I was 26 years old. I was working for the Illinois General Assembly.
My office was in the Capitol building, under the huge, silver dome in Springfield. I loved my job.
Every day I got to work on bills, or ideas. They shaped how millions of people in our state would live their lives.
And one spring day, I got a phone call in my office. It was from my mother. She was in the hospital.
They had found a large mass in her abdomen, and she was diagnosed with cancer.
I left Springfield to care for her full time.
Cancer is a horrific blessing. You see it inflict pain and suffering on someone you love. But it also gives us time. A heart attack, or a brain aneurysm, doesn’t slow us down to give us that time.
I found joy spending every day for eight months with my mom.
That may not sound like very long, but that’s only if you think of time in duration. I was able to measure it in quality.
How much quality time do we have left with our parents? Even if you take all the visits you will have during the next 20 years, it will be less than eight months.
As my mom began getting frail and weak, I started rubbing her feet at night. Somehow this provided her momentary relief from the nausea of the chemotherapy, and the pain of the growing tumors.
My hope was always that it would help her to fall asleep, that this temporary distraction would allow her respite.
But whenever I would look up, I would see her staring at me. Smiling.
No matter how long I would rub her feet, her eyes would not shut. They were fixed on me. And she was happy.
This snapshot has formed my view of God. Someone who loves us so much that no matter how much pain He is in, He is so in love with his son that He can’t take his eyes off of him.
One afternoon, on a cold December day, I was kneeling on the floor and I was rubbing her feet. At this point, she had grown too weak to talk.
I looked up at her, and I saw a small smile grow.
The next moment, she was gone.
I remember falling to the floor. I broke down. I had lost everything. I felt a pit in my heart that I believed would never heal.
And the truth is, it never has.
As I lay there, broken, I felt my phone buzz. I looked down and recognized the phone number: It was a collection agency.
I knew them because they would call me five times a day, everyday, for the last 8 months. Several other collection agencies were doing the same thing. I've had no income since I left my job.
I defaulted on my student loans. In years to come, I would have my wages garnished.
One time I didn’t have enough money to ride the “L” to get home. I stood outside the turnstile begging for change.
I would qualify for every welfare program available, including Section 8 housing.
I remember looking for a new apartment. When I asked about the price, the lady said, “Well, you qualify for Section 8 housing, so you don’t belong here. I would start looking for a more cost-affordable option.”
I’ve had my electricity cut off in 100-degree heat because I couldn’t afford to pay my utility bill. I remember walking into my apartment to the waft of rotting food because the refrigerator had no power.
Here is what nobody will tell you: The welfare programs designed to help people, strip away people’s dignity. They are built on good intentions, but they rob you of your humanity.
Nobody likes a handout. It says, “You are less than me.” And that gnaws.
Most welfare programs only keep people in that hell for longer. They feel good to the people giving out the money, but they keep down the people who are receiving it.
As my friend Fr. Robert Sirico says, “Some people love the poor so much that they want to create a system to make sure there are more poor people”.
Human beings do not need money. They need opportunity. They need dignity. They need hope.
And I know, because I’ve lived it.
….
On the day I lost my mother, I felt the depths of suffering. I also began to learn how it feels to be less than human.
What I’ve learned is, we can fix it. We can help people restore their dignity.
The solution is simple – not easy, simple. We do this by fighting for free markets. We fight for local communities solving problems. We fight for jobs.
I carried that truth to one of the largest advocacy organizations fighting to eradicate poverty, to increase wealth and to restore dignity to every Illinoisian. And 12 years to the day my mom died, I was called into the board room at the Illinois Policy Institute.
On that cold December day, the Board of Directors told me they had named me president of the Illinois Policy Institute. I was the third person ever handed that responsibility. My mission: To restore dignity and prosperity to everyone in Illinois.
To make sure nobody feels less than human.
I hope you’ll join me to shape how millions of people in our state will live their lives.