Mitch Albom - Have a Little Faith - A True Story

He sighed. “It’s who I was.”

His chin dropped to his chest. I heard his nasal breathing, in and out.

“I deserve hell,” he whispered. “The things I’ve done, God would be justified. God is not mocked. What you sow, you reap.

“That’s why I tell my congregation, don’t put me on a pedestal. I sermonize about wanting cherries when you’re planting lemons, but I’ve planted many lemons in my life…”

His eyes were teary now.

“…and I may not have reaped all that harvest.”

I don’t understand, I said. If you think you’re going to be punished-

“Why still serve God?” He smiled weakly. “What else can I do? It’s like when everyone was turning away, and Jesus asked the apostles, ‘Will you go, too?’ And Peter said, ‘Where can I go, Lord?’

“I know what he meant. Where do you go from God? He’s everywhere.”

But, Henry, all the good you do here-

“No.” He shook his head. “You can’t work your way into heaven. Anytime you try and justify yourself with works, you disqualify yourself with works. What I do here, every day, for the rest of my life, is only my way of saying, ‘Lord, regardless of what eternity holds for me, let me give something back to you. I know it don’t even no scorecard. But let me make something of my life before I go…’”

He exhaled a long weary breath.

“‘ And then, Lord, I’m at your mercy.’”

It was late and cold and Henry’s past was all over the room. After a few silent minutes, I stood and zipped my coat. I wished him the best, and went back out into the snow.

I used to think I knew everything. I was a “smart person” who “got things done,” and because of that, the higher I climbed, the more I could look down and scoff at what seemed silly or simple, even religion.

But I realized something as I drove home that night: that I am neither better nor smarter, only luckier. And I should be ashamed of thinking I knew everything, because you can know the whole world and still feel lost in it. So many people are in pain-no matter how smart or accomplished-they cry, they yearn, they hurt. But instead of looking down on things, they look up, which is where I should have been looking, too. Because when the world quiets to the sound of your own breathing, we all want the same things: comfort, love, and a peaceful heart.

Maybe the first half of his life he did worse than most, and maybe the second half he did better. But that night was the last time I questioned how much Henry Covington’s past should shadow his future. Scripture says, “Judge not.” But God had the right to, and Henry lived with that every day. It was enough.

January arrived and the calendar changed. It was 2008. Before the year was done, there would be a new U.S. President, an economic earthquake, a sinkhole of confidence, and tens of millions unemployed or without homes. Storm clouds were gathering.

Meanwhile, the Reb puttered from room to room in quiet contemplation. Having survived the Great Depression and two world wars, he was no longer thrown by headline events. He kept the outside world at bay by keeping the inside world at hand. He prayed. He chatted with God. He watched the snow out the window. And he cherished the simple rituals of his day: the prayers, the oatmeal with cereal, the grandkids, the car trips with Teela, the phone calls to old congregants.

I was visiting again on a Sunday morning. My parents had made plans to swing by later and take me to lunch before I flew back to Detroit.

Two weeks earlier, on a Saturday night, the temple had held a gathering in the Reb’s honor, commemorating his six decades of service. It was like a coming home party.

“I tell you,” the Reb said, shaking his head as if in disbelief, “there were people who hadn’t seen one another in years. And when I saw them hugging and kissing like such long lost friends-I cried. I cried. To see what we have created together. It is something incredible.”

Incredible? My old temple? That small place of Sabbath mornings and funny holidays and kids hopping out of cars and running into religious school? Incredible? The word seemed too lofty. But when the Reb pushed his hands together, almost prayer-like, and whispered, “Mitch, don’t you see? We have made a community, ” and I considered his aging face, his slumped shoulders, the sixty years he had devoted tirelessly to teaching, listening, trying to make us better people, well, given the way the world is going, maybe “incredible” is the right description.

“The way they hugged each other,” he repeated, his eyes far away, “for me, that is a piece of heaven.”

It was inevitable that the Reb and I would finally speak about the afterlife. No matter what you call it-Paradise, Moksha, Valhalla, Nirvana-the next world is the underpinning of nearly all faiths. And more and more, as his earthly time wound down, the Reb wondered what lay ahead in what he called “Olam Habah”-the world to come. In his voice and in his posture, I could sense he was searching for it now, the way you stretch your neck near the top of a hill to see if you can look over.

The Reb’s cemetery plot, I learned, was closer to his birthplace in New York, where his mother and father were buried. His daughter, Rinah, was buried there, too. When the time came, the three generations would be united, at least in the earth and, if his faith held true, somewhere else as well.

Do you think you’ll see Rinah again? I asked.

“Yes, I do.”

But she was just a child.

“Up there,” he whispered, “time doesn’t matter.”

The Reb once gave a sermon in which heaven and hell were shown to a man. In hell, people sat around a banquet table, full of exquisite meats and delicacies. But their arms were locked in front of them, unable to partake for eternity.

“This is terrible,” the man said. “Show me heaven.”

He was taken to another room, which looked remarkably the same. Another banquet table, more meats and delicacies. The souls there also had their arms out in front of them.

The difference was, they were feeding each other.

What do you think? I asked the Reb. Is heaven like that?

“How can I say? I believe there’s something. That’s enough.”

He ran a finger across his chin. “But I admit…in some small way, I am excited by dying, because soon I will have the answer to this haunting question.”

Don’t say that.

“What?”

About dying.

“Why? It upsets you?”

Well. I mean. Nobody likes to hear that word.

I sounded like a child.

“Listen, Mitch…” His voice lowered. He crossed his arms over his sweater, which covered another plaid shirt that had no connection to his blue pants. “I know my passing will be hard on certain people. I know my family, my loved ones-you, I hope-will miss me.”

I would. More than I could tell him.

“Heavenly Father, please,” he melodized, looking up, “I am a happy man. I have helped develop many things down on earth. I’ve even developed Mitch here a little…”

He pointed at me with a long, aged finger.

“But this one, you see, he’s still asking questions. So, Lord, please, give him many more years. That way, when we are reunited, we’ll have lots to talk about.”

He smiled impishly.

“Eh?”

Thank you, I said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

He blinked behind his glasses.

Do you really think we’ll meet again one day?

“Don’t you?”

Well, come on, I said, sheepishly. I doubt I’m going to whatever level you’re going to.

“Mitch, why do you say that?”

Because you’re a Man of God.

He looked at me gratefully.

“You’re a man of God, too,” he whispered. “Everyone is.”