Keep Your Circle Small
Series: Finding Your People Pt. 1
This article is Part 1 of a three-part series adapted from the letter “Friendship,” in Volume 2 of Letters to Lindsey: Seeing Your Child’s Autism Diagnosis Through A Gospel Lens.
Dear Lindsey,
In 2015, our family packed up our lives in Texas and moved to Louisiana.
To this day, moving still ranks near the top of my list of least favorite life experiences. Packing boxes. Finding a new church. Learning new streets. Starting over. At the time, we were just a family of three: Collin, our three-year-old daughter Addy K, and me. We were excited to get plugged into a local church and, more than anything, begin building friendships again.
We signed up for the membership class, jumped into serving, and started attending everything we could. Addy K loved children’s ministry. I joined a women’s Bible study. Collin, a gifted guitarist, scheduled an audition for the worship team.
Meanwhile, I had my own mission.
After a few weeks at Bible study, I met a woman during small group, and we immediately clicked. We had so much in common that I remember thinking, I think I’m going to make her my new best friend.
Of course, I tried to play it cool. You don’t want to unleash all your weirdness during the first conversation.
Then I discovered she was married to the worship pastor who would be leading Collin’s audition.
Jackpot.
This friendship plan was practically writing itself.
On the day of the audition, Addy K and I tagged along. About five minutes after we arrived, she had a complete diaper blowout. At the exact same time, a thunderstorm rolled in.
Naturally.
To make matters worse, I had forgotten the diaper bag in the car. Rookie mistake. So I sprinted through the pouring rain across what felt like half the church parking lot, grabbed fresh clothes, changed a screaming toddler, and walked back inside absolutely soaked.
Thankfully, Collin’s audition went wonderfully. He was invited to join the worship team.
As we left, Collin ran to pull the car under the overhang while the two worship pastors walked Addy K and me outside. Somewhere in the conversation, one of them casually said,
“Our family would love to have you over for dinner sometime.”
Inside, I was doing a happy dance. Outside, I calmly replied, “We’d love that.”
The rain had stopped, and we stood there talking while waiting for the car. That’s when I noticed both guys looking down with these amused little smiles.
I couldn’t figure out what had their attention. Then I looked down.
There was my adorable little girl, bow still perfectly in place, happily licking rainwater off the side of the car.
Not just once.
She had discovered the rain dripping off the door handle and had decided this was apparently the finest drinking fountain Louisiana had to offer.
One of the pastors laughed. “Well,” he said, “that’s one way to stay hydrated.”
I sighed.
Yes.
Yes, it is.
And also probably the guaranteed way to never make friends.
Geez, kids will humble you, man.
Looking back, though, I think God was gently reminding me of something I desperately needed to learn.
I was working so hard to make the perfect first impression that I’d forgotten something simple:
God has never built my deepest friendships on polished moments.
He’s built them through ordinary, complicated, messy life.
And autism parenting has only reinforced that lesson.
Keep Your Circle Small
Lindsey, if there’s one piece of friendship advice I give almost every parent raising an autistic child, it’s this:
Your circle doesn’t need to be large.
In fact, a small circle is often all you need. And during some seasons, it’s all you can realistically carry.
Some people collect friends. I’ve learned to steward them.
There’s an internal filter running quietly in the background for who I allow close. Not because I’m suspicious of everyone or because I think I’m better than anyone. But because I’ve learned that not everyone belongs in every room of my life.
Years ago, Collin and I came across an illustration that compared friendships to the rooms of a house.
Some people stay on the front porch.
They’re kind people. You enjoy talking with them after church or while waiting in the school pickup line. You know each other. You care about each other. But the relationship stays near the surface.
Others make it into the living room. You spend time together. Your kids know each other. You laugh. You share parts of life.
Then there are the back deck friends.
Those are different. They are friends that know everything.
They know the things you don’t post online.
They know the fears you haven’t admitted out loud.
They know what your house looks like after a week of survival mode.
They know the hard behaviors.
The meltdowns. The tears. The victories no one else understands.
They know these things because you’ve trusted them with your story.
Lindsey, if I haven’t said it anywhere else in these letters, I’ll say it now.
You may very well live a gross life. Not the normal parenting kind of gross. I mean the “someone smeared poop on the wall” kind of gross. The “please don’t open that bedroom door” kind of gross. The “we’ve been wearing the same shirt for two days because I’m so exhausted I haven’t made time for laundry,” kind of gross.
Those moments aren’t for public consumption.
Which is exactly why your closest friendships matter.
The people inside your inner circle aren’t simply friends…they’re stewards of your story.
That means they protect your family’s dignity.
They don’t turn your hardest moments into someone else’s conversation.
They don’t leave your home and become part of the church gossip chain.
They carry what you’ve entrusted to them with wisdom, compassion, and discretion.
That’s why your circle should stay small. Not because other people are bad, but because trust is currency. It has value.
Over the years, I’ve found myself looking for the same qualities again and again.
I look for people who encourage more than they criticize.
One’s ask thoughtful questions instead of making assumptions.
Who genuinely love my entire family, not just me.
Who respond to hard things with kindness instead of curiosity.
Who guard confidence like a vault.
Those are the people worth inviting onto the back deck for a glass of sweet tea and a deep conversation.
One of those friends is my friend, Lacy.
One day she texted me.
“I’m taking my kids to Bush-N-Vine tomorrow to pick peaches. I’ve never been before, and someone told me they have things for kids to play on. It’s probably not fenced in, which I know may not sound enjoyable for you, but I wanted to see if you’d like to come.”
She knew there was about a 99% chance I’d say no, but she was hopeful that that 1% might be that day. However, she knows that wide-open spaces without fences make me anxious. She knows I usually need to scout places before I can relax enough to enjoy them.
And she asked anyway. I did say no. But here’s what mattered.
She thought of me.
She didn’t assume I’d decline and just leave me out.
She gave me the opportunity to say yes.
That simple text reminded me that I still belonged. Never underestimate the gift of simply asking.
If God has given you even one or two people like that, thank Him often.
Tell them what they mean to you.
Because the goal isn’t having the biggest circle. The goal is having the right one.
The friends who don’t just know your story. The friends who help carry it.
In Part 2, we’ll talk about one of the hardest parts of friendship as an autism parent: learning to let people into your “crazy.”