Mitch Albom - Have a Little Faith - A True Story

“Because, from the beginning, God said, ‘I’m gonna put this world into your hands. If I run everything, then that’s not you.’ So we were created with a piece of divinity inside us, but with this thing called free will, and I think God watches us every day, lovingly, praying we will make the right choices.”

Do you really think God prays? I asked.

“I think prayer and God,” he said, “are intertwined.”

I stared at him for a moment, marveling at the way he was speaking, analyzing, making jokes. Just weeks ago, hands were being wrung for him, tears were being cried. Now this. His daughter called it a miracle. Maybe it was. I was just relieved that he was better-and that his eulogy could wait.

We heard a honk. The taxi had arrived.

“So, anyhow” he said, wrapping up, “that is the story of my recent life.”

I stood and gave him a hug, a little tighter than usual.

No more scares, okay?

“Ah,” he laughed, jerking a thumb skyward. “You’ll have to take that up with my boss.”

T he story of my recent life. I like that phrase. It makes more sense than the story of my life, because we get so many lives between birth and death. A life to be a child. A life to come of age. A life to wander, to settle, to fall in love, to parent, to test our promise, to realize our mortality-and, in some lucky cases, to do something after that realization.

The Reb had achieved that.

And so had someone else.

Not Henry-although he certainly lived many lives.

But I refer here to his trusty elder, the man with one leg, who nudged and cajoled me until finally, on a cold night, in a plastic-covered section of the church, he said, in a scratchy voice, “Mister Mitch, I got to share this with you…”

Anthony “Cass” Castelow, it turned out, did have an eye-popping tale: he’d been a star athlete in a big family, gone to the army, come home, become a local drug dealer.

“But okay, now. Here’s what I really need to tell you…”

And this was the story of his recent life.

“Eighteen years ago-back when I had both my legs-I was stabbed in the stomach in a place called Sweetheart’s Bar. I was selling drugs outa there. Two guys came in, and one guy grabbed me from behind and the other guy took the drugs and stabbed me. I nearly died in the hospital. I was gurgling blood. Doctors said I’d be lucky to live through the night. But when I got out, I went back to drugs again.

“Not long after that, the drugs got me sent to prison. Three years. I became a Muslim in there, because the Muslims were clean, they took care of their bodies, and a guy named Usur showed me how to pray, you know, five times a day, on the prayer mats, do the salahs , say ‘Alahu Akbar.’

“But this guy, Usur, at the end of it all, he’d whisper, ‘In Jesus’s name, amen.’ I pulled him to the side one day and he says, ‘Listen, man, I’m a Muslim in here, but my family out there, they’re Christian. I don’t know if it’s Allah or Jesus Christ after this life. I’m just trying to get in, you understand me? ’Cause I ain’t never going home, Cass. Do you understand that I’m gonna die in here?’

“Well, I left prison and that kinda messed me up. I drifted away from anything with God and I got back into drugs-crack, pills, weed. Lost all my money. With no place to go, I went back to the Jeffries Projects, where I grew up, and which was abandoned now and being torn down. I kicked in the back door of a unit and slept in there.

“And that was the first night I called myself homeless.”

I nodded along as Cass spoke, still not sure where he was going with this. His hat was pulled over his ears and his glasses and graying beard gave him an almost artsy look, like an aged jazz musician, but his old brown jacket and his amputated leg told a truer tale. When he spoke, his few remaining teeth poked from his gums like tiny yellowed fence posts.

He was determined to get through this story, so I rubbed my hands to keep warm and said, “Go on, Cass.” Smoke came from my mouth, that’s how cold it was in the church.

“All right, Mister Mitch, now here’s the thing: I almost died a couple times in those projects. Once, I came back at night and as soon as I walked in, someone whacked me over the head with a gun and cracked my skull open. I never did find out why. But they left me there for dead, bleeding, with my pants pulled down and my pockets turned out.”

Cass leaned over and pulled off his hat. There was a three-inch scar on his head.

“See that?”

He pulled his hat back on.

“Every night in that life, you would either be getting high or drunk or something to try and deal with the reality that you didn’t have no place to go. I’d make money all kinds of little ways. Take out garbage for a bar. Panhandle. And of course, I’d just steal. The hockey team and the baseball team, when they was playing, you could always sneak down there and steal one of them orange things and wave people’s cars in if you look decent enough. You say, ‘Park right here.’ Then you run with their money back to the projects and get high.”

I shook my head. With all the hockey and baseball games I’d gone to, I might have handed Cass a few bills myself.

“I was homeless pretty near five years,” he said. “Five years. Sleeping here or there in them abandoned projects. There was a winter night in the rain where I almost froze to death at a bus stop, my stupid behind out there with no place to go. And I was so hungry and so thin, my stomach was touching my back.

“I had two pairs of pants, and they was both on me. I had three shirts, and all three of ’em was on me. I had one gray coat, and it was my pillow, my cover, everything. And I had a pair of Converse gym shoes that had so many holes in it, I loaded up my feet with baking soda to keep them from stinking.”

Where did you get the baking soda?

“Well, come on-we was all out here smoking crack. That’s what you cook it with. Everyone got baking soda!”

I looked down, feeling stupid.

“And then I heard about this man from New York, Covington. He drove around in this old limo, coming through the neighborhood. He was from a church, so we called him Rebbey Reb.”

Rebbey what? I said.

“Reb.”

Cass leaned forward, squinting, as if everything to this point had been a prelude.

“Reb come around every day with food on top of that car-on the hood, in the trunk. Vegetables. Milk. Juice. Meats. Anybody who was hungry could have some. Once he stopped that car, there’d be like forty or fifty people in a line.

“He didn’t ask for nothing. Most he’d do was, at the end, he’d say, ‘Remember, Jesus loves you.’ When you homeless, you don’t wanna hear much of that, ’cause it’s like, when you get through talking about Jesus, I gotta go back to living in this empty building, you know?

“After a while, Pastor got deliveries from these food bank organizations and he’d serve them out the side of his house in an empty field. A few of us made this grill next to his place and we’d heat the food up. People would come from blocks away, they’d bring a bowl, maybe a spoon if they got one-I seen people with plastic bags scooping up food and eating with their hands.

“And Pastor would have a little service right there against his house. Say thanks to God.”

Wait. Outside? Against his house?

“That’s what I’m saying. So pretty soon, we’re liking this guy. We see him coming, we say, ‘Here come Rebbey Reb. Hide the dope! Hide the liquor!’ And he’d give us a little money to help him unload the food trucks-turkeys, bread, juice. Me and a guy had our own unloading system: one for the church, two for us. We’d throw ours out in the bushes, then come back later and pick it up.