Faces of Main Street: Major Bob Bender

Bob Bender never planned on becoming a minister. Growing up as a preacher's kid in Cincinnati, he was more interested in making sure that didn't happen. "Half the table fainted," he says, laughing about the moment he told his high school reunion he'd been ordained. Life has a way of surprising you.

Now in his 37th year with the Salvation Army, Bob and his wife Karen have spent their careers moving wherever they were needed. Cincinnati. Lima. Ten years in Mount Vernon, where all five of their kids graduated high school. A stretch in Painesville. Two years in upstate New York near the Canadian border. "If the St. Lawrence River froze over, I could walk to Canada in 20 minutes from the office," he says. And then, five years ago, Mansfield.

The Salvation Army's structure runs on military lines, right down to the ranks. Bob and Karen are both Majors, both ordained ministers. When headquarters says you're moving, you move. In Mansfield, they found a building that needed serious work and a community that needed serious presence. The roof alone ran $330,000. There were buckets on every floor when they arrived.

But the work goes well beyond the building. The Salvation Army has been in Mansfield since 1888, and Bob has worked to make sure that 138-year legacy still means something on the street. Friday hot meals. Emergency help with utilities and rent. A food distribution program that picks up donations from Kroger four days a week. The Learning Zone, an after-school tutoring program that picks up kids from Malabar and charges $5 a week. A summer day camp. A warming center through the coldest months.

Bob talks about all of it the same way: matter-of-factly, like it's just the work. "It's not a career," he says. "It's a calling. I don't know if I could have made it if it was just a job." He's quick to point out that the goal isn't to duplicate what others in the community are already doing. "I'm going to fit in where we're needed." When he noticed other organizations already covering most days for meals, he looked at the calendar, found Friday open, and that's where the Salvation Army showed up.

He's connected to downtown in ways that go beyond the office. He walks to the bank. He knows people at the Square by name, and they know him even when he's out of uniform. "Downtown is unique," he says. "It really is small town USA."

Bob is retiring in August, headed to Myrtle Beach to be near his wife's sister. He'll miss it, especially the Christmas season. "You're talking 16, 18 hour days for two months. But I'll probably miss that, because as far as the Salvation Army goes, we're just out there." Before he goes, he's hoping to see the building's facade refreshed and the gym opened up to neighborhood kids. He wants the Salvation Army to say something to anyone coming over the hill into downtown. "Welcome to downtown," he says.

Thirty-seven years, a dozen cities, and nine grandkids. It's time. But walk past the Salvation Army on your way through downtown and you'll see what five years of Bob Bender looks like, a building that's ready, a community that's served, and a ministry that just keeps getting better.