How do you explain the significance of the Mass to your child when they struggle to communicate with you about their basic needs? This was a question that kept coming up in the back of my mind so often in the early years of parenthood.
My wife and I have been married for almost 16 years and we have four children. Both of our sons have been diagnosed with autism. Our oldest son was diagnosed in 2014. Our second child, a daughter, has been dealing with hearing loss and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome her entire life. Our third born, a son, was also diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder in 2018. And finally, our youngest child, a daughter, has some speech delays. My wife and I, along with our oldest three children, have ADHD diagnoses.
Because neurodiversity runs throughout my family, we’ve had to build strong routines in our lives. Lots of visual schedules and reminders throughout the day are vital in order to keep a sense of order in our days.
Going back to the years before our younger son was diagnosed, we had several apprehensions when it came to going to Mass because he exhibited more severe behaviors and sensory needs than our older son.
We used a weighted vest and a visual schedule to help him acclimate to the rhythm of the Mass and limit his anxiety sitting in crowded middle pews. But still, questions abounded. Would my son ever be comfortable in the sanctuary? Would we ever be able to make it through a Sunday Mass without taking so many breaks that it felt like we missed 70% of it?
Even with all of our increased planning, my family sits in the back pews. I had all the hopes of sitting closer to the altar where all of my children could see more of the liturgical action. But when you are a parent of kids with special needs, you learn that things don’t always go as planned.
Sitting in the back of the church humbled me. I wanted to be more “present” in the Mass and having to be on the periphery made me feel like a failure as a parent and a Catholic.
Loving the Church and feeling far away
Autism officially entered my life back in 2014 when my oldest child was diagnosed. In the months leading up to his diagnosis, my wife and I had our son evaluated because he exhibited OCD tendencies, social communication issues, and various periods of strong obsessions. He was on the higher functioning side of the autism spectrum disorder and needed some interventions. Our younger son needed much more support. Autism — as my wife (who is a special education teacher) and I learned throughout these years — looks different in every child. This means it looks different in every Catholic family trying to worship together.
What overwhelms one child might barely register for another. What helps one family stay through Mass might make it impossible for someone else. That reality alone can make Sundays feel like a quiet test you’re never quite prepared for.
We love the Catholic Church. The Mass is where we receive Eucharist, Jesus’ own Body and Blood. We want our children to grow up knowing that this is their home. And yet there’s often an undercurrent of tension that comes with walking through those doors, one that has nothing to do with belief and everything to do with belonging. I think of the glares we’ve received from people when we’ve had to walk our younger son out of the sanctuary during an intense meltdown. That tension was especially present in the years following our son’s diagnosis.
Dealing with the pre-Mass and post-Mass meltdowns (due to sensory overload) were draining for my wife and me. There were weeks I felt completely defeated and didn’t know what to do.
When reverence looks like movement
Continuing to trust in God and receive his graces in the sacraments were how I managed the challenges we faced taking our son to Mass. Being a parent to an autistic child has taught me to celebrate milestones no matter how small. C.S. Lewis once said, “Miracles are a retelling in small letters too large for some of us to see.” This quote is etched into my memory and is helpful during the tough days.
It took us using the visual schedule weekly each Sunday for nearly three years straight before my son got the rhythm of the Mass. But I am so thankful for the process. My parish priest once said in his homily, “If it’s slow, it means it’s human. Things take time.” Teaching my children stillness and calmness in the Mass took longer than my arbitrary timeline. Everything is in God’s timing.
And now, my younger son is able to make it through a Mass with a calm body — though he still feels nervous at times, especially on Holy Days of Obligation or a Mass with a packed congregation.
I used to equate reverence with stillness. Autism has challenged that assumption in our family, sometimes gently and sometimes not. For my son, sensory overload doesn’t show up as defiance or disrespect. It shows up as movement. At the end of long days, especially when emotions are high, he regulates by running back and forth across our living room, fully immersed in a one-man football game only he can see.
It looks chaotic.
That movement is how his body finds calm. It’s how he processes what the day has thrown at him. And Mass, beautiful as it is, can throw a lot at a child whose nervous system is already working overtime.
Staying, even when it’s hard
Sitting in the back pew wasn’t a punishment. It gave me perspective and forced me to discern how to truly meet my son’s needs. Along the way, we’ve encountered moments of quiet kindness that mattered more than big moments. A parish that didn’t draw attention to our struggles. A priest who made space without commentary. Fellow parishioners who understood that being at Mass is in itself an act of faith.
Those moments didn’t erase the challenges, but they made it possible to keep coming back. The biggest thing I hope others understand if you are currently navigating similar situations with your family is that you are not alone. There are more parents that are going through these types of challenges than you think. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.
While my family is now able to sit closer to the altar, our family journey has helped me understand it’s not where you sit in the church that matters. Jesus welcomes you with open arms no matter where you sit and where you are in life. God knows the struggles you are currently going through, and more importantly, he knows your heart.
If you’re a parent who’s sat in the car debating whether to go inside, know this: the back pew isn’t empty. It’s full of people who love the Church deeply and are doing their best to belong.
Sometimes simply remaining, even from the back, is an act of hope.
