Parenting Autism Into Adulthood: Love, Loud Joy, and a Whole Lot of Beads (The Crabtree Family)

Meet some of our dearest friends, the Crabtrees: Charles, Sherry, and Charlie.

If you’ve ever had “those people” in your life, you know exactly what I mean. The Crabtrees are the kind of humans who would hand you their last dollar, their last ounce of energy, and probably a casserole they didn’t even have time to make. They show up. They listen. They jump in when life is on fire and you’re standing there holding the extinguisher upside down.

I can’t count the times they’ve come through for us, whether we needed help, prayer, a plan, or just someone to sit there while we stared into the void and pretended we were fine.

Scott and I go way back with Sherry and Charles. I’m talking high school, mid-90s, when our hair had more confidence than we did and nobody knew what a “boundary” was because we were all just vibing on survival and square cafeteria pizza.

Back in the mid-90s, we were all in JROTC together, which basically means we spent our teenage years voluntarily signing up for early-morning chaos and structured suffering. Me, Sherry, and Scott were on Raiders, and Charles was over on the Rifle Team. Between the competitions, the bus rides, and the general crankiness that comes with teenagers in uniform, we logged a whole lot of memories and even more ridiculousness.

Now, speaking of remarkable, I want you to meet their son, Charlie.

Charlie is an adult now. He’s loving, funny, silly, and autistic. He’s also nonverbal in the way most people define it, but if you ask Sherry, she’ll tell you something that stopped me in my tracks:

“He’s not nonverbal. He speaks Charlie.”

If he wants a Debbie cake, he’ll say ‘cookie’ and stare you down like he’s negotiating a treaty.

A few weeks ago, I sat down with Sherry to hear their story from the inside. Not the polished version. Not the “inspirational meme with a sunset background” version. The real version, from toddler years to adulthood: the hard parts, the funny parts, the parts that make you tired just hearing about them, and the parts that make you cry in your car and then immediately need Chick-fil-A… well, if you ask Charlie, it would definitely be Sonic. 😄

They have raised a sweet, loving son through challenges most people will never understand, and somehow, they have still managed to be the kind of family that keeps giving to their community, their friends, and the world.

On the outside, they make it look easy. Those of us who love them know: it’s anything but.

And through it all, their faith has been the anchor that keeps them from drifting under. Because autism isn’t a moment. It’s a lifetime. And the Crabtrees have lived the whole timeline, toddler years to adulthood, and somehow still have love left to give.

The Day the Map Disappeared

Sherry told me Charlie was a “normal” toddler at first. He hit milestones like any other little boy. And then, around age two, something shifted. A regression.

If you’ve never lived through regression, it’s hard to explain how fast your heart learns a new kind of fear. It’s not dramatic fear. It’s quiet fear. The kind that sits in your chest and whispers, Something isn’t right… and I don’t know how to fix it. Have you ever watched your child change in a way you couldn’t explain, and felt your stomach drop before your brain caught up?

Charlie was diagnosed around 2.5, after a team evaluation where they tested things like motor skills, attention, and following instructions. Sherry and Charles weren’t prepared, not because they didn’t love their son enough, but because back then, in the late 90s, autism wasn’t something most parents understood.

There wasn’t a TikTok community. There weren’t fifty Instagram accounts telling you “here’s what to expect.” There was just a Mom, a Dad, a little boy, and a whole new world nobody handed them a map for.

And like so many moms do, Sherry did what moms do when they feel powerless: she blamed herself. What did I do wrong? Was it something I did when I was pregnant?

She told me she sank into depression for a while, trying to make sense of a reality that didn’t make sense. She researched. She went to conventions. She read everything she could get her hands on. She tried to understand what was happening and why.

But what stood out to me wasn’t the science part of the story. It was the Mom part. Because once Sherry came up for air, she did what she always does: She showed up.

Learning Charlie (and realizing “nonverbal” doesn’t mean “not in there”)

Charlie was nonverbal until around age six, when he started saying words, though not full sentences. But Sherry doesn’t talk about him like someone who can’t communicate. She talks about him like someone who does, just not in the neat, easy, socially convenient way the rest of the world demands.

Charlie has his own language.

He shows happiness with giggles and dancing. Sometimes loud squeals that sound like joy that can’t fit inside a body. He shows love with hugs, kisses, and trying to repeat “I love you” in his own way. Sherry looks him in the face when she talks to him, making sure he sees her, making sure he knows he’s being spoken to, not around.

And here’s the thing that matters: People assume that because Charlie doesn’t speak the way we do, he doesn’t understand. Sherry said that’s the biggest misunderstanding. They assume he has no thoughts. No feelings. No awareness. But he does. He feels rejection. He feels when someone pushes him away. He feels when people treat him like a problem instead of a person. And as his Mom, she feels it too.

The Work Nobody Applauds

When Charlie was younger, Sherry homeschooled him for years, after fights with schools that underestimated him and tried to place limits on what he could become.

One of the hardest parts of their story is how early people gave up on him. They were told he wouldn’t progress. That he wouldn’t read or write. That this was basically it. And Sherry looked at her son and said… no. Absolutely not. So she taught him. ABC’s. Counting. Writing. Flashcards. Routine. Repetition. Hope.

Homeschool wasn’t an adorable Pinterest schedule with color-coded bins and a latte in the background. It was six-hour days with breaks and constant effort. It was fighting to keep him regulated, fighting to keep him engaged, fighting to keep him learning in a world that seemed determined to label him and limit him.

And then there was the physical exhaustion.

Charlie slept about four hours a night. No naps. On go-mode all day. Sherry and Charles were parenting on fumes. Loving hard on an empty tank. Doing it anyway.

Potty training was brutal… and then Charles accomplished it in a week, which Sherry said like it was both victory and magic. And honestly? It kind of is.

That’s what I want people to understand: in families like theirs, you learn to celebrate wins other people don’t even notice.

Routine: The Peace Treaty

Today, Charlie is 27, and Sherry says he’s a whole lot calmer now and, in her words, “lazy.” (And I loved her for saying it because sometimes honesty is funnier than inspiration.)

He starts his morning with a Mountain Dew, because he’s grown and this is America. No hate, no haterade. Most mornings he’s happiest cozied up with his Mom, snuggled in bed watching videos, working the remote like he pays the cable bill. He loves his beads, anything bus-related, and he’s still picky, but hand him fried chicken and watermelon and you may need to take out a small loan.

And when Charles gets home from work, that’s when the second shift kicks in: Dad loads him up and takes him to his favorite “shopping” spots, because Charlie loves a good store aisle like the rest of us love a Target run.

Walmart is a staple, and Barnes & Noble is a favorite, especially if there’s anything new to look at. And if they swing by Marshall’s or Ross and Charlie spots something bus-related? Congratulations, you’ve just unlocked his version of Disneyland. It’s their rhythm, their routine, and their way of making everyday life feel steady and good.

But the hardest part now is still the same in a different form: Routine.

If his routine gets messed with, the day can go from “fine” to “Lord help us” in about thirty seconds. Loud noises, curveballs, surprise plans, it all hits his system at once. Sherry and Charles plan around things most of us never think about: booming cars, motorcycles, food preferences, transitions, unfamiliar environments.

One “small but huge” thing they’ve learned is this: Charlie needs his comfort sidekicks. Beads, for example. And when I say beads, I mean THE beads. I have genuinely never seen him without them… and yes, he has absolutely figured out where I keep his bead stash at my house, because Charlie doesn’t just visit, he audits inventory. 😂

Sometimes it’s his camping chair. Sometimes it’s whatever familiar thing helps his world feel steady. Either way, it’s his little way of telling his nervous system: I’m safe. This is mine. I know how this goes.

Because for Charlie, familiarity isn’t a preference. It’s regulation.

The Part People Don’t Understand (and the Part That Scares Parents)

I asked Sherry about public judgment. She didn’t sugarcoat it. People stare. People comment. People assume. People say ignorant things like, “Just spank him and he won’t act like that.” As if autism is a tantrum you can punish away. As if sensory overload is disrespect. As if parenting is that simple.

And as Charlie got older, the judgment got heavier, because a meltdown in a little boy looks “sad” to strangers, but a meltdown in a grown man can look “scary” to people who don’t understand. That’s when real fear enters the room. Because strangers don’t just stare. Sometimes they call the police.

Sherry told me they fear the day an officer doesn’t understand autism, doesn’t understand that Charlie may not be able to follow instructions in a meltdown, doesn’t understand that this isn’t violence, it’s Charlie in overload mode. She described meltdowns as a blackout state, where he may not even remember what happened afterward.

One day, Charlie couldn’t go outside because they were eating, and he got so upset he elbowed their picture window and shattered it. That’s real life. That’s not a cute autism-awareness poster. That’s living on alert, loving someone whose nervous system can turn on him without warning.

The grief that sits quietly beside the love

Sherry said the hardest season hasn’t just been the work. It’s the grief. The grief of knowing Charlie won’t have the typical milestones: a wife, kids, the kind of independence most parents assume their children will have. The grief of realizing they won’t be grandparents. The grief of making the hard decision not to have another child because Charlie needed so much, and they feared the odds of having another autistic child.

And maybe the biggest fear of all: What happens to Charlie if we’re not here? That question lives in the background of their days, even when the day looks fine.

The joy that keeps them going anyway

Charlie wakes up and smiles at his Mom, and Sherry sees the love on his face and says, that’s why I keep going. He hugs her. He hugs his Dad. He tries to say “I love you.” And Sherry told me something I won’t forget: Charlie has taught her patience. And that love doesn’t need words. That love can be loud. Or quiet. Or awkward, and expressed through a hug in the grocery store that makes a stranger uncomfortable.

And what she wishes the world noticed first about Charlie is this: He loves people. He wants connection. He’s not trying to bother you. He’s trying to belong.

The world’s responses: the good, the bad, and the ones that surprise you

In public, reactions to Charlie can be all over the place. Some people get nervous when he’s loud or excited, especially now that he’s a grown man, and you can feel that “oh no” energy in the stare before anyone even opens their mouth.

But Sherry also told me something that deserves to be said out loud: sometimes complete strangers are the ones who surprise you in the best way. The people who don’t flinch. The ones who smile back, wave, ask him what he’s holding, or let him proudly show off his beads or his bus treasures like it’s the most normal thing in the world, because honestly… it should be.

Every now and then, someone will even dance with him in the aisle or hype him up like they’ve known him forever, and those tiny moments of kindness hit the Crabtrees like oxygen. Not because they’re looking for attention, but because they’re used to the world bracing itself instead of just… being gentle.

Marriage, survival, and faith as the anchor

Autism brought stress into Sherry and Charles’ marriage. They had to learn how not to fight each other over how to handle Charlie. The weight of daily life almost broke them.

Sherry said their faith in Jesus saved them. When Sherry says Jesus saved their marriage, I think of Ecclesiastes 4:12, that “cord of three strands” situation, because when you’re carrying heavy stuff, you need more than human strength holding it together.

They learned to divide and conquer. Sherry runs the daytime shift, Charles takes over in the evenings, and they trade off when one of them is running on fumes so nobody burns all the way down. They pray. They talk to God. And they protect a little breathing room without guilt, because they’ve learned the hard way you can’t keep pouring from an empty cup.

Forever parenting and what Sherry wants you to understand

Sherry wants people to know this: forever parenting isn’t a burden. It’s not “poor them.” It’s not a tragedy. It’s a calling. It’s love. It’s responsibility. It’s protection. It’s constant learning. And in their home, it’s wrapped in prayer, because prayer isn’t a last resort for them, it’s the first response, the “pray without ceasing” kind of life (1 Thessalonians 5:17), and the “we’re taking this to God and leaving it there” kind of peace (Philippians 4:6–7).

She believes God entrusted Charlie to them on purpose, not by accident, and that children are a gift and a sacred responsibility (Psalm 127:3). She believes Charlie is fully seen and fully valued by God, fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:13–14), made in His image (Genesis 1:27), and loved for his heart, not his performance (1 Samuel 16:7). And she believes God gives them what they need for each day, even when that day is hard, with mercies that show up fresh every morning (Lamentations 3:22–23) and grace that is sufficient when they’re running on empty (2 Corinthians 12:9).

And if you’re a mother reading this with a fresh diagnosis and a heart full of terror, Sherry’s message is simple: Pray. Turn to God. Learn your child in a different way. Take alone time when you can. Cry when you need to cry. Don’t believe you’ve failed because you’re overwhelmed.

You’re not failing. You’re learning a new kind of love.

Next time you see a grown man stimming (aka self-soothing movements like rocking, flapping, or repeating motions), vocalizing, or having a hard moment in public, I hope you remember this: you might be looking at someone’s whole world. Be gentle. Smile if you can. Make room. Kindness is free, and for some families, it feels like oxygen.

If you want to learn more about autism (or you’re in the “Google spiral at 2 a.m.” season), the Autism Society has a great starting point and resources you can actually use: Autism Society

If you want a more official/medical option instead, the CDC’s autism hub is also a solid reference point: CDC-Autism

Love, Loud Joy, and a Whole Lot of Beads: Parenting Autism into Adulthood with Charles, Sherry, and Charlie