Mitch Albom - Have a Little Faith - A True Story

Some kids blinked.

Some kids stared.

But all of them took notice.

You might think that an uneasy truce; two men forced to walk around a schoolyard, arm in arm. You might think a certain bitterness would haunt the relationship. But somehow, in time, they became friends. And years later, the Reb would be inside that Catholic church.

At the priest’s funeral.

“I was asked to help officiate,” the Reb recalled. “I recited a prayer for him. And I think, by that time, he might have thought it wasn’t so bad.”

Life of Henry

Henry was often told “Jesus loves you,” and it must have been true. Because he kept getting second chances.

While he was in prison, Henry boxed well enough to win a heavyweight competition, and he studied well enough to earn an associate’s degree, even though he had never finished junior high.

When he got out of prison, he found a job in the exterminating business. He married his longtime girlfriend, Annette, and for a short while they lived a straight, normal life. Annette got pregnant. Henry hoped for a son.

Then one night, he came home and she was doubled over. They rushed to the hospital. The baby was born, three months premature, a tiny boy who barely weighed a pound. They named him Jerell. The doctors warned that his chances of survival were bleak, but Henry held the child in the palm of his big hand and he kissed the tiny feet.

“My son,” he whispered. Then he turned to God and asked for his help. “Let him live. Please, let him live.”

Five days later, the baby died.

Henry and Annette buried their child in a cemetery on Long Island. For a while, Henry wondered if the Lord had punished him for the things he had done.

But soon he turned bitter. His business soured, his house went into foreclosure, and when he saw that his drug-dealing brother had more hundred-dollar bills than he had singles, Henry turned his back on God and second chances and returned to the business of breaking the law.

He began by dealing a small supply of drugs, then a larger amount, then a larger amount. The money came in fast. Soon, he was acting like a kingpin, glorifying himself, giving orders. He bought fancy clothes. He styled his hair. He actually made people kneel down when they wanted something. Only when mothers came with babies did he soften up. They would offer him anything in exchange for drugs: groceries they’d just purchased, sometimes even a baby girl’s tiny earring.

“Keep it,” he would say, giving them a small bag. “But that earring belongs to me now. I want to see it on that baby every time you come in here.”

At one point, in the mid-1980s, Henry was making tens of thousands of dollars per month. He sold drugs at fancy parties, often to “respectable” types like judges, lawyers, even an off-duty cop. Henry smirked at their weakness and his momentary power. But one night, he made a common and fatal error: he decided to try some of his own product.

That was the cliff. And off it he flew.

Soon Henry was addicted to his own poison, and he wanted only to lose himself in a cloud of crack cocaine. Often he used the very product he was supposed to sell, and then, to cover up, he’d invent outlandish excuses.

Like the time he took a cigarette and burned holes into his arm, so he could tell his dealers he’d been tortured and the drugs stolen.

Or the time he had a friend shoot him in the leg with a.25 automatic, so he could tell his dealers he’d been robbed. They still came to the hospital, demanding to see the wound.

One bad night, already high and needing more money, he and a few others, including a nephew and a brother-in-law, drove a Coupe DeVille out to Canarsie, Brooklyn. Their method of assault was to pull the car alongside an unsuspecting target, jump out, demand the money, and ride off.

This time, it was an elderly couple. Henry sprang from the car and waved a gun in their faces.

“You know what this is!” he yelled.

The old woman screamed.

“Shut up or I’ll blow your head off,” he screamed back.

The couple surrendered their money, jewelry, and watches. Henry was unsettled by their older faces. A pang of conscience hit him. But it didn’t stop him. Soon the Coupe DeVille was racing away down Flatland Avenue.

And then a siren sounded. Lights flashed. Henry shouted at his nephew to keep driving. He rolled down the windows and out it all went. The jewelry. The money. Even their guns.

Moments later, the police overtook them.

At the station, Henry was put in a lineup. He waited. Then the officers brought in the elderly man.

And Henry knew he was sunk.

Once the man identified him, Henry would be charged, convicted, and face fifteen years in prison. Life as he knew it would be over. Why had he risked it all? He had literally thrown everything out the window.

“Is that him?” the officer asked.

Henry swallowed.

“I can’t be sure,” the old man mumbled.

What?

“Look again,” the officer said.

“I can’t be sure,” the old man said.

Henry could not believe his ears. How could the man not finger him? He had waved a gun right in his face.

But because the ID was not certain, Henry was let go. He went home. He lay down. He told himself the Lord had done that. The Lord was being merciful. The Lord was giving him another chance. And the Lord did not want him stealing anymore, using drugs anymore, or terrorizing people anymore.

And perhaps it was true.

But he still did not listen.

IT IS 1974…

…and I am in my religious high school. The subject is the parting of the Red Sea. I yawn. What is left to learn about this? I’ve heard it a million times. I look across the room to a girl I like and contemplate how hard it would be to get her attention.

“There is a Talmudic commentary here,” the teacher says.

Oh, great, I figure. This means translation, which is slow and painful. But as the story unfolds, I begin to pay attention.

After the Israelites safely crossed the Red Sea, the Egyptians chased after them and were drowned. God’s angels wanted to celebrate the enemy’s demise.

According to the commentary, God saw this and grew angry. He said, in essence: “Stop celebrating. For those were my children, too.”

Those were my children, too.

“What do you think of that?” the teacher asks us.

Someone else answers. But I know what I think. I think it is the first time I’ve heard that God might love the “enemy” as well as us.

Years later, I will forget the class, forget the teacher’s name, forget the girl across the room. But I will remember that story.

In any conversation, I was taught, there are at least three parties: you, the other person, and the Lord.

I recalled that lesson on a summer day in the small office when both the Reb and I wore shorts. My bare leg stuck with perspiration to the green leather chair, and I raised it with a small thwock .

The Reb was looking for a letter. He lifted a pad, then an envelope, then a newspaper. I knew he’d never find it. I think the mess in his office was almost a way of life now, a game that kept the world interesting. As I waited, I glanced at the file on the lower shelf, the one marked “God.” We still hadn’t opened it.

“Ach,” he said, giving up.

Can I ask you something?

“Ask away, young scholar,” he crowed.

How do you know God exists?

He stopped. A smile crept across his face.

“An excellent question.”

He pressed his fingers into his chin.

And the answer? I said.

“First, make the case against Him.”

Okay, I said, taking his challenge. How about this? We live in a world where your genes can be mapped, where your cells can be copied, where your face can be altered. Heck, with surgery, you can go from being a man to being a woman. We have science to tell us of the earth’s creation; rocket probes explore the universe. The sun is no longer a mystery. And the moon-which people used to worship? We brought some of it home in a pouch, right?