“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, and 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
