The following text is taken from the journal of a Being With Volunteer.

Bob is quite old and has a very disfigured face. His jaw is severely scarred so that his mouth cannot close, and a greenish, yellow fluid drips from it onto his lap. When I first come in he is kind but quiet. I tell him I want to be with him for a little while and he motions for me to come pull my chair close. He pats me on the knees and mumbles something. I tell him that I want to read to him and he seems to agree. So I read from O'Henry. I read The Gift of the Magi and he listens intently through the whole thing.

When I am done, I am not sure that it made sense to him, so I begin to chat. He mumbles back to me. I cannot understand him so I lean in closer. I can only tell that he is mumbling, so I pretend to understand and answer. Eventually, I grow tired of the position I am leaning in. My back starts to hurt, so I pull my chair closer and I am right up to Bob's face now. Suddenly, I hear that Bob is speaking to me. He is telling me his name. He is telling me that he liked my reading. And that he knows the story of The Gift of the Magi, that he has heard it before.

He tells me about his son who never sees him. About his daughter who moved away. About his wife who left him. And about his faith in God. I ask him questions. We become friends. I cannot always understand him, but I grow unafraid to tell him so, and he is not afraid to repeat himself. His mouth drips and he is embarrassed. I tell him not to be, and I wipe it for him and smile.

When an hour and a half has passed, Bob says he would like me to pray. I begin saying the "Our Father." Bob suddenly bursts into song. I recognize the tune he is using and so I easily shift into song, too. We are singing the "Our Father" together. Nurses are walking by and pausing by the door, wondering what we are doing.

When we are done, Bob smiles. He says he has a lot of songs inside of him. I ask if he would like to write one down, if he would like to write a poem. Bob looks as though he has been waiting to be asked. So together, we write this poem:

Children's laughter in abundance
Is like a nice bouquet
And every voice a rose.

After I read the poem back to Bob several times, he asks me to give it to the nurses. And then he begins to cry. He says that he has never met an angel until now. I kiss him on the head and say, "Thank you. Good-bye, Bob." And he says, "Good-bye, Angel."

When I leave Bob's room, I am holding his poem. I go to the nurse's station and give them the poem in my handwriting. I say, "Bob wrote this for you." They look surprised and say, "But Bob doesn't talk." And I smile. "Yes, Bob does talk," I say. "And he sings, too."