Her name, fittingly, is “Miracle.”
The human spirit is a thing to behold.
I often wonder why the Reb asked me for a eulogy. I wonder if it was more for me than for him. The fact is, he trumped it moments later.
Just before the cantor began the final prayer, the Reb’s grandson, Ron, popped a cassette tape into a player on the pulpit. And over the same speakers where Albert Lewis’s voice used to ring out in wisdom, it rang out once more.
“Dear friends, this is the voice of your past rabbi speaking…”
He had recorded a message to be played upon his death. He had told no one-except Teela, his shopping companion and health care worker, who delivered the tape to his family. It was brief. But in it, the Reb answered the two questions he had most been asked in his life of faith.
One was whether he believed in God. He said he did.
The other was whether there is life after death. On this he said, “My answer here, too, is yes, there is something. But friends, I’m sorry. Now that I know, I can’t even tell you.”
The whole place broke up laughing.
I didn’t forget about the file on God. I went and retrieved it months later, on my own. I took it off the shelf. When I held it, I actually trembled, because for eight years I’d seen the word “God” written on the label, and after a while you imagine some holy wind is going to swoosh out.
I looked around the empty office. My stomach ached. I wished the Reb was with me. I yanked it open.
And he was.
Because there, inside the file, were hundreds of articles, clippings, and notes for sermons, all about God, with arrows and questions and scribbling in the Reb’s handwriting. And it hit me, finally, that this was the whole point of my time with the Reb and Henry: not the conclusion, but the search, the study, the journey to belief. You can’t fit the Lord in a box. But you can gather stories, tradition, wisdom, and in time, you needn’t lower the shelf; God is already nearer to thee.
Have you ever known a man of faith? Did you run the other way? If so, stop running. Maybe sit for a minute. For a glass of ice water. For a plate of corn bread. You may find there is something beautiful to learn, and it doesn’t bite you and it doesn’t weaken you, it only proves a divine spark lies inside each of us, and that spark may one day save the world.
Back in the sanctuary, the Reb concluded his taped message by saying, “Please love one another, talk to one another, don’t let trivialities dissolve friendships…”
Then he sang a simple tune, which translated to:
The congregation, one last time, joined in.
You could say it was the loudest prayer of his career.
But I always knew he’d go out with a song.
Epilogue
One last memory.
This was not long before the Reb passed away.
He was talking about heaven and suddenly, for some reason, I had a notion.
What if you only get five minutes with God?
“Five minutes?” he said.
Five minutes, I said. God is a busy God. Here’s your slice of heaven. Five minutes alone with the Lord and then, poof, on you go to whatever happens next.
“And in those five minutes?” he asked, intrigued.
In those five minutes, you can ask anything you want.
“Ah. Okay.”
He pushed back into the chair, as if consulting the air around him.
“First I would say, ‘Do me a favor, God in heaven, if you can, members of my family who need help, please show them the way on earth. Guide them a little.’”
Okay, that’s a minute.
“The next three minutes, I’d say, ‘Lord, give these to someone who is suffering and requires your love and counsel.’”
You’d give up three minutes?
“If someone truly needs it, yes.”
Okay, I said. That still leaves you a minute.
“All right. In that final minute, I would say, ‘Look, Lord, I’ve done X amount of good stuff on earth. I have tried to follow your teachings and to pass them on. I have loved my family. I’ve been part of a community. And I have been, I think, fairly good to people.
“‘So, Heavenly Father, for all this, what is my reward?”’
And what do you think God will say?
He smiled.
“He’ll say, ‘Reward? What reward? That’s what you were supposed to do!’”
I laughed and he laughed, and he bounced his palms on his thighs and our noise filled the house. And I think, at that moment, we could have been anywhere, anybody, any culture, any faith-a teacher and a student exploring what life is all about and delighting in the discovery.
In the beginning, there was a question. In the end, the question gets answered. God sings, we hum along, and there are many melodies, but it’s all one song-one same, wonderful, human song.
I am in love with hope.
Acknowledgments
THE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO THANK the families of Henry Covington and Albert Lewis: the wives, Sarah Lewis and Annette Covington; the Reb’s children-Shalom, Orah, and Gilah; and Pastor Henry’s children-Lakema, Kendrick, Keyshia, and Tiffany. It is never easy to read about one’s husband or father in a book, and their grace toward these pages is deeply appreciated. Additional thanks to spouses-Cindy Lewis, Shimon Lipsky, Brian Seitz-and the Reb’s many grandkids.
Others who helped make this book possible include Anthony “Cass” Castelow, Dr. Chad Audi of the Detroit Rescue Mission Ministries, Rabbi Steven Lindemann, Teela Singh, Eddie Adelman, Norm Trask, the staff at Temple Beth Sholom, members of the I Am My Brother’s Keeper Church (some of whose names were changed), Matty and Lisa Goldberg for their dusty shelf research, and Ron Lipsky, who adored his grandfather and proved it through the tender footage he captured.
At Hyperion, my deep thanks to my always supportive editor, Leslie Wells, Ellen Archer, Will Balliett, Phil Rose, David Lott, Vincent Stanley, Kristin Kiser, Mindy Stockfield, Jessica Wiener, Marie Coolman, Maha Khalil, Sarah Rucker, SallyAnne McCartin, and Michael Rotondo.
And, as always, the wonderful team at Black Inc-David, Susan, Antonella, Annik, Joy, Leigh Ann, and Dave. Thanks also to those who gave an early read to these pages, to my family and extended family, to Rosey-and to Janine, where my thanks always begin and end.
Finally, a salute to my first home, South Jersey, which I never fully appreciated, and to my current home, Detroit, which maybe I appreciate more than others. It is a special place, and so are its people, and I am proud to live here.
Mitch Albom Detroit, Michigan June 2009
MITCH ALBOM
Mitch Albom is a bestselling author who has written eight books, including the phenomenally popular Tuesdays With Morrie. Published in 1997, it stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for four straight years. Despite his busy schedule, Albom always finds time to help those who are less fortunate. He serves on the boards of various charities, including CATCH (Caring Athletes Team for Children's and Henry Ford Hospitals), Forgotten Harvest, and Michigan Hospice Organization. In 1999 he was named National Hospice Organization's Man of the Year. Albom lives with his wife, Janine, in Franklin, Michigan.
