Anybody But Robbie

On the kid I avoided—and what he taught me about neighborliness

Originally published by In Touch Ministries in 2017. Reposted here with light edits. Eight years later, the questions this essay raises—about service, success, and the messy reality of showing up for others—feel more urgent than ever.

I first wrote this nearly a decade ago, when I was still learning that good intentions aren't the same as good presence. The kid in this story—Robbie—is complicated, unpredictable, and full of life. So is neighborliness. The more time I spend trying to be a good neighbor, the more I realize it has little to do with fixing things and everything to do with staying close, even when it's uncomfortable.

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A couple of years ago, I began volunteering with an after-school program every Wednesday. I imagined swooping into the lives of kids in difficult situations and solving their every problem.

So far, they still think my name is Tom.

Most weeks, my stomach churns on the way there—like I’m headed for a root canal, not to help school children with their homework. After a long day of work, I don't get that usual sigh of relief walking to my car. Instead, I’m bracing myself. The routine is always the same. The kids are usually wonderful. But I’m still intimidated.

There are only a few of us volunteers, so the demand for homework help is high. To try to curb shouting from the kids, my one rule when I enter the room is the first kid who raises his or her hand gets my help. I don’t want to show favoritism.

One afternoon, as I walked in the door, I saw a hand shoot up across the room.

It was Robbie. Anybody but him, I thought.

Robbie always has this sly expression that makes you feel like he’s one step ahead—he sees straight through your attempt at authority. He heckles other students, usually crudely and in Spanish, assuming the adults won’t understand. He can’t resist pushing others out of their seats or hurling whatever he’s holding. Even when he obeys, it feels like he’s doing you a favor—not because he respects you, but because he’s decided to grant you a moment’s peace.

I forced a smile. “Hey Robbie! What can I help you with today?” We found a free end of a couch, and he pulled a notebook from his Angry Birds backpack.

Normally, I’d spend half the time coaxing him to tell me what needed to be done and the other half watching him give absurd answers with that mischievous grin.

As I write this, it sounds so petty. In person, it’s exasperating.

I braced myself for the usual battle of wills—but Robbie quietly opened his notebook and began pulling out pages. It was math. And instead of shouting wrong answers for laughs, he counted with his fingers, solving one problem after another. Even when he got it wrong, he was trying.

After homework, we all went outside to the playground. Robbie tugged lightly at my arm. “Mr. Tom, will you color with me?”

We sat together and colored a unicorn—just Robbie and me, passing crayons back and forth. Even with the shouts of kids playing tag around us, it felt quiet, like the world had paused for a minute. It was a peace I hadn’t felt at the program, almost ever.

There was no need for words. Robbie’s message was clear: “Thank you for your sacrifice to enrich my life, Mr. Tom.”

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One of my favorite movies growing up was Mr. Holland’s Opus. In the film, a high school music teacher named Glenn Holland spends a lifetime working on his crowning achievement: an orchestra composition. While his day job was merely meant to tide him over as he composed his way to greatness, it ends up becoming a decades-long career.

When he was finally forced to retire, an auditorium full of past students touched by his life come together to surprise him. They’re all prepared to play his composed masterwork. And at that moment, he realizes what he had missed the entire time—that his students were his opus all along. His life’s actual significance was not in achieving the dreams of his youth, but in the meaningful impact he had on each student’s life. Watching in my early teens, even then I was moved to tears.

And now, obviously, Robbie had become my opus.

The next week, I showed up whistling—ready to make a difference, anxious to check in on the students and see who I could impart my wisdom to next. As I entered the room and surveyed the flurry of hands bolting into the air, I looked for Robbie’s.

I found him and another kid fighting over the couch.

Instead of studying, he spent most of the afternoon bullying other kids—and me. I was blindsided by the realization that the perfect Wednesday before had been just as rare as the unicorn we colored together.

I thought seriously about walking out.

Doing good isn’t always fun and heartwarming, and it shouldn’t be. There can absolutely be inspiring moments in the experience of serving others, but to expect it as a given is unrealistic and usually the cause of disappointment and burnout. Good work is usually hard work (which is probably why there is so much need).

When we watch Mr. Holland’s Opus and other similar stories, we put ourselves in the shoes of the hero. But if Glenn Holland had for one moment thought about his students with an anticipation of any future reward or recognition, he ultimately would’ve been unworthy of it.

As long as service is something I do to “give back” or relieve my own discomfort, it’ll always be about me. And when it stops being rewarding, I’ll be tempted to quit. Yet there will be days, months, years, where the work can feel exhausting and fruitless. But does that mean we serve others only when we know the outcome will be positive? At what point do our selfish ideas of success get in the way of simply showing up? Simply doing the right thing?

But helping Robbie isn’t a success to achieve—it’s a long practice in being present, in staying when it’s inconvenient, and in learning to love without needing to be thanked for it. He’s not a bullet point on a to-do list. He’s my neighbor.

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Every Saturday morning, I make pancakes with my sons. My oldest helps set the table while I rein in my middle son’s overzealous stirring. On Friday afternoons, other neighborhood dads and I let our kids run wild in the backyard while we share beer and stories from the week. And on Wednesdays, I walk with my son to the after-school program to help Robbie and a dozen other children with homework and dinner.

Helping Robbie isn’t a side project—it’s part of the rhythm of our life in this neighborhood.

Some weeks, I skip. I let work run late. Or tell myself I’m not feeling up for it. Sometimes the emotional toll just isn’t worth it. Sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed.

Even after two years, Robbie is still difficult. Still troubled.

But when we stop treating service like a set of tasks and start seeing it as a way of living intentionally with others, we begin to understand: we don’t do this because of what we get out of it.

We do it because Robbie matters.