Not my brother’s keeper.

In the past few years, I’ve received two phone calls from my youngest brother. 

The first came from a riverboat casino, asking me to bring him one hundred thousand dollars. Stunned, I said that this would not be possible. 

The second call came about thirty minutes later suggesting that, since it wasn’t possible to come down with 100K, then maybe I could just come down with 50K?

Given this, and all that’s come before, I should not be surprised that my brother is days away from becoming homeless. On some level, I’ve been anticipating this and, I’m grieved to say, expecting it.

I was ten when Kurt was born. I taught him to dance to Motown, shoot baskets, and ask a girl on a date. He taught me to laugh until my face hurt.

As an adult, his working life never quite worked.  He was smart and funny and most jobs felt boring. His buddies affirmed that he deserved better and eventually, one offered him an option.

I first learned that Kurt was selling drugs when he called from Cook County Jail asking for help. An old friend on the police force recommended a prominent criminal attorney. I hired him. The following year, for the same offense, I hired him again. The year after that, given the same offense, the attorney and I agreed that his services were no longer serving my brother’s best interest.

I’m told that not all dealers become users. However, the only two examples of this that I know of (Marty Byrde and Walter White) are both fictional characters. My brother both used and sold drugs. In the process, he became somebody that I no longer recognized. 

At the end of my parents’ lives, Kurt did not visit hospital or hospice. He did not attend their memorial services. My mother bequeathed him a home so that he would always have a place to live. Kurt sold the home and began paying rent to its new owner.  Whether he was using drugs during this time, I do not know. What I do know is that he was still behaving like an addict and it was painful to watch.

This spring, when the landlord informed me that rent was six months behind. I committed to doing everything within reason to help my brother.

I helped him apply for jobs online, reached out to social service agencies for rental assistance, connected him with local churches, and worked to find homeless shelters in his area. I eventually found one men’s residential program that would take him in. There was just one condition: he’d have to want to be there. But he did not and does not want to be there.

Two weeks ago, my brother made me aware that he had found a homeless encampment under a viaduct where he plans to live. He’s already brought his pet cat there for safekeeping. 

What I’d once seen as a financial issue or a residential issue is now, glaringly, a mental health issue. An objective person might have known this years earlier but I am not objective. I love my brother and I always see the best in him and assume the best for him.

This week, with just days left in his current home and no more to be done, I sent Kurt a cell phone loaded with minutes so that he would have some form of contact. He’s let me know that he plans to sell the phone.

The bible teaches that we are to be our brothers’ keepers, to help all who are in need. I believe this and I have tried to live by this. But I now see that nobody can keep anybody from the consequences of his own choices.

I am not my brother’s keeper.