Grace in the Crumbs

Tag: christianity

  • 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.

  • Finding Grace in the Mess: When Motherhood Feels Like Loaves and Crumbs

    There are days in motherhood—especially when you’re raising a child with special needs—when it feels like you’re trying to feed five thousand with only a few loaves and fish.

    You wake up exhausted, your to-do list already outweighing your energy. One child needs help with breakfast, then is melting down because the food is not out fast enough. You’re running on prayers, reheated coffee, and a kind of love that hurts and heals at the same time. And in the middle of it, you’re trying to keep your soul rooted in Christ.

    This is where the name Grace in the Crumbs came from. Because some days all we have left are crumbs—crumbs of patience, crumbs of time, crumbs of peace. But God has always done His best work with what’s little.

    The Beauty in the Broken

    When I became a mother, I thought grace would look like glowing moments—rocking chairs, soft lullabies, and angelic smiles. But the most transformative grace has come in the breaking. The midnight hospital visits. The therapy waiting rooms. The prayers whispered through tears. The guilt, the fear, the fatigue… and then, that small, still voice: I am with you. I see you.

    There is a sacredness in this life, even when it’s hard to see through the chaos. That’s why I write. To remind myself and others that holiness isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. God’s presence in our imperfect offerings.

    Faith When the Road Isn’t Straight

    Raising a child with special needs doesn’t follow a straight path. There are diagnoses you don’t expect, routines that don’t look like anyone else’s, and milestones that feel light-years away. But that’s also where faith grows roots. Because when you don’t have all the answers, you learn to lean on the One who does.

    In Mark 7, a Canaanite woman begs Jesus to heal her daughter. He tells her, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” But she replies, “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” (Mark 7:28)

    That faith—the faith to ask for crumbs and believe they’re enough—is the faith that sustains us in this kind of motherhood.

    Grace Upon Grace

    Here’s what I want you to remember, whether you’re in a season of joy or one of just-getting-through:

    • You are seen. By the God who formed your child, who walks with you in the doctor’s office, and who sits with you in the early-morning dark.

    • Your little is enough. Your love, your prayers, your attempts, your failures… placed in God’s hands, they multiply.

    • You are not alone. There is a community of mothers who get it—who cry at IEP meetings and rejoice at tiny victories.

    This blog isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about witnessing grace—sometimes glorious, sometimes gritty—in the crumbs of our daily lives.

    ⸻

    A Prayer for You

    Lord, for the mother reading this—exhausted, worried, hopeful, or all of the above—meet her in her crumbs. Multiply her strength. Quiet her fears. Fill her home and heart with Your peace. And remind her that even in the mess, You are making something beautiful. Amen.

  • Adoration and Holy Chaos: Bringing My Daughter to Jesus

    There’s something sacred about the silence of Adoration—the stillness, the flickering candlelight, the soft hum of the Presence. But if you’ve ever entered that quiet space with a child who doesn’t understand “quiet,” you know that holy moments can look a little different for some of us.

    For me, Adoration with my special needs daughter doesn’t always come wrapped in silence. It often comes with sounds—laughs, squeals, questions, and sometimes even tears. And yet, I believe Jesus hears every bit of it like a beautiful hymn.

    We usually go in the afternoon, when the chapel is nearly empty. It gives us space to be ourselves without feeling like we’re disturbing someone else’s moment of peace. Sometimes we stay for a while. Other days, we simply walk in, say “Hi Jesus,” whisper a prayer of thanks, and leave. And that’s okay.

    Because the point isn’t perfection. It’s presence.

    I want my daughter to know that Jesus is her friend. That He’s not intimidated by her energy or confused by her volume. He welcomes her exactly as she is, and so do I. I want her to grow up knowing that prayer doesn’t have to be polished—it just has to be real.

    Teaching her how to worship, how to pray, how to just be with Jesus is one of the greatest joys of my motherhood. It’s not always easy. But grace shows up in the noise, in the effort, in every crumb of our messy, beautiful visits.

    So if you’ve ever felt hesitant to bring your child—especially a child with special needs—into sacred spaces, know this: there’s room for your family. There’s grace for your chaos. Jesus doesn’t ask for perfect prayers. He just asks for hearts willing to show up.

    And some days, “Hi Jesus” is the holiest prayer of all.

    “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”
    — Luke 18:16

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started