Have A Little Faith Part 19

"I had two pairs of pants, and they was both on me. I had three shirts, and all three of 'em was on me. I had one gray coat, and it was my pillow, my cover, everything. And I had a pair of Converse gym shoes that had so many holes in it, I loaded up my feet with baking soda to keep them from stinking."

Where did you get the baking soda?

"Well, come on-we was all out here smoking crack. That's what you cook it with. Everyone Everyone got baking soda!" got baking soda!"

I looked down, feeling stupid.

"And then I heard about this man from New York, Covington. He drove around in this old limo, coming through the neighborhood. He was from a church, so we called him Rebbey Reb."

Rebbey what? I said.

"Reb."

Ca.s.s leaned forward, squinting, as if everything to this point had been a prelude.

"Reb come around every day with food on top of that car-on the hood, in the trunk. Vegetables. Milk. Juice. Meats. Anybody who was hungry could have some. Once he stopped that car, there'd be like forty or fifty people in a line.

"He didn't ask for nothing. Most he'd do was, at the end, he'd say, 'Remember, Jesus loves you.' When you homeless, you don't wanna hear much of that, 'cause it's like, when you get through talking about Jesus, I gotta go back to living in this empty building, you know?

"After a while, Pastor got deliveries from these food bank organizations and he'd serve them out the side of his house in an empty field. A few of us made this grill next to his place and we'd heat the food up. People would come from blocks away, they'd bring a bowl, maybe a spoon if they got one-I seen people with plastic bags scooping up food and eating with their hands.

"And Pastor would have a little service right there against his house. Say thanks to G.o.d."

Wait. Outside? Against his house?

"That's what I'm saying. So pretty soon, we're liking this guy. We see him coming, we say, 'Here come Rebbey Reb. Hide the dope! Hide the liquor!' And he'd give us a little money to help him unload the food trucks-turkeys, bread, juice. Me and a guy had our own unloading system: one for the church, two for us. We'd throw ours out in the bushes, then come back later and pick it up.

"Eventually, Pastor come to me and say, 'You got enough to eat, Ca.s.s? Take what you need.' He knew what I was doing. "I felt ashamed."

"One night in the projects, I had just gotten high and I hear Pastor call my name. I'm embarra.s.sed to come out. My eyes are big as saucers. He asks if I can do some landscaping around his gra.s.s the next day. And I said, sure, yeah. And he gives me ten dollars and says meet me tomorrow. When he left, all I wanted to do was run upstairs and buy more dope and get high again. But I didn't want to spend this man's money that way. So I ran across the street and bought lunch meat, crackers-anything so I don't spend it on drugs.

"That night, this guy who's staying where I'm staying, while I'm sleeping, he steals the pipes from under the sink-steals 'em for the copper, so he can sell 'em. And he takes off, and all the water starts running in. I wake up on the floor and the place is flooded. I'm washing away.

"My only clothes is all ruined now, and I go to Pastor's house and I say, 'Sorry, I ain't gonna be able to work for you. I'm all soaked.' And I'm telling him how mad I am at this guy, and he says, 'Ca.s.s, don't worry. Sometimes people got it worse than you do.'

"And he sends me over to the church, and he says, 'Go upstairs, we got some bags of clothes, just pick out what you want.' And I get some clothes-Mitch, it's the first time I got clean underwear in I don't know how long. Clean socks. A shirt. I go back to his place and he says, 'Where are you gonna stay now, Ca.s.s?'

"And I say, 'Don't know. My place is all flooded.' And he goes in, talks with his wife, and he comes out and says, 'Why don't you stay here with us?'

"Now I'm shocked. I mean, I did a little work for this man. I stole food from him. And now he's opening his home?

"He said, 'You wanna think about it?' And I'm like, 'What's there to think about? I'm homeless.'"

Henry never told me any of this, I said.

"That's why I'm I'm telling you," Ca.s.s said. "I moved in with his family that night. I stayed there almost a year. A telling you," Ca.s.s said. "I moved in with his family that night. I stayed there almost a year. A year. year. He let me sleep on the couch in his main room. His family is upstairs, they got little kids, and I'm sayin' to myself, this man don't know me, he don't know what I'm capable of. But he trusts me." He let me sleep on the couch in his main room. His family is upstairs, they got little kids, and I'm sayin' to myself, this man don't know me, he don't know what I'm capable of. But he trusts me."

He shook his head and looked away.

"That kindness saved my life."

We sat there for a second, quiet and cold. I now knew more than I'd ever figured to know about an elder of the I Am My Brother's Keeper Ministry.

What I still didn't know was why.

And then Ca.s.s told me: "I see the way you watch the Pastor. You here a lot. And maybe he ain't the way you think a pastor should be.

"But I truly believe the Lord has given me a second chance on account of this man. When I die, Jesus will stand in the gap for me and I will be heard and the Lord will say, 'I know you.' And I believe it's the same for Pastor Covington."

But Henry's done some bad things in his life, I said.

"I know it," Ca.s.s said. "I done 'em, too. But it's not me against the other guy. It's G.o.d measuring you against you. you.

"Maybe all you get are chances to do good, and what little bad you do ain't much bad at all. But because G.o.d has put you in the position where you can always do good, when you do something bad-it's like you let G.o.d down.

"And maybe people who only get chances to do bad, always around bad things, like us, when they finally make something good out of it, G.o.d's happy."

He smiled and those stray teeth poked into his lips. And I finally realized why he had so wanted to tell me his story.

It wasn't about him at all.

You really called Henry "Reb"? I asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

Nothing, I said.

What is there that forgiveness cannot achieve? What is there that forgiveness cannot achieve?

VIDURA.

Saying Sorry It was now a few weeks from Christmas, and I dug my hands into my pockets as I approached the Reb's front door. A pacemaker had been put into his chest a few weeks earlier, and while he'd come through the procedure all right, looking back, I think that was the man's last chip. His health was like a slow leak from a balloon. He had made his ninetieth birthday-joking with his children that until ninety, he was in charge, and after that, they could do what they wanted.

Maybe reaching that milestone was enough. He barely ate anymore-a piece of toast or fruit was a meal-and if he walked up the driveway once or twice, it was major exercise. He still took rides to the temple with Teela, his Hindu health care friend. People there helped him from the car into a wheelchair, and inside he'd greet the kids in the after-school program. At the ShopRite, he used the cart like a walker, gripping it for balance. He chatted with the other shoppers. True to his Depression roots, he'd buy bread and cakes from the "fifty percent off" section. When Teela rolled her eyes, he'd say, "It's not that I need it-it's that I got got it!" it!"

He was a joyous man, a marvelous piece of G.o.d's machinery, and it was no fun watching him fall apart.

In his office now, I helped him move boxes. He would try to give me books, saying it broke his heart to leave them behind. I watched him roll from pile to pile, looking and remembering, then putting the stuff down and moving to another pile.

If you could pack for heaven, this was how you'd do it, touching everything, taking nothing.

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?

"I hope. I have asked."

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 to 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, G.o.d 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 you 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 me 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."