2 /5 Bessie BlueCar: As a family striving to raise our boys—ages 4 and 2—in the pure, unadulterated light of God’s creation, we’ve leaned into a “crunchy” lifestyle: no fluoridated water, no vaccines, no food dyes, no processed junk, and definitely no plastic containers leaching microplastics into their little bodies. Our kids spend 3-4 hours a day outside, barefoot, grounding to the earth, with screen time kept to a minimum. Life Church seemed like a natural fit for us. Pastor Brian’s sermons are a weekly gift—thoughtful, biblical, and brimming with the Spirit. The Mom to Mom event? A treasure for weary mothers. We loved it here. That is, until Nancy.
Picture this: my wife, standing in line with other parents to pick up our 4-year-old from Sunday school, when Nancy —a volunteer with all the eloquence, thoughtfulness and tact of a sledgehammer—decides it’s the perfect moment to play armchair psychologist. Loudly, in front of everyone, she declares that our son might have autism. Her evidence? He struggles to transition from running wild outside (where he thrives) to sitting still indoors, and apparently he doesn’t “play much” with other kids after a chaotic session of dancing, singing, bubbles, and jumping—activities the church runs! Oh, and he’d rather keep moving than plop down for a big-screen TV lesson. In Nancy’s expert opinion, this screams “spectrum.”
Let’s get one thing straight: our 4-year-old is a bright, vibrant soul—above average, says his holistic practitioner (who’s nearing her PhD). His chiropractor is of a similar opinion. He chats up strangers at the grocery store, plays tag with the 9-year-old neighbor girl, and can lock eyes with you in a staring contest until you blink (I’ve lost twice). Autism? We’d never even considered it. But Nancy’s unsolicited diagnosis sent us into a tailspin. For weeks, we consulted his doctor, chiropractor, neighbors, friends, grandparents, ASD diagnosis tools, even other church members—plus a little AI for good measure. The consensus? A resounding “No, he’s not autistic—just high-energy, probably from that crunchy life.” Time investment? Massive. Emotional toll? Crushing. All because Nancy couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
Her approach wasn’t just wrong—it was an absolute masterclass in social cluelessness. Proverbs 12:18 says, “There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.” Nancy’s words were sword thrusts, slashing through our peace and sowing discord in our home.
And get this: we later found out she pulled the same stunt with another parent that day. Apparently, she was on a roll, doling out labels like Halloween candy. What’s next, Nancy—ADHD for the kid who fidgets during prayer?
Maybe Nancy’s not equipped to handle natural, organic children—kids who aren’t doped up on fluoride (which studies have shown make people "docile and complacent"), vaccines, or meds. If she’s used to the subdued, pacified crowd, that’s fine—different strokes for different folks. Some parents medicate their kids into compliance; we choose not to. But at a church proclaiming the vitality of life in Christ, you’d think a volunteer could handle a boy who’s more “fearfully and wonderfully made” than sedated. Instead, Nancy saw a child bursting with God-given energy and decided he must be defective. Where’s the love? The discernment? The humility?
We’re not saying Life Church is all bad—far from it. Pastor Brian’s a gem, and the community has so much potential. But Nancy’s reckless judgment has left us reeling. We can’t bring our kids back, knowing she’s there, unable to handle their spirit without slapping a label on it. Maybe she’d be better off in the adult classes, where her diagnostic “gifts” might find a more receptive audience.
We’re praying for Nancy to reflect, repent, and maybe reconsider her role. And we’re praying for leadership to see this for what it is: a wake-up call. “Let the little children come to me” shouldn’t mean “and let Nancy play Freud.” Until then, we’re out—with heavy hearts and a whole lot of exasperation.
In Christ,
A Crunchy Dad
