Grace in the Crumbs

Tag: 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. 🙏🏻

  • Back-to-School, Back to the Weight We Carry

    This week was supposed to be a fresh start — the beginning of a new school year, new routines, and maybe even a little more breathing room. But instead, it has felt like carrying an extra backpack full of bricks, one I never put down.

    Because I’m a working mom, mornings are already a rush. And because I’m a special needs mom, mornings are a delicate dance of preparation, patience, and prayer. This year, with an earlier work schedule, I had arranged for my daughter to go to an early-morning drop-off center so they could get her to school while I headed to work on time.

    I thought the problem was solved.

    But today, the phone rang. It was the daycare, the one I had carefully chosen and counted on. The voice on the other end was kind, but the words still stung: “We’re so sorry, but we can’t accommodate her. We only have one staff member in the mornings, and we’re concerned about safety.”

    I understood — I really did. My daughter is known to elope, and mornings can be tough with transitions. But even with understanding, my heart ached. Because it wasn’t just about losing this childcare option… it was another reminder of how different our path is. Another reminder of how the world isn’t built for children like mine.

    I found myself walking into my boss’s office, knowing I had to explain that I’d be late every morning now, since I’d have to take my daughter all the way to school myself. I didn’t make it halfway through my explanation before the tears came.

    They weren’t just tears over this one setback. They were the kind of tears that come from the weight of it all — the constant rearranging, advocating, adjusting, and holding it together for your child while trying to hold it together for yourself.

    Some days, being a special needs mom feels like living in a world where the sidewalks are cracked and uneven, but you’re still expected to run at the same pace as everyone else. You can love your child fiercely, and still feel worn out by how hard it is. You can know God’s plan is good, and still grieve the daily battles along the way.

    This world may not be built for our kids, but I know Heaven is. And until then, I lean on grace — the grace that meets me in my car after drop-off, the grace that steadies me when the tears come in my boss’s office, and the grace that reminds me that I’m not walking this road alone.

    If you’re in the thick of it too — tired, discouraged, feeling the sting of yet another “no” — know that I’m praying for you. And maybe today, we can both remember that even in the weight, there are crumbs of grace to keep us going.

    A Prayer for the Weary Special Needs Mom

    Heavenly Father,
    You see me in this moment — tired, discouraged, and carrying the weight of another “no” I didn’t expect to hear.
    You know my heart for my child, the countless ways I rearrange life to keep her safe, loved, and supported.
    Lord, when the world feels unaccommodating, remind me that Your Kingdom is built for her, perfectly and lovingly.

    Jesus, You walked roads that were hard and lonely.
    Walk with me now in my mornings of rushing, in the tears I can’t hide, and in the quiet moments where doubt tries to take root.
    Steady my steps with Your peace, and remind me that every sacrifice I make for my child is seen by You.

    Holy Spirit, fill me with the grace I need today —
    grace to advocate with love,
    grace to endure when I feel unseen,
    and grace to see the crumbs of blessing You scatter along my path.

    Mother Mary, you know what it means to watch over a child with a heart full of love and concern.
    Wrap me in your mantle, pray for my strength, and guide me to trust in God’s perfect plan, even when I can’t see the way forward.

    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.

  • 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.

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