Why Social Services Matter

Stanfield Manor - Where the magic happens

The photo above of Stanfield Manor brings back so many good memories to me. This is the federally and state-funded low-income apartment building that my brother, Rex lived in the last 5 years of his life. For those 5 years, Rex had a safe, secure place to lay his head at night and a community of people he delighted in serving. 

The injustices of being born with intellectual disabilities that automatically render someone incapable of competing in the working world, tied to the reality that not everyone is born into a magically wealthy, happy home, creates a whole population of people like my brother.  

As you read my book, "Ezra and Hadassah: A Portrait of American Royalty," you learned that Rex didn't have the gift of a loved childhood. He suffered in ways that I struggled to describe while writing our story. The greatest relief I experienced as Rex's sister was the day he moved into this apartment building and I knew for the first time in his whole life, he was safe.

Rex had disabilities that prevented him from having meaningful employment. He couldn't financially provide for himself without help. For every post I read on Facebook decrying the evils of healthy people who refuse to work living on the welfare dole, I want to reach out and smack them upside their heads with a case of my books. Dang, do that many people not know someone like my brother? 

Yes, my brother was homeless, he couldn't work. Yes, he lived in a various homeless shelters because he had no home. No, he wasn't a drug addict, an alcoholic or a criminal. He was like  many people who life had crapped on so spectacularly that he had no option but to rely on the generosity of others who had been given much more.

While living in Stanfield Manor, Rex made the most of every opportunity he had. He helped his elderly neighbors take out their trash. He moved their furniture for them. He shared his meager $90 a month in food stamp provisions with anyone who asked. He was willing to help anyone, anywhere, at any time. His generosity of spirit wasn't always returned in kind. He had his checkbook stolen and almost died from a particularly cruel assault with a deadly weapon. 

Make no mistake, Rex valued his home in Stanfield Manor. When Rob and I had to tell him he could no longer live there, it broke Rex's heart. He did not want to leave his friends, his neighbors, the people he felt very strongly that God had asked him to serve. He was on a mission to ease the burdens of the downtrodden wherever he found them.

 I cried the day Rob and I cleaned out Rex's apartment. I knew he wouldn't be coming back. His doctors gave him less than 6 months to live. As Rex's neighbors floated by his doorway, stopping to inquire on his health and future, I had to repeat his diagnosis over and over.
Incurable brain tumor.
Invasive. 

Hospice.
Coming to live with us.
Death.

The only comfort I had that day was in doing the one act I knew Rex would approve of. As each person approached the apartment, I asked what they could use.
"Would like Rex's couch? He would like you to have it."
"Do you need more bowls or silverware? How about this pot?"
"This is Rex's favorite plant. Would you like to have it?"

On and on the day went, a steady stream of remembrances of beloved items, and confidence knowing they were going to grateful new owners. By the time we finished, Rex's apartment was bare, only his clothes, a box of personal items and his computer tucked in the back seat of our car ready to make their move to a new home.

I cannot help but be emotional when I read of funding being cut to low-income housing, health care for the poor, or food support programs. Every dollar taken away from helping people in desperate straights, for whatever reason their circumstance, all I can think about is my beloved brother and the last 5 years of his life. The happiest, secure years of his life. He lived on less than $500 a month, $89 of that going for rent on his apartment at Stanfield Manor. He finally had a home, a place where he belonged and was loved. Isn't that something that everyone deserves?