There are heroes who never seek the limelight. Day after day they work their own quiet miracles in the background. One of them walked the halls of our school for thirty years, pushing a broom.
Bob (or Mr. Bob, as the kids called him) was our custodian for many years. Day after day he'd walk up and down the halls, pushing that wide broom; after school you'd see him with his toolbox and his rags, polishing desks and fixing rickety tables. Every morning he was there early to raise the flag, and every afternoon he made sure to take it down. But more often than not he wasn't alone. Mr. Bob, you see, had an army of helpers.
On my first day of work I arrived early, so early there was only one rusty truck in the parking lot. A big man stood at the flagpole, talking to a young boy. "Now pull on it slowly," he said, and I stopped to watch as the flag lurched up the pole. "Now the figure eight, just like I showed you." the man said, and the boy carefully looped the rope around the cleats.
He saw me and smiled. "Good morning, I'm Mr. Bob, and this here's my helper, Josh." Josh grinned shyly and ducked his head. The man laughed. "I tell you, I couldn't last one day without my helpers!"
Through that first week I had little time to stop and chat, though I saw him often in the halls. He was always busy, and I noticed that sometimes he had a child or two working with him or carrying his tools. But it wasn't until Friday afternoon that we met again. I was bent over my papers on my desk when I heard a polite knock. Bob poked his head in and rumbled, "OK if we work in here?" "Of course!" In he came, and behind him four or five raggedy helpers trooped in carrying buckets and rags. They got to work, the boys chatting happily, and soon every desk was shining. They stood back as he looked them over. "Good job!" he nodded, and they all stood a little straighter and beamed. Then off they went.
It took a few weeks for me as a new teacher to catch on. He was the savior in the background, this man. He had a heart as big as the wide ocean and an eagle eye for kids in trouble.
Somehow he always found them, the kids who needed him; the boys with no fathers, the lonely and the shy, the boisterous boys who couldn't sit still and were usually in trouble by lunchtime. When afternoon recess came, you could count on him: he'd poke his head in, find the child sitting miserably at his desk and say, "Sorry to bother you, but I really could use a helper. Can you spare that young man for a bit?" Thank goodness, you'd think, as the boy leapt to his feet, a grin spreading across his face. Off they'd go, and you knew he'd come back smiling and ready to face the rest of the day.
Every teacher knew and appreciated Mr. Bob, and the children loved him.
"I don't know what I'd do without my helpers!" he'd say as the classes walked by on the way to lunch, loud enough for them to hear and walk a little taller. They'd look around to make sure everyone heard, beaming.
I wonder how many children he took under his wing over those years or how many lives he changed in his simple, quiet way as he mopped and scrubbed his way through every day. He believed in every child, and it showed. As I heard one child say, "When Mr. Bob looks at me, I feel like I'm somebody."
We held a special school assembly on his last day when he finally retired. The children had made him cards, and when the principal handed him the overflowing basket, Bob choked up and wiped his eyes. And every child and all the teachers jumped to their feet and gave him a standing ovation.
Here's to all the folks with big hearts who watch out for the troubled kids teetering on the edge of trouble. Here's to all the people who make them feel like they're somebody.
And here's to you, Mr. Bob. Thank you.
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