Shouting the right word

"According to Jewish tradition, forty days before a male baby is born, a heavenly voice shouts out whom he will marry." This sentence is written in Mitch Albom's new book, "Have a Little Faith: A True Story." It's on page 141, more than halfway through the stories of Albert "Reb" Lewis, and Henry Covington; two very dedicated men "of the cloth." Men of different cloths, but men who share a common purpose. Men of many common purposes, but inherently the purpose of living a good life and leading a great flock.


So, of course, the sentiment made me think. And it made me remember.


When I first saw her, Cyndi was standing behind the nurses’ station writing in a patient chart. She was wearing a lime green silk top and a very short black skirt and my first impression led me to believe that she was probably a high school intern.

“She looks young,” I said to Lynn, the facility Activity Director. “Does she volunteer here as part of her high school or something?”



“She is a college graduate, thank you very much,” Lynn said. She seemed put-off by my observation. “She is a nutritionist and she happens to be involved with her high school sweetheart. They have been together for seven years, thank you very much. They even live together.” I would later learn that Cyndi and Lynn were friends and the tone in her voice was just Lynn being Lynn. She was from Minnesota.

As Cyndi and I got to know one another and I played the “if you ever want to get together for drinks—just as friends” guy, I learned from her that the seven year relationship was tainted. One night, after I had just returned from a business trip, Cyndi invited me for drinks at TGI Friday’s.


We drove in separate cars to the restaurant and met at a small table in the back. I ordered a Killian’s Red and she ordered a White Zinfandel. John, our perky Friday’s waiter, asked us both for our ID’s and it was at that point that I realized I didn’t bring enough money with me to pay for anything more than our first round.



“Mike and I broke-up,” Cyndi said quickly and drained the full glass of wine John had placed before her mid-sentence.


I took a sip from my beer, looked around at the empty tables around us and smiled. “I don’t have enough money to buy you dinner,” I said. “I’m not sure I even have enough to pay for these drinks.”



As if on cue, John approached the table and asked if we would be having dinner. It was perfect. Cyndi and I both started laughing hysterically. Neither of us could speak so I shook my head no. John left the check on the table and walked away, without perk.


I did have enough money to pay the bill minus a tip and we moved over to the bar in the middle of the restaurant (as if moving to another section of the bar guaranteed our anonymity from John). My credit card was maxed out and Cyndi had just enough change in her purse for a cup of coffee that the bartender graciously continued filling throughout the night.



That night, I learned that we grew up a quarter mile away from each other, went to the same grammar school, same junior high school and the same high school (she even remembers me from the school talent show when I was 12 and she was nine and I played Elwood Blues from a skit my friend, Derek, and I performed). My older brothers and her older sisters went to school together and after I realized exactly where her parents’ house was, I told her that I as a boy, I was close friends with her next door neighbor, Dave Gerkhe, who got hit by a car just before our freshman year of high school. The car hit Dave so badly that his foot completely turned around his ankle. Dave used to tease Cyndi and steal the admission fees she and her friend’s collected for their staged performances.


In the parking lot, we sat on the trunk of my car and talked about next steps.



“I would love to go out with you again,” I told her, “but the ball is in your court.”


Cyndi smiled. “I’ve never had a ball in my court. I like that.”

The first time we kissed, it was the morning after our second date a few days later. She asked me to help her move some furniture she left behind in an apartment she had at Northern Illinois University. She borrowed a pick-up truck from her friend’s boyfriend, and we drove an hour away to her apartment off campus. She only had a few boxes, a futon mattress and an old dresser. I insisted that the furniture was heavy enough not to have to tie it down. As we were speeding east down I-88 toward her parents’ house, she yelped when she looked into the rear view mirror and watched in horror as her belongings began flying out of the bed of the truck onto the highway. After we quickly pulled over and swerved to miss the speeding cars that honked and yelled at our situation, we were able to laugh about what happened. I was positive that once we dropped her stuff off, she would never want to see me again because I almost caused her to go to jail by my senseless suggestion, but we had dinner at a Chinese restaurant with her newly separated sister, Jeanette. After dinner, since my father was out of town visiting my brother in St. Louis, Cyndi agreed to come back to his place with me to watch a movie. We acted like teenagers, flirting with one another but keeping our distance and even though we would move upstairs to my father’s bed, the night ended in spooning position, fully clothed.


When I walked her to her car the next morning, Cyndi gently pulled herself close to me, tilted her head and kissed me. The kiss tasted like vegetable fried rice. It was the kiss that would make me forget about all others.

Even though I left the faith some 20 years ago, I'd like to think that 40 days before I was born a heavenly voice shouted out the right word. Cyndi.