Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [11]
He rolled his hand, searching for the word.
Connected? I said.
“Ah.” He smiled at me. “Connected.”
The End of Spring
As we walked to the front door that day, I felt a wave of guilt. I’d once had rituals; I’d ignored them for decades. These days, I didn’t do a single thing that tied me to my faith. Oh, I had an exciting life. Traveled a lot. Met interesting people. But my daily routines—work out, scan the news, check e-mail—were self-serving, not roped to tradition. To what was I connected? A favorite TV show? The morning paper? My work demanded flexibility. Ritual was the opposite.
Besides, I saw religious customs as sweet but outdated, like typing with carbon paper. To be honest, the closest thing I had to a religious routine was visiting the Reb. I had now seen him at work and at home, in laughter and in repose. I had seen him in Bermuda shorts.
I had also seen him more this one spring than I normally would in three years. I still didn’t get it. I was one of those disappointing congregants. Why had he chosen me to be part of his death, when I had probably let him down in life?
We reached the door.
One more question, I said.
“One mooore,” he sang, “at the doooor…”
How do you not get cynical?
He stopped.
“There is no room for cynicism in this line of work.”
But people are so flawed. They ignore ritual, they ignore faith—they even ignore you. Don’t you get tired of trying?
He studied me sympathetically. Maybe he realized what I was really asking: Why me?
“Let me answer with a story,” he said. “There’s this salesman, see? And he knocks on a door. The man who answers says, ‘I don’t need anything today.’
“The next day, the salesman returns.
“‘Stay away,’ he is told.
“The next day, the salesman is back.
“The man yells, ‘You again! I warned you!’ He gets so angry, he spits in the salesman’s face.
“The salesman smiles, wipes the spit with a handkerchief, then looks to the sky and says, ‘Must be raining.’
“Mitch, that’s what faith is. If they spit in your face, you say it must be raining. But you still come back tomorrow.”
He smiled.
“So, you’ll come back, too? Maybe not tomorrow…”
He opened his arms as if expecting an incoming package. And for the first time in my life, I did the opposite of running away.
I gave him a hug.
It was a fast one. Clumsy. But I felt the sharp bones in his back and his whiskered cheek against mine. And in that brief embrace, it was as if a larger-than-life Man of God was shrinking down to human size.
I think, looking back, that was the moment the eulogy request turned into something else.
SUMMER
IT IS 1971…
I am thirteen. This is the big day. I lean over the holy scrolls, holding a silver pointer; its tip is the shape of a hand. I follow the ancient text, chanting the words. My teenage voice squeaks.
In the front row sit my parents, siblings, and grandparents. Behind them, more family, friends, the kids from school.
Just look down, I tell myself. Don’t mess up.
I go on for a while. I do pretty well. When I am finished, the group of men around me shake my wet hand. They mumble, “Yishar co-ach”—congratulations—and then I turn and take the long walk across the pulpit to where the Reb, in his robe, stands waiting.
He looks down through his glasses. He motions for me to sit. The chair seems huge. I spot his prayer book, which has clippings stuffed in the pages. I feel like I am inside his private lair. He sings loudly and I sing, too—also loudly, so he won’t think I am slacking—but my bones are actually trembling. I am finished with the obligatory part of my Bar Mitzvah, but nothing is as unsettling as what is about to come: the conversation with the rabbi. You cannot study for this. It is free-form. Worst of all, you have to stand right next to him. No running from God.
When the prayer finishes, I rise. I barely reach above the lectern, and some congregants have to shift to see me.
“So, how are you