The other day, something quietly but powerfully clicked in my heart.
My daughter asked if she could go play in the backyard, and my two sons immediately wanted to join her. They’re seven and nine now — an age when most boys are racing around outside on their own — but our reality looks different. Because of their Muscular Dystrophy, bending, climbing, jumping, and running simply aren’t options anymore. They can still walk short distances, but rely on their wheelchairs when they need to go farther. So I helped them get dressed, tied their shoes, and tried to hide the worry forming in my chest.
We stepped outside onto our small patch of grass, the concrete patio, and the old playhouse with the slide we’ve had for years. My four-year-old took off happily, zipping around in her little car and flying down the slide. I sat on the patio watching — and then noticed my boys just standing there. Their expressions slowly shifted from excitement to quiet sadness. They remembered how they once climbed that same slide, how they used to keep up with their little sister… and how they couldn’t anymore. “There’s nothing we can play with out here,” my oldest said softly before turning toward the house.
My heart broke for them.
Determined to salvage the moment, I dug through the outdoor toy bin and found a few squirt guns. For a while, laughter filled the yard as water sprayed and silly battles began. But soon, their weakening fingers struggled with the triggers. Pain set in. Frustration followed. They began heading back inside again, defeated — as if the world outside really wasn’t meant for them at all.
I didn’t want that to be their memory of the day. They rarely ask to go outdoors anymore, and I desperately wished this time could feel different.
Inside, while refilling the squirt gun for my daughter, tears slipped down my cheeks. I felt pity wash over me — for myself, for my precious boys, for every child who longs to do ordinary things and finds obstacles at every turn. Sometimes even simple backyard play can feel like an uphill climb.
But when I walked back out, everything changed. I heard laughter — genuine, full, contagious laughter. My daughter was driving her pink car while her brothers pretended to be traffic directors, guiding her safely around like she was at the edge of the Grand Canyon. Soon, we were all sitting together in the sunshine, hunting for tiny rolly-pollies and telling stories.
Just like that, sorrow melted into gratitude. A frustrating afternoon transformed into a memory I wanted to hold onto forever — all because my children see joy even where challenges live.
That moment taught me something important.
So often, the moments that bring us despair are closely followed by something unexpectedly beautiful. What began as heavy pity became heartfelt praise. By the time we went back inside, the sun was fading and my heart felt full. All three of my kids had fun — and to me, that meant everything.
My children are resilient warriors. They don’t dwell on what they’ve lost; they focus on what they can still do, and meet each day with courage. They refuse to stay stuck in frustration — and instead, they create joy. They remind me, again and again, to do the same.
We truly can learn so much from children.
If we try, those moments of pity and discouragement can turn into moments of gratitude and praise. We can thank God for another day together, for sunlight on our faces, for rolly-pollies, and for the beautiful strength of our kids’ spirits.
Rain or shine, may we always try to shift our hearts from pity to praise — because that simple change makes all the difference.
