A day with Bob

Bob gets up early. Really early. Growing up on a farm, I would consider myself no stranger to early mornings, but Bob surprises even me. There are mornings when he will get up at 3:30 or 4:00 and begin working on one of his puzzles or on his “thesis”. That is what my wife and I jokingly call Bob’s symmetrical, meticulous arrangement of R’s and O’s which fill up notebook after notebook on his desk.

Bob is at least 65 years old. I say “at least” because I doubt if anyone is sure precisely how old he is. You see, Bob does not communicate very well. He can say things like “please”, “thank you”, and “no”, but I cannot have a conversation with him. Most of what Bob says is gibberish, although I think he understands a lot more than most people give him credit for. Bob is a very small man – he’s barely five feet tall, and I doubt he weighs more than 130 pounds.

We used to get up with Bob in the morning, but ever since we became the parents of twins, he has lived downstairs, and we can no longer hear him when he gets up. He just hops out of bed whenever he wants, and begins to amuse himself in whichever fashion he chooses. Sometimes he’ll just wander around the basement, “inspecting” things such as the washing machine or the furnace, or he’ll turn on the TV and begin a “discussion”. If we are really lazy, and Bob is really getting hungry, he will come upstairs and poke his head down our hallway. I can always hear him, even though I know he is doing his best to remain absolutely silent. If Bob has come upstairs on his own, I know it is time to get up.

Breakfast is always the same for Bob: a heaping bowl of porridge, two pieces of toast with raspberry jam, a banana and two big glasses of water. He’s usually lost in thought or in conversation with himself when he eats, so I have to keep an eye on him. Sometimes he eats his toast upside down and the jam gets all over his pajamas, or he sits too far away from the table and spills all over his lap. Strangely, he usually finds these indiscretions much more amusing than I do. Bob always eats everything he is given, but no more. When he is done, he does an excruciatingly thorough job of wiping his hands, then folds his dirty napkin and puts it beside his plate.

Bob likes to help me do things. We take away the recycling, shovel the sidewalk and mow the lawn. He likes it when I give him something to do, and he is very thorough in the execution of his assignment. He’s not terribly efficient, but he is thorough. Bob would make an absolutely useless worker in our result-oriented job market. In the world I live in, efficiency is the objective, and Bob just would not measure up. He’ll start shovelling the sidewalk, but after a few minutes he will invariably get sidetracked by a board in the fence or a nail that is not lined up properly with the others. We’ll be pushing the lawnmower together when he will meander off to a tree or the shed to investigate things over there. Instead of just dumping out a whole box of cans at the recycling depot, Bob will individually take each can out and place (not throw) it into the proper receptacle. All in all, it is a highly inefficient way of doing things – but where did we get the idea that a human being’s value can only be measured by efficiency and productivity? I, for one, am thankful that God does not look at me this way, for I am convinced that I would not rate very highly if this method of evaluation were employed.

There is a lot that I can learn from Bob. He shows me how impatient I can be. When we first started taking care of him, I would get so frustrated with little things that he did. He ate too slowly, he spilled food all over himself, he sat too close to the TV, he walked too slowly, and he talked too much. All of these things irritated me, although I cannot give even one good reason why. I’m not sure what I expected of Bob – he’s not like most people, after all. I would get angry at him for getting up and talking and wildly gesticulating at the TV in the evening – but why do I consider this odd behaviour? Is it not more peculiar that I can sit for hours at a time staring at a little black box in my living room? Bob sees people moving around and talking on the screen and wants to talk back. He assumes that a response is required, or at least legitimate, when he sees activity and conversation, even if it is coming out of some annoying little box. I would get irritated when he would take forever to get dressed, and then, once that task was finally accomplished, proceed to painstakingly fold and arrange yesterday’s ensemble. “Just leave it!” I would think to myself – but why am I always in such a hurry? Our society moves at such a frenetic pace; Bob offers a refreshingly different perspective. Nothing is so important that it will keep him from folding his clothes, making his bed or arranging his shoes (laces out) properly. When we go for a walk, Bob is always three steps behind me. He has very short legs, so he doesn’t move quickly at the best of times, but he is also completely absorbed in other activities, such as talking to the birds, counting the power poles or examining the mailbox. Meanwhile, I am impatiently glaring back at him, wondering why he has to take so long. Again, perhaps it is I who need to learn from Bob. Why not enjoy being outside? Why not take my time and maybe notice things like birds and power poles?

Bob’s pajamas are way too big for him. I don’t think they make men’s pajamas small enough for Bob. He usually looks quite comical trudging around the basement with the legs of his pajamas dragging along behind him. He always has to get into bed the same way. The covers must first be folded back and then halfway across the bed. His glasses and his watch go on the nightstand beside him. When he is finally lying down, Bob is usually too immersed in the pressing task of making sure that all of his blankets are perfectly aligned to hear me say good night, but I usually repeat myself until he hears me. Then he looks up at me as if to say, “What!? Can’t you see that I have important things to take care of?” He does give me a courtesy wave, though, and I usually feel a strange sort of wistful longing as I close the door on another day with Bob. I think I want to be more like him. I admire him for the childlike way he looks at life. I wish I were half as patient with him as he is with me. I envy his lack of anxiety, and the simplicity and gratitude with which he greets each new day. I see a lot more of Christ in Bob than I do in myself. Bob is gentle, patient and incredibly tolerant of the various intrusions that his caregivers impose upon him on a daily basis. He smiles and laughs a lot, and he doesn’t hurt people with the things that he says and does. I think that God brought Bob into my life to teach me about the important things in life – almost as if to say, “Here! Do you want to know how to live? Do you want to know what ought to characterize a disciple of Mine? Here! Look at this man, and learn from him.” It is an agonizingly slow process, but I think that Bob is teaching me to be a better man – a man more like the one that I claim to follow.

Ryan Dueck is a member of Coaldale (Alta.) MB Church.