The Call to Mass
Going to Mass is a central part of my faith and my week—but when you’re a parent to a child with special needs, especially one who’s noise-sensitive and easily overwhelmed, Mass becomes something very different. It becomes a test of patience, a lesson in humility, and a place where I’m constantly searching for grace in the chaos.
We don’t sit up front. We gravitate to the back pews—close to the door. Not because we’re trying to hide, but because it gives us an easy exit when my daughter needs a break. Sometimes she’ll start being loud or have a full meltdown, and I know it’s time for a walk to calm down. The back gives us that freedom—our own little space to try, to be present, to manage, and to keep showing up.
We can’t use the children’s room. It’s just not an option for us. My daughter is very sensitive to noise, and that space is often louder and more chaotic than the sanctuary. For her, it’s overwhelming. So we stay in the pews, trying our best. I bring a picture book that shows the steps of the Mass—something visual to help her follow along. She often asks, “When will it be over?” And I get it—Mass is long when you’re little, and even more so when sensory sensitivities are part of the picture.
There are many Sundays when I don’t get to listen to the readings or the homily. Most of the time, I’m tending to her needs—calming her, redirecting her, helping her stay settled. And then there are the comments. The well-meaning (or not-so-well-meaning) people who’ve told us, “Maybe you should go to the children’s room,” or who stare when she talks too loudly or has a moment. It used to break my heart. Sometimes it still does.
But here’s the thing—I’ve learned to keep going. I’ve learned to show up anyway. Even if I don’t hear every word of the Gospel, even if I miss the homily entirely, even if my prayers are whispered through gritted teeth or tired eyes—we are there. And that matters.
Going to Mass, even with all its challenges, is important for us as a family. It’s about consistency. It’s about showing my daughter that this is what we do—not because it’s easy, but because it’s meaningful. One day, I believe she will be able to fully participate, to stand and kneel and sing and pray with us, side by side with the congregation. Until then, we take it week by week, moment by moment, tantrum by tantrum, grace by grace.
Because even in the noise, the struggle, the walking in and out—God is there. Grace is there. And that’s why we keep coming back.
To the Parents in the Back Pews: You’re Not Alone
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt the eyes on you, the frustration bubbling up, the heartbreak of missing yet another homily while tending to your child—know this: you are not alone.
You are doing holy work, even if it doesn’t feel quiet or reverent or perfect. Your presence matters. Your child’s presence matters. And every time you show up, even when it’s hard, you are planting seeds—of faith, of love, of belonging.
Don’t give up. Don’t let the comments or the stares convince you that you don’t belong. You do. Your child does. And this Church is big enough for all of us—including the ones who fidget, flap, cry, or shout.
Keep going. Keep showing up. There is grace in the chaos, and you’re doing an incredible job—more than you know.
Grace in the Crumbs 