Grace in the Crumbs

Tag: hope

  • 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.

  • When Family Gathers and One Hides Away: A reflection on motherhood, autism, and grace in the midst of longing

    There’s a special kind of ache that comes when you’re surrounded by the people you love—but your child cannot be.

    It had been over six months since I’d seen my mom, my brother, and my nieces. So when we finally made the trip to visit them, my heart was full. I wanted to soak in every second—laughing in the kitchen, sipping coffee while the cousins ran wild, catching up on all the moments we’ve missed.

    But my daughter, who has autism, was overwhelmed from the start.

    New environment. New sounds. New routines. Too many people, too much movement, and not enough space to retreat.

    She spent most of our visit hiding in a back room or the bathroom, trying to shield herself from the noise and chaos. And I spent most of my time with her—soothing, comforting, regulating. Or trying to.

    Sometimes I’d glance down the hall and see the rest of my family together—laughing, connecting, playing. And then I’d look at my daughter, hands over her ears, tears in her eyes, begging for the volume of life to be turned down.

    And my heart would split right in two.

    I grieve in those moments—not just for the time I feel I’m missing with my family, but more so for the connections she isn’t ready to make yet. Her cousins knock softly and try to play with her, but even that can send her into a spiral. And so, eventually, they stop knocking. Not out of unkindness, but out of confusion. Maybe even fear.

    I don’t blame them. They don’t understand. Most days, I hardly understand either.

    And yet—beneath the heartbreak, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the quiet sadness—I believe grace lives here, too.

    Because this is where Christ meets me.

    In the hallway.

    In the bathroom.

    In the quiet, tucked-away room.

    I pray constantly during these moments—sometimes whispering Hail Marys while holding her tight, other times just breathing out, Jesus, help me.

    I pray for her—

    That as she grows, she’ll feel braver in her skin.

    That one day, the noise won’t overwhelm her.

    That she’ll find her own way to join the circle, without fear.

    But until then, I trust that Jesus is sitting with her in that room.

    That when she hides, she is not alone.

    That His love is louder than any crowd, more comforting than any routine, more patient than any human understanding.

    This isn’t the motherhood I expected.

    But it is the motherhood I was entrusted with.

    And even here—especially here—there is grace in the crumbs.

    A Prayer for Mothers of Children with Special Needs

    Dear Lord,

    You see me.

    In the quiet corners,

    In the tear-filled prayers,

    In the long nights and tender moments

    when no one else is watching.

    You see my child—

    beautifully made,

    perfectly loved,

    and wonderfully held in Your divine hands.

    Give me the strength, Lord,

    to walk this road with grace,

    to meet my child where they are,

    to be their safe space when the world feels too loud.

    When I feel isolated or unseen,

    remind me that Your gaze never leaves me.

    When I feel like I’m falling short,

    fill in the gaps with Your mercy.

    When others don’t understand,

    be the one who truly does.

    Mary, Mother of Sorrows,

    you who walked with your Son through suffering and joy—

    walk with me.

    Hold my hand on the days I feel weary.

    Comfort me in the moments of loneliness.

    Intercede for my child and wrap them in your maternal love.

    Jesus, Good Shepherd,

    guide my family with gentleness and peace.

    Teach us patience, stretch our compassion,

    and help us to love one another as You love us—

    freely, fully, and forever.

    Amen.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started