I’ve had these little, almost imperceptible moments over the last few months. Moments that I would take in, understanding they were valuable and just holding them.

These moments have been lessons in trust. There is an underlying sadness in my life. My boy’s diagnosis makes me sad. It’s not what any parent would want for their child. Except for a few difficult seasons, my family does its best to find the silver linings, live in the moment, find joy in our journey, and make every day count. Life is precious and short, and we will soak it up best.

I’ve found that prayer, quiet contemplation, and adoration have become part of my formula to live life this way. It’s often in the quiet that either these moments come to me, or I have time to take them out and think about them.

I was very emotional one Monday morning. My sons are doing well considering their diagnosis, but they have moments of intense suffering still. One was suffering, and I was hurting for my son. I was in the church praying the rosary and meditating on the glorious mysteries. The first of these two are the resurrection and the ascension.

I was thinking about Jesus’ mother. She had watched her son die a slow and painful death when he was crucified. She was there. I can only imagine that the resurrection was to her, as it is to all of us, a miracle. She could see her son again. I’m sure that every parent who has ever lost a child wants to see their child again, and Mary did. She did see her son again! I wonder how her heart must have been so happy at seeing him.

Then the ascension. He was gone again. I was at the church that day, hurting and emotional as a mother. I thought about Jesus’ mother again. She must have known he would go again; as faithful and devoted, she knew he would go to His Father. But, as a woman and mother, it hurt to watch him go again. To get him back and then say goodbye again. I know that she knew and believed she would see him again, and she did, but I wonder how she must have ached and yearned to see him all the rest of the years she was on Earth.

I had never thought about any of this before. I felt like Jesus was pointing me to his mother and needed me to learn from her. I didn’t know what he wanted me to understand. I made it an Advent goal to study his mother and try to grow in my relationship with her and to learn what he wanted me to learn, whatever that was. Honestly, he wants me to learn many things, and it will be a relationship I nurture for the rest of my life.

Another moment came the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I stopped into the church to pray a rosary. I remember at one point looking up. To preface this next part of the story, St. Cecilia is a beautiful Catholic church over 100 years old. It has lovely stained glass windows and a gorgeous station of cross statues adorning the walls. I looked up from my prayer. I was sitting next to a wall about 10 rows behind a statue of Jesus falling under the weight of his cross. I looked into the face of Jesus, and my heart immediately felt a pang of sorrow. I looked away at the pain and then back into his face, and the same pain penetrated my heart. I was so sorry for his suffering. But he seemed to say to me at the moment that love is worth all the pain in the world.

These moments and thoughts have been with me. I think about them often and wonder how he wants them to change my heart.

We took our boys to the neuromuscular clinic last week. Many things were happening that day. It was a new clinic to us, and by the end of that 9-hour day, we would have met 10 or more new specialists, nurses, and other essential persons involved in the care of our sons. It also started very early, and my oldest was tired and stressed about the clinic change and the discussion we were in the midst of. He was hiding behind his mask and pretending not to listen but listening anyway. His behavior felt a little disrespectful to the doctor, but he was also a very teenage boy.

The boys endure some very strong and harsh medications to help them manage their disease. It is so strong that it suppresses some things the body should do independently. Needless to say, we have to manage those things through medicine. We were talking about a change in medication. He needed to have a say. The doctor looked at him and asked if he would rather do option A or option B? My son said, “Whatever my mom thinks is best.”

I’m crying now. My child’s absolute trust in me to make significant, life-changing decisions for him is one of the purest, most overwhelming feelings of love I have ever felt. That piece of my motherhood, the Duchenne mom piece that I never expected and can’t believe I am figuring out how to do, is something I take very seriously. I study, prepare myself to make decisions, take the doctor’s knowledge and experience, my knowledge and experience, the expertise and experience of other parents, my son’s needs and desires, guidance through prayer, and put that all together with my husband and we make the best decisions possible with the information we have. Considering all that, I can’t believe someone trusts me so deeply and naturally. He knows I would never do anything to harm him and that every decision is made to help him.

Trust is not natural to me. Life experiences took that away. I try to be independent and feel in control and safe if I do it alone. Except, that is not how or why we were made. I’m so thankful for the people God put in my life that make trusting easier, but my first tendency is to do it independently.

That’s what all the moments have been for. Jesus wants me to trust him. Jesus wants my trust like he had Mary’s. Jesus wants my trust like I have my sons’. Like Him, I love my children more than words can describe; I love them fiercely. Jesus is love. He wants my absolute trust that just as I do for my children, he is doing for me, only, of course, he does it perfectly.