The Andrew Family

Told by Jennifer & Todd (parents)

The building was beautiful. The staff radiated joy. Everything felt intentional. For the first time, we weren’t simply dropping Chris off somewhere safe—we were welcoming him into a place where he would truly belong.

When our son Chris was seven years old, we toured Jill’s House almost by accident. We had planned to attend a disability conference at McLean Bible Church, and since the tour happened beforehand, we thought we’d stop in. The moment we walked through the doors, we knew this place was different.

As parents of a child with profound autism and intellectual disability, we had grown accustomed to settling. Most special needs programs meant well, but often felt like second-class experiences—converted office buildings, outdated facilities, endless paperwork, and the constant feeling that families like ours should simply be grateful for whatever was available.

Jill’s House was nothing like that. The building was beautiful. The staff radiated joy. Everything felt intentional. For the first time, we weren’t simply dropping Chris off somewhere safe—we were welcoming him into a place where he would truly belong.

Now, nearly eleven years later, Chris still can’t wait to get there. When we pull into the parking lot, he usually forgets to say goodbye. He jumps out of the car and heads straight inside. We have to remind him, “Chris, come hug Mom and Dad!” He would live at Jill’s House if you let him.

One of our favorite possessions sits in a four-inch binder on our living room couch. Inside are years of “My Stay” summaries—one from nearly every visit Chris has ever made. The binder began as a simple folder, but it has grown along with his memories. Today, he flips through those pages constantly, reading about adventures with friends, favorite staff members, funny things that happened, and all the people who were “blessed to care for him.” Those reports aren’t just records of his visits—they’re reminders that he is known and truly and deeply loved.

Chris has always loved people. At Jill’s House, he found his people. Whether it’s laughing about an inside joke with a staff member, remembering everyone’s birthday, talking about lip-syncing songs at Blue Ridge Camp, or simply spending time with peers who understand him, his confidence has blossomed because he finally has a place where he belongs. When he’s anxious or struggling to regulate his emotions, he often sits down with that binder and relives his favorite Jill’s House memories. It helps him find peace again.

Of course, Jill’s House has given us something precious too.

Like many parents raising a child with significant needs, our lives revolved around appointments, therapies, school meetings, paperwork, and constant vigilance. Before Jill’s House, we honestly wondered if we’d ever have another weekend away together. Having trusted respite allowed us to reconnect as husband and wife, spend meaningful time with our daughter, and even care for Todd’s parents during his father’s battle with dementia. Knowing Chris wasn’t simply being supervised—but was genuinely happy—made all the difference.

What stands out most about Jill’s House isn’t the respite. It’s the excellence. From the thoughtful staff and beautiful facilities to the organized communication and personalized care, Jill’s House consistently provides what feels like first-class service in every interaction. No one scolds us about missing something in a confusing pile of paperwork; instead they walk us through every step.

Sometimes we joke that we hope one day there’s “a Jill’s House for adults,” because after we’re gone, we’d want Chris surrounded by people just like the ones who have cared for him here all these years.

In a world where families affected by disability often expect to settle for less, Jill’s House has always exceeded our expectations. It feels less like a service provider and more like a wonderful and welcoming community that truly knows our son—and our family.