Mr. Robinson and me

Mr. Eric Robinson just turned 90 a few weeks back. He was born in England on 8 March 1924. He's a World War II veteran having served in the British Royal Navy during the 1940s. He's seen a thing or two.

He is the father of four children, has many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He hopes to get to see his great great-grandchildren. He is married to Victoria and they live in Northern Virginia, but he travels every year during the summer months to his beloved homeland to see his children. While his children and his children's children live across the pond they remain extremely close.

For a man his age, Mr. Robinson keeps extremely well. He enjoys the blessings of health in spirit, mind and body. He'd tell you his memory is not the same. I remember telling him over a cup of coffee little over a year ago that I'd wish to have half his memory if I get to live to 89. He said that I didn't understand the problem of memory loss. I'm young, he said. When you get to live to old age you realize how the years rob you (ever so slightly in my estimation of his case) of the mental prowess you once prided yourself to have. You'll see, he said. I don’t want to believe him, but I know it’s true.

Mr. Robinson was a college professor of history for many years retiring from UMass in Boston in the 1980s. He's a distinguished scholar having written quite a few books and published a zillion academic articles and papers. He's the prime authority on John Clare, an 19th century British poet.

When I used to work at a church in Falls Church, VA, I sometimes went to the local library on my days off. We'd run into each other every now and then. He'd be doing research! I’d be researching Piña Coladas and Mai Tais in all their variations if I’m fortunate enough to reach my 80s.

Mr. Robinson and I recently met again for our usual coffee and catch up convo. When I called him he didn't recognize me over the phone at first. After he did, we set up an appt. to meet, but he asked me to let his wife know about our meeting appointment because he'd forget, he said. Victoria would drop him at Panera on Broad St at the accorded time. I told her I'd bring him home.

Usually, I'm the one treating him to coffee and pastries or bagels when we meet, but this time he didn't let me pay. I realized at his matter of fact mention of "I'll pay for it" that it was going to be futile to dissuade him from paying so I enjoyed the treat gladly. We had a great time catching up and remembering the "old" times.
Mr. Robinson and I met when I became the pastor of a Hispanic congregation in Northern Virginia. This congregation belonged to a larger English speaking Anglican church in the area. Being a faithful Anglican, Mr. R worshipped at this Anglican congregation until the Hispanic congregation got started. He decided he'd teach English to the Hispanic parishioners who spoke little to none. So despite the fact that he himself didn't speak any Spanish he became a regular attendee at our Spanish services in order to get to know us.

Think about it for a second. Would you be willing to become part of a community that worships not just in a language that is not your own, but worse, a language you don't understand? Would you be willing to suffer being ignored even dismissed by people because you can't speak their own language? I saw how people who called themselves brothers and sisters would give a cold shoulder to a brother who actually enjoyed our company, who wanted to be with us and worship with us because he actually came to love us. Mr. R endured it all. Granted, it wasn't like that every Sunday or even most Sundays, but one Sunday of that kind of treatment is enough to go to greener pastures. Yet, there he was faithfully Sunday after Sunday at a congregation with whom he had little in common culturally, linguistically and even racially.

When I think of my friendship with Mr. R, I end up giving thanks to God that I know him. There's no particular reason why we should have met. There's a truth in this. Friendship is a gift from God and a true friend is the greatest of gifts. I read somewhere sometime ago a saying that goes like this, "Make new friends because they're silver. Keep your old friends because they're gold." Ain't that the truth? How often can a much younger person count a 90 yr old as a friend, a real friend? True friendship requires a strong will and resilience against the pull of the self to be enclosed within a border fence. We all erect those at some point or another, but our God in his tenderness decides to send Mr. Robinsons our way to try those fences and to tear them down.

While it lasted, Mr. R's presence among us Latinos remained a mystery to me. He actually taught little English to us. Sometimes he'd be engaged with those of us who could hold a conversation with him during the reception after our services. Other times he'd seat by himself until somebody gave him a ride home. It is embarrassing to admit that he appreciated us far more than we did him. This speaks greatly about the kind of person he is. Truly, a man of fortitude and grace.

I believe he was a gift from God to us as a Latino (Spanish-speaking) congregation, he certainly remains a gift to me. God deals in mystery. Some things can't be comprehended in their entirety because it's impossible. They must be embraced for what they are, pure gifts. And Mr. R was that gift from God to us, an angel among us.

How sad it is if one happens to realize a gift like this after the fact, after it has passed and is no more. Perhaps the failure to acknowledge a true gift is a malady of our frantic times. We always have more blessings than we can count, always, but somehow we lack the capacity to count them on a constant basis.

I take it as point of pride to honor a man who sought us Latinos when he didn't have to or need to. Such men are indeed rare. God actually puts them in our way to reveal His own love for us. And so, Mr. R happens to be a type, a pointer to a higher, more perfect reality than the heartbreaking reality wrought among us humans. This 90 year old man for whom I give thanks points me to Christ and his mad love for a mad humanity.

I'm fortunate indeed to count among my most precious memories and experiences of my life in Virginia one Mr. Eric Robinson, a messenger from God to help me appreciate all that is good in life and keep me humble. Gracias, Mr. Robinson. My life has been enriched by simply knowing you.