Mitch Albom - Have a Little Faith - A True Story

“Eventually, Pastor come to me and say, ‘You got enough to eat, Cass? Take what you need.’ He knew what I was doing. “I felt ashamed.”

“One night in the projects, I had just gotten high and I hear Pastor call my name. I’m embarrassed to come out. My eyes are big as saucers. He asks if I can do some landscaping around his grass the next day. And I said, sure, yeah. And he gives me ten dollars and says meet me tomorrow. When he left, all I wanted to do was run upstairs and buy more dope and get high again. But I didn’t want to spend this man’s money that way. So I ran across the street and bought lunch meat, crackers-anything so I don’t spend it on drugs.

“That night, this guy who’s staying where I’m staying, while I’m sleeping, he steals the pipes from under the sink-steals ’em for the copper, so he can sell ’em. And he takes off, and all the water starts running in. I wake up on the floor and the place is flooded. I’m washing away.

“My only clothes is all ruined now, and I go to Pastor’s house and I say, ‘Sorry, I ain’t gonna be able to work for you. I’m all soaked.’ And I’m telling him how mad I am at this guy, and he says, ‘Cass, don’t worry. Sometimes people got it worse than you do.’

“And he sends me over to the church, and he says, ‘Go upstairs, we got some bags of clothes, just pick out what you want.’ And I get some clothes-Mitch, it’s the first time I got clean underwear in I don’t know how long. Clean socks. A shirt. I go back to his place and he says, ‘Where are you gonna stay now, Cass?’

“And I say, ‘Don’t know. My place is all flooded.’ And he goes in, talks with his wife, and he comes out and says, ‘Why don’t you stay here with us?’

“Now I’m shocked. I mean, I did a little work for this man. I stole food from him. And now he’s opening his home?

“He said, ‘You wanna think about it?’ And I’m like, ‘What’s there to think about? I’m homeless.’”

Henry never told me any of this, I said.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” Cass said. “I moved in with his family that night. I stayed there almost a year. A year. He let me sleep on the couch in his main room. His family is upstairs, they got little kids, and I’m sayin’ to myself, this man don’t know me, he don’t know what I’m capable of. But he trusts me.”

He shook his head and looked away.

“That kindness saved my life.”

We sat there for a second, quiet and cold. I now knew more than I’d ever figured to know about an elder of the I Am My Brother’s Keeper Ministry.

What I still didn’t know was why.

And then Cass told me: “I see the way you watch the Pastor. You here a lot. And maybe he ain’t the way you think a pastor should be.

“But I truly believe the Lord has given me a second chance on account of this man. When I die, Jesus will stand in the gap for me and I will be heard and the Lord will say, ‘I know you.’ And I believe it’s the same for Pastor Covington.”

But Henry’s done some bad things in his life, I said.

“I know it,” Cass said. “I done ’em, too. But it’s not me against the other guy. It’s God measuring you against you.

“Maybe all you get are chances to do good, and what little bad you do ain’t much bad at all. But because God has put you in the position where you can always do good, when you do something bad-it’s like you let God down.

“And maybe people who only get chances to do bad, always around bad things, like us, when they finally make something good out of it, God’s happy.”

He smiled and those stray teeth poked into his lips. And I finally realized why he had so wanted to tell me his story.

It wasn’t about him at all.

You really called Henry “Reb”? I asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

Nothing, I said.

It was now a few weeks from Christmas, and I dug my hands into my pockets as I approached the Reb’s front door. A pacemaker had been put into his chest a few weeks earlier, and while he’d come through the procedure all right, looking back, I think that was the man’s last chip. His health was like a slow leak from a balloon. He had made his ninetieth birthday-joking with his children that until ninety, he was in charge, and after that, they could do what they wanted.

Maybe reaching that milestone was enough. He barely ate anymore-a piece of toast or fruit was a meal-and if he walked up the driveway once or twice, it was major exercise. He still took rides to the temple with Teela, his Hindu health care friend. People there helped him from the car into a wheelchair, and inside he’d greet the kids in the after-school program. At the ShopRite, he used the cart like a walker, gripping it for balance. He chatted with the other shoppers. True to his Depression roots, he’d buy bread and cakes from the “fifty percent off” section. When Teela rolled her eyes, he’d say, “It’s not that I need it-it’s that I got it!”

He was a joyous man, a marvelous piece of God’s machinery, and it was no fun watching him fall apart.

In his office now, I helped him move boxes. He would try to give me books, saying it broke his heart to leave them behind. I watched him roll from pile to pile, looking and remembering, then putting the stuff down and moving to another pile.

If you could pack for heaven, this was how you’d do it, touching everything, taking nothing.

Is there anyone you need to forgive at this point? I asked him.

“I’ve forgiven them already,” he said.

Everyone?

“Yes.”

Have they forgiven you?

“I hope. I have asked.”

He looked away.

“You know, we have a tradition. When you go to a funeral, you’re supposed to stand by the coffin and ask the deceased to forgive anything you’ve ever done.”

He made a face.

“Personally, I don’t want to wait that long.”

I remember when the Reb made his most public of apologies. It was his last High Holiday sermon as the senior rabbi of the temple.

He could have used the occasion to reflect on his accomplishments. Instead he asked forgiveness from his flock. He apologized for not being able to save more marriages, for not visiting the homebound more frequently, for not easing more pain of parents who had lost a child, for not having money to help widows or families in economic ruin. He apologized to teenagers with whom he didn’t spend enough teaching time. He apologized for no longer being able to come to workplaces for brown bag lunch discussions. He even apologized for the sin of not studying every day, as illness and commitments had stolen precious hours.

“For all these, God of forgiveness,” he concluded, “forgive me, pardon me…”

Officially, that was his final “big” sermon.

“Grant me atonement” were his last three words.

And now the Reb was urging me not to wait.

“Mitch, it does no good to be angry or carry grudges.”

He made a fist. “It churns you up inside. It does you more harm than the object of your anger.”

So let it go? I asked.

“Or don’t let it get started in the first place,” he said. “You know what I found over the years? When I had a disagreement with someone, and they came to talk to me, I always began by saying, ‘I’ve thought about it. And in some ways maybe you’re right.’

“Now, I didn’t always believe that. But it made things easier. Right from the start, they relaxed. A negotiation could take place. I took a volatile situation and, what’s the word…?”

Defused it?

“Defused it. We need to do that. Especially with family.