I sometimes sense in you a discomfort—part shyness, perhaps, but also shame, resentment, or even aversion toward someone who commands all the attention and becomes too heavy a burden to bear.
My younger brother was mildly mentally handicapped and also epileptic. We lived on a farm, in the countryside. In those days there were almost no schools or centers for handicapped children, so our parents had no choice but to keep him at home. He was a remarkably serene person. We gave him various tasks: collecting eggs from the henhouse, feeding hay to the horses, cutting wood. He took great pride in this work and was always satisfied with it. All he needed was a bit of encouragement and a few shillings, which he would save until he could go into town.
He was perfectly accepted by our neighbors and would visit them whenever he wished. If lunch at home had something he didn't like, he would go eat at another family's table. The animals had become attached to him in a surprising way: he would often come home followed by a procession of cats and dogs, though not always welcome ones.
We all loved him dearly—perhaps more than we loved others. We were free from the nervous anxiety that so often surrounds handicapped people and those with epilepsy.
He also had a singular sensitivity to vulgarity: if someone struck him as crude or heavy-handed, he simply would not speak to them anymore. I'm not sure how he understood certain expressions, but in his own way of understanding, he left no room for doubt.I want to note that we all loved him dearly—perhaps more than we loved others. We were free from the nervous anxiety that so often surrounds handicapped people and those with epilepsy. We had learned to understand his temperament and his mood swings. We would have needed professional help for him and the rest of us, but it was impossible to find.
Later, as a bishop, I had the chance to put into practice projects to help the mentally weak. I had real knowledge of these people, and this gave me a certain authority when we discussed them. It also earned me sympathy even when the "official" people weren't convinced by my arguments. We began by forming committees. Then schools for mentally handicapped children were opened, with help from the ministry of education. I knew that mentally handicapped children could create problems in families, so I insisted that the teaching staff include social workers. We also secured the right for the boys to return home on weekends. Having lived with my brother, I knew their needs intimately. I knew, for instance, how irritable they could become when hungry; so the community prepared a hot meal each day for everyone, without public funding.
My brother thus became the cause of great help for others and of good neighborliness among families.
Later, with the help of some religious sisters, we were able to create institutions for profoundly handicapped people. Here we made a mistake!
The "institution" became too large, the economic conditions too burdensome. I hope it taught us a lesson. Recently, we began a workshop for adults, together with a group home run by religious sisters. It is difficult to keep the "non-economic" problems at the center, but with God's help we hope to manage.
Meanwhile, word began to spread—in somewhat strange ways—about what we were doing in Kilkenny; so they asked me and members of other committees to speak publicly, on radio and television. The idea took hold that we had achieved something like perfection in our work, but we knew we could do better. In any case, our words encouraged others to begin or continue a work they thought was destined to fail. We felt strong enough to ask the state for help on certain occasions. And there too we met very humane people.
One problem we had observed in parents was that they needed to get away, to leave home now and then, to escape the inevitable tensions. All parents need to break free for a few days from the monotonous, difficult daily routine. They need to nourish their faith and their hope. Moreover, there is always anxiety in their hearts about what will happen to their child when they die, and when their brothers and sisters are settled in their own families.
My mother, every spring, would spend a week at a small country hotel. There was a quiet chapel and a very patient, respected chaplain. She found time to speak at length with him and with the sisters. This was of great benefit to her, if only because for a few days she didn't have to prepare meals for the family. This experience gave me the idea of a small retreat house for my diocese. Here people can come for a few days of retreat, pray, seek advice, attend mass without haste, share their problems...
Even if parents can give nothing but love, their children will be inspired by that love... and who knows? they may become instruments of God's peace.
This helped them renew themselves in the true sense of the word. We abandoned the old model of spiritual retreat. We placed greater emphasis on the whole experience—that it be restful and comforting, that the food be well prepared, that prayer be shared, that religious hope be present. Confession is offered unhurriedly; mass is celebrated slowly, so that each person can think and pray.Indirect though it was, this is another way my brother contributed to the community—thirty years after his death. He knew nothing of it, of course, though I believe he regards it now with a certain interest. As for me, I never imagined that one day I would put into practice what I had learned beside him; the examples I have given are only a few.
God made use of him and, I hope, of me, to try to shift society's attitudes toward people burdened by mental handicap. So Dick's life was far from useless. On the contrary, it taught us to think more of others, and I know that the members of my family still living recognize today how much they owe to him.
I have told this small story not out of pride, but so that parents of handicapped children might understand: even if they can give nothing but love to their children, other members of their family will later be inspired by that love. They will remember it, and they will become instruments of God's peace in some corner of God's world.
— Peter Birch, 1985
(O. et L. n. 32)