A Quiet Guide in Work Clothes

The Janitor Who Taught Me How to Listen

If you were looking for one of the men who quietly shaped my life,
you would not find him on a stage.

You would find him unlocking doors,
emptying garbage cans,
caring for the grounds.

I met Dr. Bill Lau as the church’s custodian and groundskeeper. He managed the food pantry. He cleaned when cleaning was needed. He moved through hallways without drawing attention to himself. Over time—slowly—stories began to surface, the way bedrock appears only after years of erosion.

Bill studied higher mathematics in the Middle East. He earned his doctorate from the University of Maryland. He taught advanced math at the university level, then walked away from it. He once told me he believed he could do more good outside the classroom than inside it. He sold most of what he owned. He stopped building a life that required explaining.

He ran marathons. Half marathons. Ten-kilometer races.
He biked everywhere. Everywhere.
He lived lightly, as if gravity itself had loosened its grip on him.

He taught at the rescue mission, helping people break free from addiction. He taught little kids in Sunday school. He taught adults in church basements and borrowed rooms. When he taught, it never felt like instruction. It felt like orientation—like someone quietly pointing north.

Once, he was scheduled to teach a spiritual formation class. More than fifty adults sat waiting. The start time passed. Bill sat among us.

Someone finally asked, “Who is teaching?”

Bill encouraged the question. Then he asked it himself.

A few guesses were offered. He shook his head no.

Then someone who knew him said, “The Holy Spirit.”

Bill jumped to his feet.
“Yes,” he said. “Now we can begin.”

He once told me about investing. He used a kind of triangulation: market trends, the news, and something harder to name—discernment. Whatever money came from it did not stay with him. It moved through him, into shelters and soup kitchens, into places where need had a face.

I once encouraged him to write. I told him the world needed his words.

He smiled and said that when he spoke with people, he was writing on the journal of their hearts. They would carry the story forward.

I suppose that is what I am doing now.

One morning, around six, I saw him walking near the downtown casino as I headed to work. I asked what he was doing.

“I am praying,” he said, “for those caught in gambling addiction.”

Another time, I asked him if he fought dragons, spiritually speaking. He leaned in and said, gently, “You would like that, because you are dramatic.” Then he added something I have never forgotten:

“Sometimes when you fight your dragons, you make them bigger. Sometimes it is better to turn around and pet the kitty behind you. Sometimes you do have to fight—but that takes discernment.”

From Bill, I did not learn how to be impressive.
I learned how to be still.
How to be present.
How to stay alert.

I learned to listen for the quiet whisper of the Holy Spirit
and obey without needing applause.

The man who positively impacted my life did not announce himself.

He served quietly.
He asked better questions.
He listened.

And he trusted that was enough.

Tags: spiritual formation, quiet wisdom, mentors, humility, listening, lived faith, obedience, everyday holiness, unseen guides, hidden elders