Mitch Albom - Have a Little Faith - A True Story

The doorbell rang, breaking the mood. I heard my parents talking with Sarah in the other room. I gathered up my things. I told the Reb about the Super Bowl in a few weeks-“Ahhh, the Super Bowl,” he cooed, which was funny, because I doubt he’d ever watched one-and soon my mother and father entered the room and exchanged hellos as I zipped up my bag. Because he couldn’t easily rise from the chair, the Reb stayed seated as they spoke.

How funny when life repeats a pattern. This could have been forty years earlier, a Sunday morning, my parents picking me up from religious school, my dad driving, all of us going out to eat. The only difference was that now, instead of running from the Reb, I didn’t want to leave.

“Heading to lunch?” he asked.

Yes, I said.

“Good. Family. That’s how it should be.”

I gave him a hug. His forearms pressed tightly behind my neck, tighter than I ever remembered.

He found a song.

“Enjoy yourselves…its laaaa-ter than you think…”

I had no idea how right he was.

“You need to come down here and see something.”

Henry’s voice on the phone had been excited. I got out of the car and noticed more vehicles than usual on the street, and several people going in and out of the side door-people I had not seen before. Some were black, some were white. All were dressed better than the average visitor.

When I stepped onto the catwalk, Henry saw me, smiled widely, and opened his huge wingspan.

“I gotta show you some love,” he said.

I felt his big, bare arms squeezing in. Then it hit me. He was wearing a T-shirt.

The heat was back on.

“It’s like Miami Beach in here!” he yelled.

Apparently embarrassed by the attention of the newspaper columns, the gas company had renewed its service. And a deal was being worked out for the church to more gradually pay off its debt. The new faces coming in and out were people also moved by the story of Henry’s church; they had come to cook meals and help serve them. I noticed a full crowd of homeless folks at the tables, men and women alike, and many had their coats off. Without the cacophony of the air blowers, you heard the more pleasant rumble of conversation.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Henry said. “God is good.”

I walked down to the gym floor. I saw the man I had written about who was missing his toes. In the story, I had mentioned that his wife and daughter had left him eight years earlier, contributing to his decline. Apparently, someone saw his photo and made a connection.

“I’m going to see them right now,” the man said.

Who? Your wife?

“And my little girl.”

Right now?

“Yeah. It’s been eight years, man.”

He sniffed. I could tell he wanted to say something.

“Thank you,” he finally whispered.

And he took off.

I don’t know if any thank-you ever got to me the way that one did.

As I was leaving, I saw Cass on his crutches.

“Mister Mitch,” he chimed.

Things are a little warmer now, huh? I said.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Folks down there are pretty happy, too.”

I looked again and saw a line of men and women. At first I assumed it was for food, maybe second helpings; but then I saw a table and some volunteers handing out clothing.

One large man pulled on a winter jacket, then yelled up to Henry, “Hey, Pastor, ain’t you got no triple XL’s?”

Henry laughed.

What’s going on? I asked.

“Clothing,” Henry said. “It’s been donated.”

I counted several big piles.

That’s a good amount of stuff, I said.

Henry looked at Cass. “He didn’t see?”

Next thing I knew, I was following behind the heavyset pastor and the one-legged elder, wondering why I always seemed to clomp on the heels of the faithful.

Cass found a key. Henry pulled a door open.

“Take a look,” he said.

And there, inside the sanctuary, was bag after bag after bag after bag-of clothing, jackets, shoes, coats, and toys-filling every pew from front to back.

I swallowed a lump. Henry was right. At that moment, it didn’t matter what name you used. God is good.

From a Sermon by the Reb, 2000

“Dear friends. I’m dying.

“Don’t be upset. I began to die on July 6, 1917. That’s the day I was born, and, in council with what our psalmist says, ‘We who are born, are born to die.’

“Now, I heard a little joke that deals with this. A minister was visiting a country church, and he began his sermon with a stirring reminder:

“‘Everyone in this parish is going to die!’

“The minister looked around. He noticed a man in the front pew, smiling broadly.

“‘Why are you so amused?’ he asked.

“I’m not from this parish,’ the man said. ‘I’m just visiting my sister for the weekend.’”

The car pulled up to the ShopRite. It was the first week in February, snow was on the ground, and the Reb looked out the window. Teela parked, shut the ignition, and asked if he was coming in.

“I’m a little tired,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”

Looking back, that was surely a clue. The Reb adored the supermarket-for him to pass it up, something had to be wrong.

“Can you leave the music on?” he asked Teela.

“Sure,” she said. And while she shopped for milk, bread, and prune juice, the Reb sat alone, in the snowy parking lot, listening to Hindi chants. It would be his last private moments in the outside world.

By the time they got home, he looked sluggish and felt achy. Calls were made. He was taken to the hospital. The nurses there asked him simple questions-his name, his address-all of which he answered. He couldn’t remember the exact date, but he knew it was the presidential election primary, and he cracked that if his candidate lost by one vote, “I’m gonna kill myself.”

He stayed for tests. His family visited. The next night, his youngest daughter, Gilah, was with him in the room. She had tickets to Israel and was worried about leaving.

“I don’t think I should go,” she said.

“Go,” he said. “I won’t do anything without you.”

His eyes were closing. Gilah called the nurse. She asked if her father could get his medication early, so he could sleep.

“Gil…,” the Reb mumbled.

She took his hand.

“Remember the memories.”

“Okay,” Gilah said, crying, “now I’m definitely not going.”

“You go,” he said. “You can remember over there, too.”

They sat for a while, father and daughter. Finally, Gilah rose and reluctantly kissed him goodnight. The nurse gave him his pills. On her way out, he whispered after her.

“Please…if you turn off the lights, could you stop by once in a while and remember I’m here?”

The nurse smiled.

“Of course. We can’t forget the singing rabbi.”

The next morning, shortly after sunrise, the Reb was awakened for a sponge bath. It was quiet and early. The nurse bathed him gently, and he was singing and humming to her, alive with the day.

Then his head slumped and his music stopped forever.

It is summer and we are sitting in his office. I ask him why he thinks he became a rabbi.

He counts on his fingers.

“Number one, I always liked people.

“Number two, I love gentleness.

“Number three, I have patience.

“Number four, I love teaching.

“Number five, I am determined in my faith.

“Number six, it connects me to my past.

“Number seven-and lastly-it allows me to fulfill the message of our tradition: to live good, to do good, and to be blessed.”

I didn’t hear God in there.

He smiles.