“Well, hello John.” Those three words might take Bob half a minute to say. By the time you reached out to shake his hand, time had slowed to the pace of a custom’s officer studying your passport, reviewing your history as he looked into your eyes and focused upon you and nobody else. But without the angst and worrisome indignation of a border patrol agent, of course.
Tuesday of the Ninth Week in Ordinary Time
2 Peter 3:12-15a, 17-18
Mark 12:13-17
Seventy is the sum of our years,
or eighty, if we are strong,
And most of them are fruitless toil,
for they pass quickly and we drift away. (Psalm 90:10)
Some of us imagine conversations we’ve had with old friends that never took place. We wish we had said things we never really said. And when they die, our sadness is multiplied by the many things left unsaid.
That’s simply not so with Bob Schlut. From what I can remember, pretty much everything that needed to be said came right out in the open. He talked on any subject, from taking out the garbage to the price of tea in China.
“Why do we care about the price of tea in China?” he said, more than once. You couldn’t tell if he was serious, unless you knew him. He was a professional tease.
The psalmist, above, didn’t know about Bob Schlut. Fruitless toil? No, that’s not him. Pass quickly and drift away? In the larger scheme of things, perhaps, but Bob hung on longer than most, and when he died, he took an airplane to heaven. Bob was no drifter.
True to form, Bob beat the “strong” prophecy by one year.
The real problem we have about our dead friends is that most of us can’t replay those heartfelt conversations. Our friend has passed away, and we struggle to remember the gist of our conversations. What was it that Bob said?
Again, that’s not so with Bob. Bob had a way of bringing every important debate and deep thought down to the same conclusion.
“It’s a mystery,” spoken as he rubbed his forehead and pondered the thought, or jutted his jaw forward for emphasis. “It’s a mystery.”
He often reminded us that we’ll find out about all the mysteries later.
I’ve known Bob for round-about 35 years, along with hundreds of other close friends he’s gathered. He was unforgettable. Bob’s conversational tone and his vocal pace slowed you down.
“Well, hello John.” Those three words might take half a minute to come out. By the time you reached out to shake his hand, time had slowed to the pace of a custom’s officer studying your passport, reviewing your history as he looked into your eyes and focused upon you and nobody else. But without the angst and worrisome indignation of a border patrol agent, of course.
Bob would like that analogy. He’d laugh and call you clever. And he’d wait for you to say something else. He’d look in your eyes with a comfortable, casual, genuine interest in what was going on in your life. “What’s going on in your life, John?”
If you asked Bob the same question, he’d respond, “Oh, you know, the same ups and downs and comings and goings.”
He joked about his health problems and his disabilities, especially his traumatic near-death experiences. “I guess God decided I’m not ready, yet.”
Over the last several years, Bob has asked his friends to pray for him. He did that in the most humble, non-pretentious, sincere way. Then, with an authenticity rare in any man, he’d thank us when he would recover. “You were all so kind to ask God to keep me here for a while longer.”
These are simple, rare expressions of one of the loveliest men I’ve ever met. I once told him he reminded me of Padre Pio. He was incredulous. “That’s all I need, John. Bleeding hands and feet to go along with all the other stuff I have.”
Then he’d laugh. And so would you. You couldn’t not laugh when Bob laughed.
And if you continued to compliment Bob, he would thank you and then embarrass you with something sweet he knew about you. The man was a treasure to be near.
We often worry about our friends who pass away, and worry more for the family left behind. Oddly, though, none of us worry about Bob, and our sadness for the family is couched in a certainty that the yet undeclared St. Bob Schlut is already hard at work praying for them. He’s likely visited the future mansion sites for his family, excited to know they’ll be within walking distance from his just-finished abode.
Oh, and he can already clap again*. Probably a whole lot of that going on.
*For those a bit confused, Bob spent most of his adult life without the use of his left arm.