by Mitch Albom
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
Heaven
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.”
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.
Church
“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, an
d 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.’”
FEBRUARY
Goodbye
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.
“God was there before number one.”
The Eulogy
The seats were all taken. The sanctuary was full. There were mumbled greetings and tear-filled hugs, but people avoided looking at the pulpit. You face front for any funeral service, but you are rarely staring at the empty space of the deceased. He used to sit in that chair…He used to stand by that lectern…
The Reb had lived a few days beyond his massive stroke, in a peaceful coma, long enough for his wife, children, and grandchildren to get there and whisper their good-byes. I had done the same, touching his thick white hair, hugging my face to his, promising he would not die the second death, he would not be forgotten, not as long as I had a breath in me. In eight years, I had never cried in front of the Reb.
When I finally did, he couldn’t see me.
I went home and waited for the phone call. I did not start on his eulogy. It felt wrong to do so while he was still alive. I had tapes and notes and photos and pads; I had texts and sermons and newspaper clippings; I had an Arabic schoolbook with family photos.
When the call finally came, I began to write. And I never looked at any of that stuff.
Now, inside my jacket, I felt the typed pages, his last request of me, folded in my pocket. Nearly eight years had passed in what I once thought would be a two- or three-week journey. I had used up most of my forties. I looked older in the mirror. I tried to reme
mber the night this all started.
Will you do my eulogy?
It felt like a different life.
With a quiet grace, his service began, the first service in sixty years of this congregation that Albert Lewis could not lead or join. After a few minutes, after a few prayers, the current rabbi, Steven Lindemann-whom the Reb had graciously welcomed as his replacement-spoke lovingly and beautifully of his predecessor. He used the haunting phrase, “Alas for what has been lost.”
Then the sanctuary quieted. It was my turn.
I climbed the carpeted steps and passed the casket of the man who had raised me in his house of prayer and in his faith-his beautiful faith-and my breath came so sporadically, I thought I might have to stop just to find it.
I stood where he used to stand.
I leaned forward.
And this is what I said.
Dear Rabbi-
Well, you did it. You finally managed to get us all here when it wasn’t the High Holidays.
I guess, deep down, I knew this day would come. But standing here now, it all feels backwards. I should be down there. You should be up here. This is where you belong. This is where we always looked for you, to lead us, to enlighten us, to sing to us, to quiz us, to tell us everything from Jewish law to what page we were on.
There was, in the construction of the universe, us down here, God up there, and you in between. When God seemed too intimidating to face, we could first come to you. It was like befriending the secretary outside the boss’s office.
But where do we look for you now?
Eight years ago, you came to me after a speech I gave, and you said you had a favor to ask. The favor was this: would I speak at your funeral? I was stunned. To this day, I don’t know why me.
But once you asked, I knew two things: I could never say no. And I needed to get to know you better, not as a cleric, but as a human being. So we began to visit. In your office, in your home, an hour here, two hours there.