The Stranger in the Lifeboat

by Mitch Albom

“Are you here to save us?” His voice softened. “I can only do that,” he said, “when everyone here believes I am who I say I am.”

“But Bernadette, you healed her? She’s going to be good?” The man looked off. “She is not healed. But she is going to be good.”

Jason Lambert, of course, was a controversial figure, an extremely wealthy man who seemed to enjoy showing the world his fortune.

But this orange raft and its hidden notebook? They were a jolt to that misery. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the idea that something—even a few pages of something—had endured a tragedy and crossed an ocean to find him. It had survived. And witnessing survival can make us believe in our own.

Laghari once said that, for all the schooling she experienced later in life, her first six years in the Basanti slums taught her the most important life lesson. When asked what that was, she said: “Survive until tomorrow.”

Lambert turned to the Lord, who was smiling. “What are you grinning at, Looney Tunes?” The Lord said nothing. “For what it’s worth, if you really are God, I never called for you. Not once. Not even in the water.” “And yet I still listen,” the Lord said.

The Times of London, just before his untimely death, called Campbell “a kingmaker worthy of Hollywood’s biggest moguls. If he blesses your production, you will likely make a fortune. If he chooses you for the cast, you’ll become a star.”

“Can’t you do something?” Nina pleaded. “I know you want everyone to believe in you first. But don’t you see how worried we are?” He squinted against the sun. “Worry is something you create.” “Why would we create worry?” “To fill a void.” “A void of what?” “Faith.”

“Why? If I were God, I would have given up on me long ago.” “But you are not,” he said, “and I never will.”

But it was his idea to blow up the Galaxy, Annabelle. Not mine. Had he not arrived on my doorstep last summer, shortly after you left me, I would have gone along my way, quietly bearing my resentments.

Yannis won his first election to parliament a year later, thanks largely to his celebrity. A few years after that, over objections from other cabinet members, he was named ambassador to the United Nations, the youngest person in Greek history to achieve that status. Critics claimed he was given the job as a political favor to his father. But Yannis became an effective spokesperson, and helped secure international loans to bail Greece out of its serious financial crisis.

Although Geri Reede never married or had children, she often spoke about the importance of early swimming lessons for kids. “Fear of the water is one of the earliest fears we have,” she once said. “The faster we get over it, the faster we learn how to overcome others.”

“How could you let him take his life? Why didn’t you talk him out of it?” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Why didn’t you?” I began shaking with rage. “Me? I couldn’t! I didn’t know! It was something he decided to do on his own!” “That’s right,” the Lord said, softly. “He decided to do it on his own.” I glared at him then, this haughty, deluded stranger who enjoyed acting as if he manipulated the world. At that moment, I felt nothing but contempt. “If you were really God,” I seethed, “you would have stopped him.” He looked to the sea and shook his head. “God starts things,” he said. “Man stops them.”

Speaking of her eyes, they are two different colors. One is pale blue and one is brown. I have heard of this condition—Geri knew the name of it, though I’ve forgotten—but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. The effect is that her stare is somewhat eerie.

“I’m sorry!” I sobbed. “I couldn’t save them!” She studied my tears with a sadness that cut right through me. “They’re all gone, Alice! Even the Lord.” Which is when the little girl finally spoke. “I am the Lord,” she said. “And I will never leave you.”

Deep down, he’d also resented that his wife had seemingly made peace with Lilly’s death while he was still at war with it. She believed it was God’s will. Part of his plan. She kept a Bible in the kitchen and read from it often.

“When someone passes, Benjamin, people always ask, ‘Why did God take them?’ A better question would be ‘Why did God give them to us?’ What did we do to deserve their love, their joy, the sweet moments we shared? Didn’t you have such moments with Annabelle?” “Every day,” I rasped.

“What do I do now?” “Forgive yourself,” she said. “Then use this grace to spread my spirit.” “How do I do that?” “Survive this voyage. And once you do, find another soul in despair. And help them.”

“Rum Rosh. It’s in Psalms, the original Hebrew. It means ‘God lifted my head.’ I learned it as a kid. A priest taught me. The Irish and their churches, you know.” LeFleur stared at him. “What are you saying?” “I think whoever found that raft was having a laugh on you, Jarty.”

“Did you know a crab will escape its shell thirty times before it dies?” He looked out to sea. “This world can be a trying place, Inspector. Sometimes you have to shed who you were to live who you are.”

In the end, there is the sea and the land and the news that happens between them. To spread that news, we tell each other stories. Sometimes the stories are about survival. And sometimes those stories, like the presence of the Lord, are hard to believe. Unless believing is what makes them true.