I asked the Reb if, over the years, he had changed his view about war and violence.

“Do you remember Sodom and Gomorrah?” he asked.

Yes. That one I remember.

“So you know Abraham realized those people were bad. He knew they were miserable, vicious. But what does he do? He argues with God against destroying the cities. He says, Can you at least spare them if there are fifty good people there? God says okay. Then he goes down to forty, then thirty. He knows there aren’t that many. He bargains all the way down to ten before he closes the deal.”

And they still fell short, I said.

“And they still fell short,” the Reb confirmed. “But you see? Abraham’s instinct was correct. You must first argue against warfare, against violence and destruction, because these are not normal ways of living.”

But so many people wage wars in God’s name.

“Mitch,” the Reb said, “God does not want such killing to go on.”

Then why hasn’t it stopped?

He lifted his eyebrows.

“Because man does.”

He was right, of course. You can sense man’s drumbeat to war. Vengeance rises. Tolerance is mocked. Over the years, I was taught why our side was right. And in another country someone my age was taught the opposite.

“There’s a reason I gave that book to you,” the Reb said.

What’s the reason?

“Open it.”

I opened it.

“More.”

I flipped through the pages and out fell three small black-and-white photos, faded and smudged with dirt.

One was of an older dark-haired woman, Arabic and matronly looking. One was of a mustached younger Arabic man in a suit and tie. The last photo was of two children, side by side, presumably a brother and sister.

Who are they? I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, softly.

He held out his hand and I gave him the photo of the children.

“Over the years, I kept seeing these kids, the mother, her son. That’s why I never threw the book away. I felt I had to keep them alive somehow.

“I thought maybe someday someone would look at the pictures, say they knew the family, and return them to the survivors. But I’m running out of time.”

He handed me the photo back.

Wait, I said. I don’t understand. From your religious viewpoint, these people were the enemy.

His voice grew angry.

“Enemy schmenemy,” he said. “This was a family.”

From a Sermon by the Reb, 1975

“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.”

Life of Henry

Henry Covington did not sleep that night.

But he did not die, either.

The drug dealers from whom he’d stolen somehow never found him; the cars that came down his street did not fire a bullet. He hid behind those trash cans, gripping his shotgun and reciting his question over and over.

“Will you save me, Jesus?”

He was following man’s sad tradition of running to God when all else fails. He had done it before, turned his face to the heavens, only to return to new trouble when the current trouble passed.

But this time, when the sun rose, Henry Covington slid the shotgun under his bed and lay down next to his wife and child.

It was Easter Sunday.

Henry thought about his life. He had stolen and lied and waved guns in people’s faces. He had blown all his money on drugs, and he had been so low at one point he had a small pebble of crack cocaine but nothing to smoke it in, so he scoured the streets until he found a cigarette butt. Anyone could have stepped on that cigarette butt. A dog could have urinated on it. It didn’t matter. He put it in his mouth. He had to have what he had to have.

Now, on Easter morning, he suddenly had to have something else. It was hard to explain. Even his wife didn’t understand it. An acquaintance came by with heroin. Henry’s eyes desired it. His body craved it. But if he took it, it would kill him. He knew it. He was certain. He had promised his life to God in the darkness behind those trash cans, and here, hours later, was his first test.

He told the man to go away.

Then Henry went into the bathroom, got on his knees, and began to pray. After he finished, he guzzled a bottle of NyQuil.

The next day, he guzzled another.

And the next day, he guzzled another-all in an attempt to numb himself through a self-imposed detox. It was three days before he could put a morsel of food in his mouth. Three days before he could even lift up out of bed.

Three days.

And then he opened his eyes.

The Reb opened his eyes.

He was in the hospital.

It was not the first time. Although he often hid his ailments from me, I learned that in recent months, staying upright had become a problem. He had slipped on the pavement and cut open his forehead. He had slipped in the house and banged his neck and cheek. Now he had fallen getting up from his chair and slammed his rib cage against a desk. It was either syncope, a temporary loss of consciousness, or small strokes, transient attacks that left him dizzy and disoriented.

Either way, it was not good.

Now I expected the worst. A hospital. The portal to the end. I had called and asked if it was all right to visit, and Sarah kindly said I could come.

I braced myself at the front entrance. I am haunted by hospital visits and their familiar, depressing cues. The antiseptic smell. The low drone of TV sets. The drawn curtains. The occasional moaning from another bed. I had been to too many hospitals for too many people.

For the first time in a while, I thought about our agreement.

Will you do my eulogy?

I entered the Reb’s room.

“Ah,” he smiled, looking up from the bed, “a visitor from afar…”

I stopped thinking about it.

We hugged-or, I should say, I hugged his shoulders and he touched my head-and we both agreed that this was a first, a hospital conversation. His robe fell open slightly and I caught a glance at his bare chest, soft, loose flesh with a few silver hairs. I felt a rush of shame and looked away.

A nurse breezed in.

“How are you doing today?” she asked.

“I’m dooooing,” the Reb lilted. “I’m dooooing…”

She laughed. “He sings all the time, this one.”

Yes, he does, I said.

It amazed me how consistently the Reb could summon his good nature. To sing to the nurses. To kid around with the physicians. The previous day, while waiting in a wheelchair in the hallway, he was asked by a hospital worker for a blessing. So the Reb put his hands on the man’s head and gave him one.

He refused to wallow in self-pity. In fact, the worse things got for him, the more intent he seemed on making sure no one around him was saddened by it.