Lessons From a Simple Fruit Merchant
In the post-war streets of inner-city Philadelphia, living with six others in our row house, we understood the values of strength, family, loyalty, and love.
As a young child, summers were long, and Mom’s patience was short.
To keep me from under her feet, mom took me on her weekly trip to buy groceries with the excuse that bags were heavy. Little did I know this chore that I fought against would become one of the greatest lessons in my life. Each week, we saw Mr. Max, an older simple fruit merchant, yet a man that proved to be one of my life’s inspirations.
When Mr. Max was bagging Mom’s vegetables, I asked why he had “a tattoo with letters and numbers.” Mom swiftly gave me a backhand and apologized, “sorry, Max, he’s just a dopey kid.” To which Max retorted, “Rosie, please never slap a child on the head, someday, something great will come out of it,” and added, “he’s a good boy, helping his Momma, instead of causing trouble in the streets.”
Mom explained how it would be a “long summer vacation period.” Mr. Max replied, “... he’s good, and I know this boy needs something to keep him busy and out of mischief...” Then Mr. Max said, “would you like to come and help deliver the groceries? I’ll pay .25 cents per day.” I thought I was rich!
That summer, I watched Mr. Max write down each sale in a book. The trusty old composition book was sufficient when folks were short on cash and owed him money. When someone paid Mr. Max, he would mark their name with a paid in full ’check’! Mr. Max would note the list of food in his composition book, and after the customer left, he would smile and put a checkmark next to everyone’s name. Paid or unpaid declaring, “oh, you paid me last week!”
Every Thursday, like clockwork, we’d deliver packed meat and vegetable bags. Then, Max would say, “ring the doorbell and don’t stick around. Place the bag down and run.”
One day, I spoke up and declared that the person didn’t pay. Max muttered something in Yiddish to himself and walked away. It was confusing to me.
Finally, I stated, “Mr. Max, “…I know why you have a tattoo on your forearm….”
Max smiled and replied, “young man, please sit down and listen…as an old man, with a failing memory, I need to talk to someone daily, and that someone, son, is my God. My wife and children and family are all gone…This is God’s phone number; he’s my best friend, so being a forgetful old man, I wrote it down!”
I then asked, “Mr. Max, can I have that number? Mr. Max smiled, then sat down on a stool he kept behind the counter and said to me in a firm tone, “come here, boy. This number you don’t want, you don’t ever want it, because it only works for me.” Then he touched me lightly on my cheek. Knowing he had survived the death camps, I just stood there dumbfounded, realizing his heart was filled with love and not hate like so many others I knew.
Now an adult, nearly four decades later, Mr. Max reappeared in my life.
My wife, Donna, had just passed away. Not connected to a church, my friends and neighbors, primarily Jewish, banded together and filled my house with community. These folks simply were, in a word, “there!” So, in heartfelt thanks and grief, I asked the Rabbi if I could come and thank his wonderful Congregation.
Before services, I recounted the Mr. Max story to the Rabbi. He stated that in 20 plus years in devoted service to God, he never heard a more beautiful or compelling story of God’s grace, saying he wanted me to retell my experience to the congregation. As I began recounting this story, one of the congregants started crying uncontrollably. The crying became increasingly louder as I continued.
When I finished, the crying man came up to me and hugged me for what appeared to be an eternity. Finally, this stranger said, “…I haven’t been in a Temple in 27 years. Most of my mother’s and father’s family died in the death camps. My dearest wife died of cancer, leaving me with three children to raise alone. In deep anguish, I walked away vowing never to return to such an empty place.”
He added, “…tonight, my daughter and son-in-law told me that if I failed to come to Schul tonight with my grandkids, they would never speak to me again! I didn’t want to come here tonight.
Then he added, “ I was raised in Philadelphia. My large family lived in the last house on that same corner you described!
He added, “…My father abandoned my mother, leaving her penniless and alone; every Thursday night, we received a bag of fruits, vegetables, and some meats.
Thank you, sir, for feeding my family, for restoring my faith which my foolish anger stole away from me so many years ago. May God bless you and bring you peace.”
In my grief, I witnessed the full effect of God’s transformative love as a conduit to restore a stranger’s faith. Tempted to lean into anger from my pain, I was given the gift of love instead. For me, faith walked in when I was in the shadows of doubt and disbelief. Mr. Max’s example of God’s love came full circle. Mr. Max helped me; I helped the stranger; the stranger helped me continue my journey through grief with an open heart.
Click HERE to watch a video of this story from this past Sunday's worship service.
