As a neurodivergent mom of neurodivergent kids, I’m often reminded that life rarely fits neatly into the spaces we imagine. Today that reminder came sitting on the floor of a church hallway—reminding me that these moments come quietly, honoring presence over perfection.
I know there are a mix of backgrounds and lived experiences here. If faith-based content isn’t for you, you can scroll past this one to the Bits & Bobs section at the bottom. There, you’ll find a handful of links, products, and articles I found helpful/interesting/relevant.
In most Christian liturgical traditions, today is Christ the King Sunday—the final Sunday of the church year. A wrapping up of things, if you will, before Advent invites us to begin again.
The gospel reading was Luke 23:33–43, a passage that has always felt a little bizarre and bewildering to me. Jesus reigning from a cross, mocked and misunderstood, yet still offering mercy to the man beside Him.
A King whose power shows up in the least expected places. A Kingdom whose glory looks nothing like the world’s version of strength. A God who remains gentle and present in the midst of suffering and confusion.
And maybe that’s why the passage felt strangely comforting today.
Thing Don’t Always Go According to Plan
This morning was tricky. We were late to church, and one of my children wasn’t able to access getting to class. This has been hard for a while, and the sanctuary felt overwhelming too. So he sat in a quiet classroom down the hall, the lights low, the door shut, with snacks and safe toys. He told me he needed space, and I honored that.
I sat outside the room on the floor, watching the service on my phone.
I didn’t pass the peace. I didn’t stand or kneel or recite a single response. I didn’t hear the sermon all the way through. If I’m honest, I think I caught maybe three minutes of it.
But I was there. And God was too.
Somewhere between my son stimming in the next room and the muffled sound of the service down the hall, I realized how often my faith happens like this. In thresholds and in-betweens, in hallways and waiting rooms, in moments that look nothing like the ideal but everything like real life.
Life with neurodivergent kids (and a neurodivergent brain of my own) rarely moves in predictable rhythms. Some weeks we make it to the sanctuary. Some weeks we don’t. Some weeks we participate fully. Some weeks all we have to offer is presence, and even that feels fragile.
Even so, I am learning that God honors the presence we’re able to give. God has never been limited to sanctuaries. God is not waiting for me to meet some invisible standard of participation. God meets us where we are. Sometimes that’s a pew, and sometimes it’s a hallway floor with a livestream playing quietly in your hand.
The King Who Doesn’t Look Like a King
The lectionary doesn’t give us a triumphant coronation scene. It gives us a crucified Messiah. A King whose crown is made of thorns. A Kingdom revealed in forgiveness offered moments before death.
It’s a strange kind of reign. It’s also the only kind that makes sense to me anymore.
Because when I think about “Christ the King,” I’m not thinking about authoritarian rule or power hoarded at the top. I’m thinking of a God who chooses solidarity over spectacle. A God who names the Holy Spirit the Comforter, who calls Christ our Advocate. A God whose own self-given titles sound less like empire and more like care.
What happens when the One we call King is also the One who comforts? What happens when the One who reigns is also the One who advocates for us? What happens when we think of God as the One sits beside us in the hallway instead of someone who demands we perform wholeness in the sanctuary?
We don’t need a King who is power hungry or performance driven. I don’t think that’s an accurate picture, anyway. We have a King who knows what it is to be misunderstood, exhausted, overstimulated, pushed to a point that leads to crying out.
When I think of what it means that Christ is King, I think of gentleness, kindness, service. I think of someone who understands the quiet daily life of sitting with a dysregulated child in a borrowed classroom, choosing presence over keeping up neat-and-tidy appearances, relationship over ritual.
In today’s reading, Jesus turns His face toward someone the world had already dismissed. And maybe part of the good news is that He keeps doing that. He keeps turning toward us not because we’re impressive, but because we are image bearers of God.
The Church Year Makes Room for Our Real Lives
One of the reasons the church calendar has become such a grounding part of my spiritual life is because it’s cyclical, not linear. It breathes. It makes space for seasons of abundance and scarcity. It honors beginnings and endings. It gives room to mark both joy and lament.
As a parent, as an autistic adult, as someone trying to faithfully engage with her spirituality while honoring our family’s needs, I’m learning that God’s presence is not fragile. It doesn’t disappear when routines fall apart or when our children can’t participate in the ways others expect.
Christ the King meets us in our limits and sits with us in our overwhelm.
Christ the King holds space for our fluctuating capacity, our imperfect rhythms, our longing to belong even when our bodies and brains need something different than what traditional participation might look like.
Today marks the end of the church year, and next Sunday Advent begins. Honestly, I feel both ready and not ready for it.
I created a devotional last year for neurodiverse families. I made it for my kids, but we didn’t use it much. We did a few here and there. We used it exactly as intended—as our capacities allowed. It was meant to be simple and gentle, a way to help us enter the seasons of Advent and Christmas slowly.
But I don’t know what Advent will look like for my kids this year. I don’t know if they’ll want to light the candles or listen to the readings or if the sensory input will be too much. I don’t know if we’ll gather around the table or read Scriptures in the car between appointments, or if Advent will happen in pieces and fragments. I don’t know how it will feel as they navigate a holiday season between two homes for the first time.
And I think that’s okay. I’m trusting it’s okay.
Because God is bigger than my plans, bigger than my preparations, and certainly bigger than any hope or expectation I might place on myself or my children.
Advent doesn’t demand readiness. It begins with longing and uncertainty and small flickers of hope.
Advent is for people who are waiting, not for those who have arrived.
If anything, our hallway morning might have been the most honest way to end the church year and step toward a new one.
Surviving the Feast: A Low Demand Guide to Food-Centered Holiday Gatherings - From Amanda Diekman’s blog, this is a great resource and an easy read filled with practical wisdom. This post about holiday boundaries from a couple of years ago on her blog is also a great read. I work with Amanda as a coach, and there are 3 of us on the team who have availability if you need some extra support ahead of the holiday season.
Dropping Demands This Holiday Season - this is a blog post I wrote for PDA North America last year that might be helpful this season.
Important reminder from Lindsay Flanagan - she posted this last year, but I think it’s worth revisiting. This is a great time of year to be flexible, advocate for your kid, and hold firm to your boundaries so that you can maximize opportunities to connect and have fun in ways that work for you and your family.
Do Childhood Vaccines Cause Tornadoes? - The CDC’s changing it’s guidance and language about autism and vaccines. I don’t have a lot of words about this right now, but I’ve written a lot about it from a Christian perspective in the past on this substack. I thought this op-ed in the Atlantic was a good one.
How Churches Fail Caregivers - Christianity Without Compromise - I recently got to chat with Jake Doberenz on his podcast about my POTS diagnosis, motherhood, the expectations we have about caregivers (and moms specifically), and how we need to carve our a more honest theology of limits. You can listen to the podcast here.
Deep Pressure Compression Vest - this has been a big hit with one of my kids at OT, and we just got one at home. Not an affiliate link, just want to share what’s working for us. They sell a weighted version too.
Buzz Buddy - from the same company as above, my other kid has loved this oral stimulation tool when we’re needing to chew or bite or put things in our mouth a lot.
That’s it for now, friends. If Thanksgiving plans are part of your week, I hope they’re uneventful, predictable, and exactly what you need. Until next time. 👋
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