What is Rich?

He was born in 1917, and his parents were poor even by the day's modest standards. Albert's mother was a Lithuanian immigrant, and his father, a textile salesman, was always in and out of work. They lived in a cramped apartment building on Topping Avenue in the Bronx. Food was scarce. Young Albert would come home from school each day praying not to see the family's furniture out in the street.

As the oldest of three--a sister and a brother followed him-- he spent from sunrise to sunset in a religious academy called a yeshiva. He had no bicycles or fancy toys. Sometimes his mother would buy bread from the two-day-old bin, spread jam on it, and feed it to him with hot tea. He recalled that as "the most heavenly meal of my childhood."

As the Great Depression widened, Albert had but two sets of clothes, one for the weekdays, one for the Sabbath. His shoes were old and cobbled, his socks were washed out nightly. On the occasion of his Bar Mitzvah-- the day, in his religion, that he became a man-- his father gave him a new suit. He wore it as proudly as any kid could wear anything.

A few weeks later, wearing that same suit, he and his father took a trolley car to a relative's house, a well-to-do attorney. His father carried a cake that his mother had baked.

At the house, a teenage cousin came running up, took one look at Albert, and burst out laughing. "Al, that's my old suit!"

Albert was mortified. For the rest of the visit, he sat red-faced in humiliation. On the trolley ride home, he fought tears as he glared at his father, who had traded the cake for a suitcase full of clothes, an exchange the son now understood as rich relatives giving to poor ones.

Finally, when they got home, he couldn't hold it any longer. "I don't understand," Albert burst out to his father.

"You're a religious man. Your cousin isn't. You pray every day. He doesn't. They have everything they want. And we have nothing!"

His father nodded, then answered in Yiddish, in a slight singsong voice.

God and the decision he renders is correct.
God doesn't punish anyone out of the blue.
God knows what he is doing.

That was the last they spoke of it.

And the last time Albert Lewis judged life by what he owned.


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, pages 113-115

Home

"A military chaplain told me the following story:

"A soldier's little girl, whose father was bring moved to a distant post, was sitting at the airport among her family's meager belongings.

"The girl was sleepy. She leaned against the packs and duffel bags.

"A lady came by, stopped, and patted her on the head.

" 'Poor child,' she said. 'You haven't got a home.'

"The child looked up in surprise.

" 'But we do have a home,' she said. 'We just don't have a house to put it in.' "


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, page 111, "From a Sermon by the Reb, 1981"

Saying Sorry

Is there anyone you need to forgive at this point? I asked him.

"I've forgiven them already," he said.

Everyone?

"Yes."

Have they forgiven you?

He looked away.

"You know, we have a tradition. When you go to a funeral, you're supposed to stand by the coffin and ask the deceased to forgive anything you've ever done."

He made a face.

"Personally, I don't want to wait that long."
_______________________________

I remember when the Reb made his most public of apologies. It was his last High Holiday sermon as the senior rabbi of the temple.

He could have used the occasion to reflect on his accomplishments. Instead he asked forgiveness from his flock. He apologized for not being able to save more marriages, for not visiting the homebound more frequently, for not easing more pain of parents who had lost a child, for not having money to help widows or families in economic ruin. He apologized for teenagers with whom he didn't spend enough teaching time. He apologized for no longer being able to come to workplaces for brown bag lunch discussions. He even apologized for the sin of not studying every day, as illness and commitments had stolen precious hours.

"For all these, God of forgiveness," he concluded, "forgive me, pardon me..."

Officially, that was his final "big" sermon.

"Grant me atonement" were his last three words.
___________________________________

And now the Reb was urging me not to wait.

"Mitch, it does no good to be angry or carry grudges."

He made a fist. "It churns up inside. It does you more harm than the object of your anger."

So let it go? I asked.

"Or don't let it get started in the first place," he said. "You know what I found over the years? When I had a disagreement with someone, and they came to talk to me, I always began by saying, 'I've thought about it And in some ways maybe you're right.'"

"Now, I didn't always believe that. But it made things easier. Right from the start, they relaxed. A negotiation could take place. I took a volatile situation and, what's the word...?"

Defused it?

"Defused it. We need to do that. Especially with family."

"You know in our tradition, we ask forgiveness from everyone--even casual acquaintances. But with those we are closest with--wives, children, parents--we too often let things linger. Don't wait, Mitch. It's such a waste."

He told me a story. A man buried his wife. At the gravesite he stood by the Reb, tears falling down his face.

"I loved her," he whispered.

The Reb nodded.

"I mean... I really loved her."

The man broke down.

"And... I almost told her once."

The Reb looked at my sadly.

"Nothing haunts like the things we don't say."
____________________________________

Later that day, I asked the Reb to forgive me for anything I might have ever said or done that hurt him. He smiled and said that while he couldn't think of anything, he would "consider all such matters addressed."

Well, I joked, I'm glad we got that over with.

"You're in the clear."

Timing is everything.

"That's right. Which is why our sages tell us to repent exactly one day before we die."

But how do you know it's the day before you die? I asked.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Exactly."


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, pages 210-212

Forgiveness

"What is there that forgiveness cannot achieve?"

-- Vidura (Hindu god)

Which Marriages Will Survive?

As just as harvests make you wise to farming, so did years of matrimony enlighten the Reb as to how a marriage works-- and doesn't. He had officiated nearly a thousand weddings, from the most basic to the embarrassing garish. Many couples lasted. Many did not.

Can you predict which marriages will survive? I asked.

"Sometimes," he said. "If they're communicating well, they have a good chance. If they have a similar belief system, similar values, they have a good chance."

What about love?

"Love they should always have. But love changes."

What do you mean?

"Love--the infatuation kind-- 'he's so handsome, she's so beautiful'-- that can shrivel. As soon as something goes wrong, that kind of love can fly out the window."

"On the other hand, a true love can enrich itself. It gets tested and grows stronger. Like Fiddler on the Roof. You remember? When Tevye sings 'Do You Love Me?'?"

I should have seen this coming. I think Fiddler on the Roof was pretty much the Reb's worldview. Religion. Tradition. Community. And a husband and a wife-- Tveye and Golde-- whose love is proven through action, not words.

"When she says, 'How can you ask me if I love you? Look at all I've done with you. What else would you call it?'"

"That kind of love--the kind you realize you already have by the life you've created together--that's the kind that lasts."
__________________

The Reb was lucky to have such a love with Sarah. It had endured hardships by relying on cooperation-- and selflessness. The Reb was fond of telling young couples, "Remember, the only difference between 'marital' and 'martial' is where you put the 'i.'"


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, pages 142-144

What Makes a Man Happy?

Can I ask you something?

"Yes," he said.

What makes a man happy?

"Well..." He rolled his eyes around the hospital room. "This may not be the best setting for that question."

Yeah, you're right.

"On the other hand..." He took a deep breath. "On the other hand, here in this building, we must face the real issues. Some people will get better. Some will not. So it may be a good place to define what that word means."

Happiness?

"That's right. The things society tells us we must have to be happy-- a new this or that, a bigger house, a better job. I know the falsity of it. I have counseled many people who have all these things, and I can tell you they are not happy because of them."

"The number of marriages that have disintegrated when they have all the stuff in the world. The families who fought and argued all the time, when they had money and health. Having more does not keep you from wanting more. And if you always want more-- to be richer, more beautiful, more well known-- you are missing the bigger picture, and I can tell you from experience, happiness will never come."

You're not going to tell me to stop smelling the roses, are you?

He chuckled. "Roses would smell better than this place."

Suddenly, out in the hall, I heard an infant scream, followed by a quick "shhh!" presumably from its mother. The Reb heard it too.

"Now, that child," he said, "reminds me of something our sages taught. When a baby comes into the world, its hands are clenched, right? Like this?"

He made a fist.

"Why? Because a baby, not knowing any better, wants to grab everything, to say, 'The whole world is mine.'"

"But when an old person dies, how does he do so? With his hands open. Why? Because he has learned the lesson."

What lesson? I asked.

He stretched open his empty fingers.

"We can take nothing with us."
________________________

For a moment we both stared at his hand. It was trembling.

"Ach, you see this?" he said.

Yeah.

"I can't make it stop."

He dropped the other hand to his chest. I heard a cart being wheeled down the hall. He spoke so wisely, with such passion, that for a moment I'd forgotten where we were.

"Anyhow," he said, his voice trailing off.

I hated seeing him in that bed. I wanted him home, with the messy desk and the mismatched clothes. I forced a smile.

So, have we solved the secret of happiness?

"I believe so," he said.

Are you going to tell me?

"Yes. Ready?"

Ready.

"Be satisfied."

That's it?

"Be grateful."

That's it?

"For what you have. For the love you receive. And for what God has given you."

That's it?

He looked me in the eye. Then he sighed deeply.

"That's it."


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, pages 100-102

He Sleeps in a Storm

"A man seeks employment on a farm. He hands his letter of recommendation to his new employer. It reads simply, 'He sleeps in a storm.'

"The owner is desperate for help, so he hires the man.

"Several weeks pass, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, a powerful storm rips through the valley.

"Awakened by the swirling rain and howling wind, the owner leaps out of bed. He calls for his new hired hand, but the man is sleeping soundly.

"So he dashes off to the barn. He sees, to his amazement, that the animals are secure with plenty of feed.

"He runs out to the field. He sees the bales of wheat have been bound and are wrapped in tarpaulins.

"He races to the silo. The doors are latched, and the grain is dry.

"And then he understands. 'He sleeps in a storm."

"My friends, if we tend to the things that are important in life, if we are right with those we love and behave in line with our faith, our lives will not be cursed with the aching throb of unfulfilled business. Our words will always be sincere, our embraces will be tight. We will never wallow in the agony of 'I could have, I should have.' We can sleep in a storm.

"And when it's time, our good-byes will be complete."


-- "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom, page 93, From a Sermon by the Reb (Rabbi Albert Lewis), 1975