Before he became one of the most recognizable faces in the halls of Galesburg High School—always offering a greeting, always lifting up the students he calls “my kids”—Robert L. Donaldson grew up on the east end of town in a converted boxcar. Not a quaint tiny-home version. A real, decommissioned railroad boxcar.

His father did the best he could for his six sons. The sliding door was rebuilt into a front door, two windows were cut into the sides, and siding was nailed over the metal exterior. There was no plumbing, no running water, nothing that would suggest ease. Buckets and a backyard pump handled everything the family needed. The outhouse stood where most families kept their gardens. The first time Robert walked into a school with working sinks, he remembers thinking, So this is what running water feels like.

It was a hard upbringing, but not a hopeless one. His parents were proud, hardworking people who came from generations of laborers—many of them tied to the railroad industry that shaped Galesburg’s identity. They worked at the tie plant, coating and preparing the wooden railroad ties that kept America’s railways moving. “We didn’t have much,” Robert says, “but we had each other.”

Robert graduated from Galesburg High School in 1973 and spent 33 years working for Butler Manufacturing, known for its steel buildings. When Butler eventually closed, he headed west to work in a cookie factory in Burlington, Iowa. Later, a job took him to Springfield, Missouri.

But something far more important than any job called him home.

His granddaughter—just nine years old—was facing the possibility of needing a heart transplant. Robert requested two weeks off to get back to Galesburg immediately. When he was told he couldn’t leave, he made the only decision a grandfather with that kind of love could make. He quit, packed his things, and made the long drive north.

It was the early weeks of the pandemic. Illinois had shut down. Gas stations were closed. He recalls driving nearly on empty from Quincy to Galesburg, every business dark, every pump offline, until he finally reached a truck stop on Interstate 74. A hotel clerk let him stay. He lived there for three weeks until he secured an apartment. And once he did, he began applying for local jobs—75 applications in total. No luck.

Then the school district posted custodial openings again. He called, explained he’d already applied, and when asked how long it would take him to get to an interview, he replied, “I can be there in fifteen minutes… maybe five.” He was hired within the hour.

He’s been here ever since—five years of long nights, long shifts, and a determination to serve wherever needed. Sometimes that means Galesburg High School. Sometimes it means Lombard or another campus entirely. “It takes all of us,” Robert says. “We all keep this place going.”

But the work is not what defines him. The heart is.

Robert greets every student he passes. He encourages them, jokes with them, and reminds them that someone sees them. When he misses saying hello, they hold him accountable. “You didn’t say hi to me today,” they tell him. “That’s how I know I’ve connected,” he says.

He’s also a pastor—more than fifty years in the pulpit—and he carries that same steady voice into the school. He tells his granddaughters every day, “God loves you, and I do too.” He tries to make sure every student who crosses his path feels some version of that same care.

Robert’s favorite story from his own high school experience comes from wrestling. As a senior competing at 145 pounds, he faced an undefeated opponent, 35–0, whose matches rarely reached the second period. Robert was losing 23–3 with one second left on the clock.

“One second,” he repeats. He pinned him. “You wrestle to the last moment,” he says. “You never know.”

It’s the lesson he gives the wrestling team now, the same one an older man once gave him. He illustrates it with an unforgettable image: a frog being swallowed by a stork—except the frog has its hands around the stork’s throat. “If he never lets go, he can’t get swallowed.”

As for his granddaughter? The heart transplant never happened.

On the day she was scheduled for surgery, Illinois shut down again. Doctors tried a new medication. It worked. “She made it,” he says quietly. “She’s still here.”

Robert sees her often, and every time he does, he tells her the same thing he tells the students at GHS: keep fighting, keep believing, keep holding on.

Because one second can change everything.