without question, without distraction. And in that moment, I was reminded of the very words of Jesus:

    “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3)

    As adults, we get weighed down—by schedules, worries, responsibilities, and burdens. Our vision becomes clouded, and we forget how to see the world with childlike awe. But children? They carry hearts that marvel. Hearts that delight in what’s simple. Hearts that trust without reservation.

    That small rainbow shining across the pew reminded me of a much greater rainbow—the one God placed in the sky after the flood as His covenant with Noah: “I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.” (Genesis 9:13)

    A rainbow is more than beauty. It’s a reminder of God’s promise. A symbol of His faithfulness that spans from generation to generation. And yet, sometimes it takes a child to help us see it again.

    As I watched my daughter’s joy that morning, I felt the Lord gently nudging me: “Don’t miss the beauty I place before you. Don’t let the weight of this world blind you to My nearness.”

    Motherhood, especially when walking the road of special needs parenting, can often feel overwhelming. There are days of exhaustion, days of uncertainty, days when the future feels heavy. But then God, in His mercy, places little reminders—sometimes through the eyes of our children—that He is near, He is faithful, and He has not forgotten us.

    That rainbow in the stained glass wasn’t just a burst of color. It was an invitation. An invitation to slow down, to wonder, to remember, and to trust.

    Today, I thank God for the gift of my child, who teaches me daily to see the world differently—to notice what I would otherwise overlook. And I pray that I may never lose that childlike wonder, so that I don’t miss the quiet ways He reminds me of His love.

    Prayer

    Heavenly Father,

    Thank You for the gift of Your promises that never fail. Help me to see the world with childlike wonder, to pause and notice the beauty You place before me each day. Give me a heart that delights in the simple, and faith that trusts in Your nearness even in the ordinary. Bless all parents walking the journey of faith and family, especially those navigating the unique road of special needs parenting. May we be strengthened by Your grace and reminded daily that You are with us.

    In Jesus’ name, Amen. 🙏🏻

  • When VBS feels Too Big: Finding Grace in the Meltdowns

    Today I took my daughter to Vacation Bible School.

    I had hope in my heart and prayers on my lips, thinking maybe, just maybe, this would be a good day. A step forward. A little breakthrough. But before we even made it through the church hall doors, it all unraveled.

    My husband dropped us off, and in an instant, she fell apart. A full-blown meltdown. Crying, yelling for her daddy, her whole body overwhelmed before we even stepped inside. I knew then—deep down—that she probably wouldn’t make it through the morning. But I held onto hope a little longer, trying to be strong, trying to believe maybe she’d settle in.

    She didn’t.

    She’s sensitive to noise. She doesn’t know how to play with other kids or initiate conversation. Instead of singing songs or making crafts, she looked at the AC vents and the wall sockets. She watched the room, but didn’t want to be in it. She cried. She wanted her dad. She ran to the bathroom to hide—her safe space when everything feels too loud, too fast, too much.

    Eventually, I gave in. I picked her up to take her outside, thinking maybe we’d just go home. But that only made things worse. She screamed. Kicked. Scratched my face. And I stood there, outside the church where I had hoped she’d encounter joy, with tears threatening to spill, wondering if I had completely failed.

    This is the part no one tells you about parenting a child with special needs. The way you can long for your child to know God, to feel safe in His house, to be part of the community—but their body and mind just aren’t ready. The way you walk into places filled with songs and smiles and come out with claw marks on your cheeks and a heart full of ache.

    I want her to know Jesus. I want her to love our Catholic faith. I want to bring her to the altar, to sit beside her in the pew, to see her make the Sign of the Cross one day with her own little hands. But right now… she just can’t. And that breaks my heart in ways I can’t even explain.

    I feel helpless sometimes. Like I’m failing her. Like I’m failing God.

    “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

    — Psalm 34:18

    But maybe—just maybe—this is where grace meets me. In the bathroom stall where she hides. In the hallway where I carry her, heavy and screaming. In the quiet after the storm, when we sit in the car and I stare at the steering wheel, asking God what I’m supposed to do.

    Maybe grace is here. Not in the VBS songs she didn’t sing. Not in the crafts she didn’t make. But in the fact that we showed up. In the fact that we tried. In the broken offering of a mother who wants her daughter to know God, even when it feels impossible.

    God is not waiting for our kids to behave a certain way before He welcomes them in. He is already with her—in her quiet observing, in her need for safety, in the ways she sees things the rest of us overlook. And maybe He’s with me too—in the tears, in the trying, in the crumbs of faith I hold onto when I feel like I’ve run out of strength.

    I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I do know this: God sees us. He loves my daughter exactly as she is. And He’s walking with me, even when I feel like I’ve failed.

    If you’re in this place too—wondering if you’re doing enough, if you’ll ever figure it out—you’re not alone. There is grace for you here.

    Even in the meltdowns.

    Even in the mess.

    Even in the crumbs.

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