The Blessing of Autism?

Bradford SmithSeptember 2026  ·  If Only One

I used to bully an autistic kid—a shameful thing to have been a part of.

Back then (the late '80s), no one really knew what autism was. We had what were called "mentally retarded" kids at the time, but no one had ever heard of autism. Paul was just different. He was our football team manager, and we bullied him. We teased him and provoked him to anger, and I was right there in the middle of it. As I said, shameful.

Our Lord is not without a sense of irony. Fast forward over three decades, and I find myself raising my autistic grandson. To say it has been challenging is a bit of an understatement.

What I meant to say is that I am firmly and completely ill-equipped for such a task.

Parental Tyranny

This is my default setting.

I was raised under a strict authoritarian regime. The idea of talking back to my mother or father never crossed my mind, and throwing a tantrum was simply out of the question. My father was a strict disciplinarian who ruled through intimidation; his discipline always involved yelling, screaming, and frequent corporal punishment.

When I became a father, I defaulted to the only model I knew: discipline by intimidation, yelling, screaming, and corporal punishment. While the Lord has continually softened my heart—my younger sons get a gentler version of me, much to the chagrin of my older daughters—authoritarian Brad is still lurking. Sometimes he shows up; sometimes he doesn’t.

As I’ve discovered, though, intimidation carries zero weight in the world of autism.

Autism Plus

Foster care is the gift that keeps on giving.

Circumstances and the foster system brought my grandson to my home several years ago, and we have since concluded that he is with us—with me—for life. I am eternally grateful. He is my little buddy and I love him. He likes to just be with his papa: go where I go, be where I am. He is my guy… but sometimes, he’s not.

We’ve made a discovery: the combination of autism and puberty (he’s 13) is a formidable combination indeed. Most teenagers wrestle with volatility and emotions. Now, add that to a young man who can scarcely express or even understand those emotions, and you can begin to see the trouble.

We made another discovery, too. He’s a traumatized young man. To our discredit, we never fully realized just how traumatized he was. Listen, the foster system traumatizes every child, and he is no exception. He is functionally divorced from his mother—though he still visits her periodically—and has no relationship with his father. Last year, his brother and sister, who had also been with us for several years, went to live with their father.

No one asked him how he felt about it. No one consulted him or even considered him—including us—because he couldn’t express it. He was invisible in the decision, but it affected him greatly.

This tragic blend of autism, hormones, and trauma has increasingly started to rear its head.

Escalation

Thank God I know Jiu-Jitsu. I’m only a blue belt, but the fundamentals are there.

So, I found myself having taken his back right there in the Walmart parking lot. I had the classic seatbelt grip with my arms—one over the shoulder, the other underhooking, two-on-one on his left arm. I had my hooks in with my legs and my head tight to his shoulder as he thrashed around, trying to hit one of our other kids, trying to headbutt me, and trying to slam his head against the car door, screaming, “Let me go! I hate you! I hate you!”

The fury was as shocking as its rapid onset… all over another kid touching him.

All I could do was hold on for dear life and pray that no one called the police. I didn’t know what else to do.

“Not until you calm down,” was all I could muster, repeating it in his ear over and over. “Calm down, calm down.”

Eventually, after about 10 minutes, he began to gas out. Though he is young and virile, my strength and weight compensated for whatever I lacked in conditioning. Then, it was over.

A few minutes later, we drove away, and shortly after, he was singing along to Way FM as if nothing had ever happened. I felt like I’d been put through a wringer. I looked at my wife and said, “We need help.”

We did. We do.

“God is punishing me.”

I made this statement to Ami. God saw what I did to Paul so many years ago and he sent me an autistic grandson to punish me for my transgression. That’s the only possible answer.

“Or, maybe God is giving you another chance to get it right—to atone for what you did.”

I hate it when she speaks to me on God’s behalf and even more so when she’s right, which she usually is. And she’s smug about it.

Better because of it.

God uses our trials to refine us, to sanctify us, and to conform us into the image of Christ. It is the fire that forges us into what God would have us be. Unfortunately, that is easier to say than to believe—but I say it and I believe it because I am living it.

I cannot parent by intimidation. Autism matches escalation with escalation, confrontation with confrontation, and volatility with volatility. Now, I must be (gasp) calm and gentle, even in the face of blatant disrespect. Accountability and respect must come and have to be addressed, but we must offramp first. We must de-escalate, no matter how long it takes, and only then can we address the issue.

I’m starting to get it right.

A few days ago, my guy became upset. In that moment, I could see him as the troubled young man he was, wrestling the threefold dragon of autism, hormones, and trauma. I looked past my own offense, and I calmly and firmly talked with him—not relenting, but talking calmly, even as he became aggressive, until… he relented.

And last night, when he again became aggressive right at bedtime because he couldn’t find his wristwatch, he refused to obey my repeated commands to go to bed. I was NOT in the right frame of mind for the offramp; I was tired at the end of the day and reverted to authoritarian Brad.

Then something happened.

At the top of the steps, he stopped, closed his eyes, and repeated to himself several times, “It’s not that important; it’s just a wristwatch.” With that, he turned and went off to bed.

Maybe God is refining him, too.

God is refining him, too. Why wouldn’t He be?

The Grand Weaver

God is the Grand Weaver, weaving together the individual threads of our lives into the beautiful tapestry of His decree. Always weaving, His fingers carefully and deliberately select the most unusual pairings of colors and textures to create a truly unique workmanship—to His delight and our eternal joy.

Interestingly, I sometimes visualize my funeral—morbid, I know. But he’s there at my funeral. He’s been with me the whole time, his whole life, my guy, riding shotgun in my old red truck wherever I go. I can even hear him: “Papa’s with Jesus now,” he keeps repeating, as he has a way of doing. I can see it.

Funny, the things we think of.